He was standing just behind his quarry when the train slid protesting into the station. Even close to, the figure looked womanly. Charles waited a moment; he did not want to risk a suicide under the oncoming wheels. But as the passing windows slowed to a halt, he stepped forward. The curly head was close to his face. ‘Martin,’ he said firmly.
The violence of the blow on his chest took him by surprise. He had time to register the skill of the boy’s make-up as he fell over backwards.
The shove winded him and it was a moment before he could pick himself up again. By that time Martin had charged the barrier and was rushing through the dazed crowd in the main station. Charles set off in gasping pursuit.
The boy was at least two hundred yards ahead when Charles emerged into the sunlight, and running up the hill which the older man had just descended. Martin was young and fit and moving with the pace of desperation. Charles was hopelessly out of condition on the steep gradient and could feel the gap between them widening.
Then he had what seemed like a stroke of luck. Martin was keeping to the right of the road as if he intended to veer off down the Mound into Princes Street where he would soon be lost in the tourist crowds. But suddenly he stopped. Charles could see the reason. James Milne was standing in his path. Martin seemed frozen for a moment, then sprang sideways, crossed the road and ran on up the steps to the Lawnmarket, retracing Charles’ footsteps.
In fact, going straight back to Anna’s flat.
Realisation of the girl’s danger gave Charles a burst of adrenalin, and he surged forward. As he passed the Laird on the steps he heard the older man gasp something about getting the police.
Martin was spread-eagled against the door in Lawnmarket when Charles emerged from Lady Stair’s Close. The boy was hammering with his fists, but Anna had not opened the door yet. No doubt she was on her way down the five flights of steps. Charles screamed out Martin’s name, turning the heads of a party of Japanese in tam o’shanters.
The youth turned round as if he had been shot and froze again like a rabbit in a car’s headlights, unable to make up his mind. Charles moved purposefully forward. It had to be now; he had no energy left for a further chase.
He was almost close enough to touch Martin, he could see the confusion in the young eyes, when suddenly the youth did another sidestep and started running again. Charles lumbered off in pursuit, cursing. If Martin made it down to the Grassmarket, he could easily lose his exhausted hunter in the network of little streets of the Old Town.
But Martin did not do that. He did something much more worrying.
Instead of breaking for the freedom of the Grassmarket, he ran back across the road and up towards the Castle. In other words, he ran straight into a dead end. With a new cold feeling of fear, Charles hurried after him, up between the Tattoo stands on the Esplanade and into the Castle.
The fear proved justified. He found Martin standing on the ramparts at the first level, where great black guns point out over the New Town to the silver flash of the Firth of Forth. A gaping crowd of tourists watched the boy in silence as he pulled off the wig and smock and dropped them into the void.
Charles eased himself up on to the rampart and edged along it, trying not to see the tiny trees and beetle people in Princes Street Gardens below. ‘Martin.’
The look that was turned on him was strangely serene. So was the voice that echoed him. ‘Martin. Yes, Martin. Martin Warburton. That’s who I am.’ The youth wiped the lipstick from his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. ‘Martin Warburton I began and Martin Warburton I will end.’
‘Yes, but not yet. You’ve got a long time yet. A lot to enjoy. You need help, and there are people who will give you help.’
Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘The police are after me.’
‘I know, but they only want to help you too.’ This was greeted by a snort of laughter. ‘They do. Really. We all want to help. Just talk. You can talk to me.’
Martin looked at him suspiciously. Charles felt conscious of the sun, the beautiful view of Edinburgh spread out below them. A peaceful Sunday afternoon in the middle of the Festival. And a young man with thoughts of suicide. ‘Don’t do it, Martin. All the pressures you feel, they’re not your fault. You can’t help it.’
‘Original Sin,’ said the boy, as if it were a great joke. ‘I am totally evil.’
‘No.’
For a moment there was hesitation in the eyes. Charles pressed his advantage. ‘Come down from there and talk. It’ll all seem better if you talk about it.’
‘Talk? What about the police?’ Martin was wavering.
‘Don’t worry about the police.’
Martin took a step towards him. Their eyes were interlocked. The boy’s were calm and dull; then suddenly they disengaged and looked at something over Charles’ shoulder. Charles turned to see that two policemen had joined the edge of the growing crowd.
When he looked back, he saw Martin Warburton launch himself forward like a swimmer at the start of a race.
But there was no water and it was a long way down.
And Brian Cassells got another good publicity story.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A plague, say I, on all rods and lines, and on young or old watery danglers!
And after all that you’ll talk of such stuff as no harm in the world about anglers!
And when all is done, all our worry and fuss, why, we’ve never had nothing worth dishing;
So you see, Mr Walton, no good comes at last of your famous book about fishing.
Charles watched the sun-gold surface of the burn change in seconds to dull brown and then become pockmarked with heavy drops of rain. He heard a rustle of P.V.C. behind him as Frances tried to rearrange her position at the foot of the tree to keep the maximum amount of water off her book. The rain was no less cheering than the sun.
As he knew from previous experience, if you do not like rain, there’s no point in going to the West Coast of Scotland. The whole area is wet. Wet underfoot like the surface of a great sponge. Everywhere the ground is intersected with tiny streams and it is never completely silent; there is always the subtle accompaniment of running water. The wetness is not the depressing damp of soggy socks and smelly raincoats; it is stimulating like the sharp kiss of mist on the cheek. And it is very relaxing.
Charles twitched his anorak hood over his head and thought how unrelaxed he still felt. Suffering from anoraksia nervosa, his mind suggested pertly, while he tried to tell it to calm down. But it kept throwing up irrelevant puns, thoughts and ideas. He knew the symptoms. It was always like this after the run of a show. A slow process of unwinding when the brain kept working overtime and took longer than the body to relax.
The body was doing well; it appreciated the holiday. Clachenmore was a beautiful place, though it hardly seemed worth putting on the map, it was so small. Apart from a tiny cottage given the unlikely title of ‘The Post Office’, there was just the hotel, a solid whitewashed square with a pair of antlers over the door. Every window offered gratuitously beautiful views-up to the rich curve of the heathery hills, sideways to the woods that surrounded the burn (free fishing for residents), down over the vivid green fields to the misty gleam of Loch Fyne.
So the situation was relaxing. And being with Frances was relaxing. Arriving at a strange hotel with an ex- wife has got the naughty excitement of a dirty weekend with a non-wife, but with more security. And Frances was
