Seventeen Coffins

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Nobody’s sure who put the coffins up there. There are theories though. Some people thought it might be witches. You know, like voodoo dolls or something. Or it could be they’re for sailors that drowned at sea. It says here–’

  ‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

  Tom lifted his head as the sound of a strident voice rudely interrupted the peace and quiet. He saw Hamish striding between the cabinets, towards them. His shoulders were hunched inside his khaki jacket and he had a cross expression on his slab of a face. ‘God’s sake, woman. I must have rung your phone a dozen times. Kept going straight to voicemail.’

  Mum looked back at him. ‘Sorry, I had it on silent. They don’t like you to use mobiles in here. I didn’t think.’

  ‘That’s your problem, you never think.’ He stepped past Tom and went around to the other side of the display cabinet to stand face-to-face with Mum. ‘I thought maybe you were avoiding me,’ he growled. He glanced through the glass at Tom without making any comment then returned his attention to her. ‘Have you any idea how many rooms there are in this blasted place? I must have looked in all of them.’

  ‘I’m sorry. We were just looking at these coffins, here. Amazing, don’t you think?’

  Hamish grunted. ‘Never mind about that. I’ve got Hibs tickets for this afternoon. Jimmy sorted them out for me.’

  Mum seemed almost relieved. ‘Oh well, that’s . . . great. You go ahead then. Me and Tom can entertain ourselves, can’t we?’

  Hamish looked irritated. ‘No, you numpty! I’ve got tickets for all of us. Had to move heaven and earth to get them. I said we’d meet Jimmy and the lads in The Feathers before the match, for a few wee gargles. If we go now, we should be in time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum looked uncertainly at Tom. ‘But I . . . I don’t think Tom’s very keen on football.’

  Hamish snorted. ‘Is that a fact?’ He glanced at Tom again, as though inspecting some lower form of insect life. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? It’ll do him good to get out in the fresh air. If you ask me he spends too much time indoors, playing computer games and watching the telly. That’s why he’s got no colour. And excuse me, but I seem to recall that the last time he visited one of these historical places, he ended up in hospital.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . you surely can’t mind me wanting to spend a bit of quality time with my son? We were really enjoying the –’

  ‘Wheesht, woman! You can spend quality time with him at the football match. Now come on, we’re wasting good drinking time here.’ He reached out a hand and grabbed Mum by the arm.

  ‘Hamish, no! I’d really rather stay here, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Have you any idea how much those tickets cost me? Come on.’ He started to pull her towards the exit. Tom felt moved enough to walk around the glass cabinet to her aid.

  ‘She doesn’t want to go,’ he said.

  Hamish gave him a scornful look. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he asked. He looked at Mum. ‘Ok, so let the kid stay here and we’ll go to the match. He’s old enough to look after himself.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I haven’t seen him in months. Now, please. You go and let us stay here. I’m sure you’ll find a buyer for the tickets.’

  Hamish’s voice dropped to a threatening snarl. ‘I’m not telling you again,’ he said. ‘We’re going to the match, with or without him. Get used to the idea.’

  Tom stepped forward and put a hand on Hamish’s arm. Up close, he could smell the whisky fumes on the man’s breath.

  ‘Let go of her,’ he said, with a firmness that surprised him.

  ‘Get lost,’ Hamish told him. He slapped Tom’s hand away, but Tom put it right back.

  ‘I said, “Leave her alone.”’ he repeated.

  ‘Tom, don’t,’ said Mum, urgently, as though she knew what would happen next.

  But it was already too late.

  Hamish didn’t hit Tom. He just put a hand to his chest and pushed, hard. Tom felt himself falling backwards, his feet gone from under him. He saw Mum’s horrified expression, saw her open her mouth to shout something, but then a point of fire seemed to explode at the back of his head; a point of fire that spread suddenly and explosively to engulf him. For an instant, the world shimmered and shuddered around him like a mirage. And then he was falling, he was falling headlong into blackness and there was something horribly familiar about the sensation, because he’d felt this once before and he would have spent time thinking about the implications, except that a total blackness slipped over his head like a hood and he knew no more.

  Three

  I’m back. The thought shuddered through his conscious mind as he gradually returned to his senses; the treacly darkness giving way to a shifting, shimmering red. He opened his eyes and wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself staring up at a narrow strip of blue sky. He tried to move his head and a stinging sensation at the top of his skull made him wince. He lifted the fingers of one hand to probe at the injury and the tips came away stained red.

  He took stock of his situation. He appeared to be lying in a narrow alleyway, stretched on his back amidst a heap of foul-smelling rubbish, but he knew instantly that this was not the kind of rubbish you’d expect to find in the modern world. There were no bin bags here, no printed cardboard containers, just a heap of old bones, fish heads and vegetable peelings; the combined stink of which quickly filled his nostrils and persuaded him to make a move. He tried to get up and had to wait for a moment for a spell of dizziness to recede. As his head cleared he sat up and looked quickly around. Dirty brick walls stood close on either side of him, and a narrow alleyway led to a flight of stone steps at the far end. They went up a long way and from where he was sitting he couldn’t see what was at the top of them.

  He knew he was no longer in his own time and he was surprised to find that he was oddly excited at the prospect. Maybe he’d meet up with some old friends again. Cameron. Missie Grierson. Maybe even Morag . . . but then he reminded himself that Morag was dead and any sense of hope he’d had instantly evaporated. He got to his feet and stood for a moment, brushing scraps of rubbish from the back of his jeans and wondering what to do next. The alleyway seemed to beckon to him, so he walked along it and when he got to the end, he crossed a narrow street that stretched across his path from left to right and began to climb the long flight of steps.

  He emerged onto another street, where rough-timbered houses crowded in close upon each other and now he was convinced he had gone back in time. There were no road signs in evidence; no parking spaces, no telegraph poles, just two rows of tumbledown dwellings and chimneys that belched grey smoke. He heard the sound of children, laughing and shouting, and turned his head to look in that direction. He saw a young man standing in the cobbled street off to his left; a thin, ragged fellow with a mop of curly brown hair. He was probably eighteen or nineteen years old, Tom decided, dressed in what must once have been a respectable black suit; a tailcoat and a pair of trousers, but the trousers were ragged around the ankles and the youth had no shoes or socks on his feet. Around his neck he wore a bright red spotted scarf, the only splash of colour in his entire outfit. He was surrounded by four or five children, every one of them as ragged as he, but much younger. They were pulling at the tails of his coat and teasing him, chanting the words, ‘Daft Jamie, Daft Jamie!’ over and over. He kept trying to catch them, but he moved awkwardly, limping on one leg and they were able to dance easily away from his clutches, mocking him as they did so.

  Tom looked hopefully around, but there was no sign of anyone else who might be able to help the youth so he felt obliged to do something himself. He started towards the little scene, rubbing his aching head as he did so. As he drew closer, he raised his voice to shout.

  ‘Oi! You lot. Leave him alone!’

  The children, clearly startled, took to their heels without even looking at him, leaving the youth scowling after them and waving a fist in their general directio
n.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tom asked as he drew close.

  The youth turned and looked at him in slack-jawed amazement, as though witnessing some kind of miracle. Tom quickly understood his surprise. His 21st century outfit of t-shirt, quilted jacket, jeans and trainers must have looked pretty odd in this setting.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’ Tom asked.

  The youth shook his head and spoke, in a strange stammering voice. ‘They c . . . can’t hurt Jamie,’ he said. ‘They c . . . can try, but Jamie is too c . . . clever for them.’ He took a hesitant step closer to Tom and reached out a finger to trace one of the letters on his t-shirt, which spelled out the word iManc. It was just a design that was doing the rounds in Manchester, but to Jamie it seemed to have some deeper significance. ‘You are a walking b . . . b . . . book,’ he said. ‘If I could read, I would r . . . r . . . read you.’

  Tom tried to smile, but his head was throbbing and what emerged was probably more of a grimace.

  Jamie tilted his head to one side. ‘Wh . . . what’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Tom. Tom Afflick.’

  ‘T . . . Tom Afflick,’ said Jamie, saying the words slowly, as though he was unsure of them. ‘The w . . . walking book.’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Where exactly are we?’

  Jamie looked around, open-mouthed for a moment, as though not quite sure himself. Then he pointed a finger at the cobbles beneath him. ‘We are here,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Er . . . yeah, sure. But what I mean is . . .’ Tom made an attempt to think logically. ‘This is Edinburgh, right?’

  Jamie nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘’Last t . . . time I checked.’

  ‘And . . . what year is it, exactly?’

  Jamie stared at him. ‘It is . . . this year,’ he said, with great certainty and smiled proudly. Tom tried not to groan. Of all the people he could have met, why did it have to be this guy?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you don’t understand. I mean the date. It’s . . . sixteen forty five, yes?’

  ‘Is it?’ Jamie looked puzzled. ‘That’s strange. I thought it was eighteen t . . . t . . . twenty eight.’

  Now it was Tom’s turn to be bewildered. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

  But Jamie was reaching into the pocket of his tattered jacket. He pulled out a small brass box and showed it to Tom. ‘My c . . . c . . . calendar,’ he said.

  Tom looked at it doubtfully. ‘That’s not a calendar, that’s a box.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘Snuffbox.’ He flipped up the lid and showed Tom the contents. ‘You’ll take a pinch?’ When Tom shook his head, he took out a little copper spoon which he used to lift a large measure up to his nose. He sniffed it up, paused for a moment and then sneezed loudly. He used one of the ends of the kerchief around his neck to wipe his nose, something that made Tom feel slightly ill. He closed the lid of the box and returned it to his pocket, but kept the spoon in his hand. ‘A snuffbox, but also a

  c . . . c . . . calendar,’ he announced. He held the spoon out so that Tom could see that there were seven small holes punched into the handle of it. ‘See?’ Now Jamie placed the fingers of his other hand on the holes and began to move them in a strange and complicated rhythm, as though counting. He did this for quite some time, his brow furrowed in concentration, before announcing,

  ‘T . . . today, is . . .’ His fingers moved a few times more, ‘September the ninth, eighteen t . . . t . . . twenty eight.’ Then he grinned, displaying rows of rotten, misshapen teeth. He seemed very pleased with himself.

  ‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘Of course it is.’ He took a deep breath. Ok, he told himself, the thing was not to panic. He’d gone back in time and that had happened to him before, so he just had to wait it out until something happened to send him back again, which hopefully wouldn’t be too long. Meanwhile, he just needed to keep his head down and stay out of trouble. One thing was for sure. This weirdo who used a snuffbox as a dodgy calendar, clearly couldn’t be trusted. Tom needed to find somebody else, somebody who actually knew what they were talking about. ‘I’ve got to get moving,’ he announced and turning, he began to walk away.

  ‘W . . . wait!’ said Jamie. He pulled the box from his pocket, returned the spoon to it and put it away. ‘Where are you going?’

  Tom could only shrug his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I’m . . . lost,’ he said. ‘I need to try and find out exactly where I am.’

  ‘You’re in the W . . . W . . . West Port,’ said Jamie.

  This meant nothing to Tom. He kept walking along the street and Jamie fell into a limping step beside him, keeping up with great difficulty.

  ‘There’s no need to come with me,’ Tom assured him. ‘Really. You can just get on with whatever it is you were doing.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘You h . . . helped me, so I’ll help you.’ He pointed at Tom. ‘You’re not from E . . . Edinburgh,’ he observed.

  ‘Well spotted, Sherlock,’ said Tom. They emerged onto a wider, busier street and there, towering above them, was the great hulking grey shape of the castle, so it was clear that he was now some distance from his original starting point in the museum. This reminded him of what had happened just before he’d left. Hamish and Mum. He needed to get back there and help her out as soon as possible. Only that was easier said than done.

  ‘Are you a S . . . S . . . S . . .?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m a Sassenach,’ said Tom irritably. It was a name he’d been called several times on his last trip and he knew it wasn’t intended as a compliment.

  Jamie shook his head. ‘I was g . . . going to say, are you a sailor?’ He waved a hand at Tom’s clothes. ‘You look like you c . . . came off a boat.’

  ‘We all dress like this in Manchester,’ said Tom. He studied the street for a while, looking at the people walking up and down it. He was beginning to think that Jamie was right about the date. They looked quite different to the ragged creatures he’d encountered in the seventeenth century. The men were wearing tailcoats, waistcoats and top hats. The women had bonnets and fancy dresses, and many of them wore white lace gloves. They were parading grandly up and down the street, making the most of the sunshine. A horse and carriage came clattering along the street, but the vehicle looked more elegant than the rough horse-drawn vehicles he had seen on his last trip and the coachman wore a fancy-looking uniform.

  ‘M . . . M . . . Manchester, England?’ asked Jamie, demanding Tom’s attention once again and he nodded.

  ‘Huh? Oh, yeah. Manchester, England.’

  ‘I used to know a man from M . . . Manchester,’ said Jamie brightly. He added, ‘He died. He got d . . . drunk one night and fell into the loch.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Tom, bleakly. Further up the street he spotted a ragged boy selling newspapers from a stand, shouting his wares as he did so.

  ‘Edinburgh Chronicle. Get your latest edition!’

  Tom hurried towards the boy and Jamie limped dutifully after him. Tom reached the stand and grabbed one of the papers from the pile. It didn’t look like any newspaper he’d ever seen before, the pages huge, the printing tiny and crammed into scores of little columns. The boy looked at him, outraged.

  ‘You going to pay for that?’ he demanded.

  ‘I only need it for a minute,’ Tom assured him. ‘Relax.’ He scanned the front page until he found a date up at the top. September the ninth, 1828. Tom handed the paper back to the boy and looked at Jamie with new respect. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘About the date.’

  Jamie was indignant. ‘Of course I was r . . . right,’ he said.

  ‘But . . . that means I’ve lost nearly . . . two hundred years.’

  Jamie looked at him in dismay. ‘Must have left it

  s . . . somewhere,’ he said, and he made a big show of searching his pockets.

  Tom smiled despite himself. ‘No, I’m just saying the last time I came back it was a different date. It was 1645 . . .’ He tho
ught for a moment. He remembered the little coffins he’d been looking at in the museum, just before he’d fallen. Did they have something to do with this? He tried to remember what had been on the printed card in the glass case. He thought it had said they’d been found in 1836, but that would be around eight years from now. Still, he told himself, who was to say that the coffins hadn’t been hidden up on Arthur’s Seat for all that time? Maybe he’d come to 1828 because it was the year when the coffins were made. Why else this particular time and place? Oh, sure, he could tell himself that he was just unconscious and dreaming all this. That’s what everyone had told him last time it had happened. Which would have been fine, if it hadn’t been for that photograph of Morag . . .

  This thought prompted him into action. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile, noting as he did so that the battery level was at the midway mark. He tapped the camera icon, lifted the phone and snapped a quick picture of Jamie, who was staring into the lens in complete bafflement. Then he turned and took a couple more photographs; one of the street and another of the castle looming over them. This time, he told himself, when he got back – if he got back − the first thing he’d do would be to make copies of the photographs and print them out. Then he’d have proof of where he’d been.

  ‘Wh . . . what are you doing?’ asked Jamie.

  Good question. Tom thought about trying to explain about mobile phones and digital images, but thought better of it. He was cold and hungry and he needed to start thinking about somewhere to sleep. There was no telling how long he’d be here and he didn’t much fancy the idea of stretching himself out on the streets.

  ‘Jamie, you said you’d help me, right?’

  Jamie nodded.

  ‘I need somewhere to stay,’ said Tom. ‘A room or something? A hotel. Can you help me find a place?’