Seventeen Coffins

by Philip Caveney

  He shook his head. ‘I’d rather you left it on.’

  She shrugged and left the stall. He lay there listening to her footsteps walking away across the yard.

  The hours passed slowly and he didn’t get very much sleep that night.

  Nine

  He must have slept eventually, because the next thing he knew, sunlight was in his eyes and he lay there, blinking, remembering where he was and how he had got here. Except that something was different. Now he was looking at the interior of the stable with more experienced eyes, as though he’d actually been here for quite some time. But how could that be? His last real memory was sitting here in the stable, talking to Nell, and the terrible fright he’d felt when she pointed out the tear in his jacket. It seemed to him that this had happened only the previous night and yet . . .

  He checked the shoulder of his jacket and saw that it had been neatly sewn up, which confirmed his suspicions. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, to check that the photographs he had taken were still there. But when he pressed the power button, nothing happened. The phone had been on half power last time he’d checked. Now it was completely dead and he had no way of charging it again. He wouldn’t know until he got back to his own time if the photographs were still there.

  He sighed, pushed the phone back into his pocket and climbed out of the straw. He strolled into the yard where a metal pump stood, exactly where he expected it to be. The weather was colder now, the wind making the skin on his face tingle. He worked the pump’s lever a few times to fill an old bucket that stood beneath it and splashed up a little icy water onto his face, noticing as he did so that the sleeves of his jacket looked tattered and grubby, as though he’d been sleeping rough for quite some time. No sooner had he finished washing than he wiped his face on his sleeve and strolled across the yard to the back door of the lodging house. He opened the door and inside, waiting for him, as he somehow knew it would be, was a bucket of food scraps. He lifted the bucket, closed the door and went back across the yard to the stable.

  Time’s moved on, he told himself. I’ve been here for days . . . maybe even weeks. And what I’m doing now is something I do every morning. He didn’t feel unduly alarmed because he’d experienced this kind of thing before, back at Mary King’s Close. Instead of returning to his own stall, he opened the door of the adjoining one to reveal several eager-looking pigs that were clearly anticipating his visit. He strolled inside, closing the door behind him, and upended the bucket of food into a battered metal trough. He stood looking down at the pigs’ hairy backs as they jostled and grunted after the scraps, and realised that he knew each of them by name. He had to be wary of the big grey one who was called Nessie because she was unpredictable and had been known to take a bite at the legs of careless feeders before now. There was already a sore spot at the back of his right leg where she had caught him a healthy nip and when he looked down he saw that his jeans were torn there and crusted with dried blood.

  He hefted the empty bucket and let himself out of the stall, securing the door carefully behind him. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Jamie approaching across the yard, a cheery grin on his face, and it was clear that this too, was a daily occurrence.

  ‘G . . . good morning!’ said Jamie and as he moved nearer Tom could see that his friend was sporting a nasty-looking black eye.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he asked, dropping the bucket and hurrying forward.

  ‘Och. Just some l . . . l . . . lads on the street. They were sh . . . shouting names at me and I answered them

  b . . . back.’

  ‘Cowards,’ muttered Tom. ‘Wish I’d been with you. I suppose there was a gang of them?’ He tilted Jamie’s head back and had a closer look at the bruise. The white of the left eye was an angry red. ‘Maybe we should get a doctor to look at this,’ he said.

  ‘A doctor? And how w . . . would I pay for that, do you suppose? Och, I’m all right.’ Jamie motioned with his head towards the open doors of the barn. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Let’s have b . . . b . . . breakfast.’

  Tom followed him into the empty stall and they settled themselves down. Jamie pushed his bare feet under the deep straw with a sigh of content.

  Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you won’t wear shoes,’ he said. ‘Mary keeps offering to give you an old pair of Fraser’s.’ Once again Tom had absolutely no idea how he knew this.

  Jamie had pulled a cloth bundle from inside his coat and was unwrapping it for inspection. ‘I keep telling you, T . . . Tom, that’s not the way I r . . . r . . . roll.’

  Tom smiled, recognising one of his own favourite expressions. Jamie revealed a unappetising assortment of foodstuffs all jumbled together in his bundle: crusts of old bread, rotten apples, lumps of grey meat, a chunk of watery cheese and some other bits and pieces that weren’t so easy to identify. It said something that Tom’s stomach didn’t recoil at the sight of such an offering. Indeed, when Jamie invited him to ‘dig in,’ he needed no second bidding. He reached in and pulled out an apple, bit out a worm-eaten chunk and spat it over the wall into the pig’s stall, before devouring the rest.

  ‘Where did this lot come from?’ he asked, through a mouthful of fruit and Jamie gave a knowing smile.

  ‘Ah, I’ve got c . . . contacts all over Edinburgh,’ he said proudly. ‘Everyone knows J . . . Jamie Wilson. When I ask for s . . . scraps, they never say no. But I don’t beg,’ he added, as though it was important to make a distinction. ‘I n . . . never beg. Ask anyone.’ He reached into the bundle and pulled out a length of greasy-looking sausage which he broke in half. ‘Look at that,’ he said, handing half of it to Tom. ‘That’s q . . . quality, that is!’

  Tom took the sausage and had a bite. It tasted slightly off but he wasn’t surprised to discover this was now no hardship to him.

  ‘Jamie,’ he said. ‘How long have I been here?’

  Jamie looked at him in surprise. ‘D . . . don’t you know?’ he asked.

  Tom shook his head.

  Jamie shrugged his slim shoulders. He stuffed the last of the sausage into his mouth and reached into his pocket for the brass snuffbox. He took out the copper spoon and the fingers of his right hand performed their usual rhythmic dance. It didn’t take him long.

  ‘Th . . . thirteen days,’ he said. ‘It’s the 22nd of September.’

  Tom stared at Jamie. Ok, he thought, that explained why everything seemed so familiar and why there was such a marked change in the weather.

  ‘You still having those d . . . d . . . dreams?’ Jamie asked him, as though reading Tom’s mind.

  Tom looked at him. ‘Dreams?’ he echoed.

  ‘Aye. About the m . . . man with the crow’s head.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Now and then,’ he said. He wanted to add, ‘Except that they’re not dreams,’ but somehow couldn’t bring himself to do it. He swallowed the last piece of sausage and poked around in the bundle for something else.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked pointing at a grizzled, round lump nestled in the bundle.

  Jamie picked it out and sniffed at it daintily. ‘N . . . not sure,’ he admitted. ‘You want it?’

  ‘Nah, you have it.’

  Jamie lifted it to his mouth and took a bite then spat it out again. ‘Still n . . . not sure,’ he admitted. He tossed it over the wall for the pigs and carried on rooting around in the jumble of scraps. ‘You want to g . . . g . . . go and visit the McCallums later?’ he asked with a sly smile.

  ‘Oh yeah, great,’ said Tom, a little too eagerly. ‘I reckon I can get away. Billy and Will never seem to surface before midday, so as long as Margaret doesn’t see me, it should be ok. She always finds jobs for me to do. She hates me for some reason.’ Jamie handed him a raw carrot and Tom bit the end off it.

  ‘Any s . . . sign of your m . . . mother turning up yet?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Umm. No.’ Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I never get any warning. It could be just about any . . .’

  H
e broke off as a voice called his name from across the yard. He instantly recognised the shrill tones of Margaret. Tom and Jamie looked at each other and with well-practised ease Jamie grabbed the bundle of food, dived deeper into the straw and spread it over himself. Tom sat there listening as the sound of Margaret’s heels came clicking across the yard. Her hulking figure shambled into the stable, her face set in its usual disapproving scowl.

  ‘Still lying abed?’ she muttered. ‘Have you any idea what hour it is?’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was tired.’

  ‘Tired of what? You do little enough around this place. Have you fed the pigs yet?

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’ She looked back over her shoulder. ‘He’s here,’ she announced and Will sauntered into the stable. It was unusual for him to be up so early, Tom thought. His nightly drinking sessions usually kept him in bed until after midday.

  ‘Ah, Tom, I’m glad you’re here,’ Will smiled his insincere smile. ‘I have a wee errand for you. A special errand. One that requires a bit of delicacy. It’ll be worth tuppence to ye.’

  ‘Oh right, some more knock-off meat, is it? No worries,’ Tom assured him. ‘When do you need me to do it?’

  ‘Tonight. Late on. It’ll be a two-man job. I don’t suppose you’d know where to get hold of that halfwit friend of yours?’

  ‘That . . . halfwit?’ Tom knew exactly who he was referring to, but wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of confirming it. ‘I don’t know anyone who . . .’

  ‘I’m talking about Daft Jamie. Would you know where he’s to be found?’

  Tom tried not to snigger. ‘I expect he’s around here somewhere,’ he said and flinched as he felt Jamie pinch his leg under the straw.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Margaret, suspiciously.

  ‘I think there might be fleas in this straw,’ he said.

  Margaret grimaced. ‘If there are fleas, they must have come in with you,’ she said ungraciously. She turned on her heel and walked away, but Will stayed for a few moments, looking down at Tom. ‘Tell Jamie to be here at midnight. There’ll be tuppence for him too, but only if he guards his mouth. If I hear tell he’s been blabbing about these deliveries, he’ll be making no more of ‘em. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ said Tom. He sat looking back at Will, wishing it was Billy he was dealing with. Billy had a way of making any command seem light and informal. Will was just grim and austere and made everything seem underhand. But Billy had already explained what the deliveries were. A few joints of dodgy beef. What was so terrible about that?

  ‘Are we good?’ asked Will.

  ‘Yes, Mr Laird.’

  Will scowled. ‘I told you before, boy. Margaret and me, we’re not married. I don’t answer to that name. You just call me Will, understood?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Sorry, Mr La . . . Will.’

  Will gave him one last fake smile and turning away, he walked after Margaret. Tom waited until he heard the back door of the lodging house close and then said, ‘You can come out now.’

  Jamie thrashed himself upward, red in the face. ‘That was c . . . c . . . close,’ he said. ‘T . . . tuppence each!’ he added enthusiastically. ‘I might buy myself a c . . . cake from the baker’s shop.’

  Tom scowled. ‘I don’t like the way he talks about you,’ he said.

  Jamie looked puzzled. ‘The baker?’ he muttered.

  ‘No, Will! Didn’t you hear him? He called you a halfwit.’

  ‘Ach . . . everyone c . . . c . . . calls me that,’ said Jamie, reopening the bundle of food. ‘I’m well used to it.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it right,’ said Tom. ‘Can’t they see the way you use that snuffbox? You show me any halfwit who can do that. I mean, I can’t do sums to save my life. So what does that make me?’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘The other half?’ he suggested.

  ‘And why does Will always go on about not being called Mr Laird?’

  ‘B . . . because it’s not his name. That was M . . .

  M . . . Margaret’s old husband.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? What happened to him, then?’

  ‘He d . . . d . . . died,’ said Jamie.

  ‘What, a long time ago?’

  ‘A few m . . . months, maybe.’

  Tom frowned. ‘How did he die?

  Jamie shrugged. ‘In his s . . . s . . . sleep, they say. Lucky for M . . . M . . . Margaret, she already knew Will. He m . . . moved in a week later.’ He rummaged through the bundle of food. ‘Come on, let’s finish up our b . . . breakfast. Then we’ll go and see what the McCallums are up to.’ He glanced at Tom slyly. ‘Especially C . . . Catriona!’

  Tom ignored the dig. They each chose another chunk of something from the bundle, though Tom’s appetite was close to being satisfied.

  ‘So how was l . . . last night?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Last night?’ Tom frowned.

  ‘Well, when I c . . . came past on the way to my sleeping place, it s . . . sounded like there was a bit of a p . . . p . . . party going on.’

  For an instant an image flickered across Tom’s mind. He saw the interior of the lodging house. He saw the fiddle player up at the top of the room, unleashing a merry but cacophonous jig to an appreciative crowd. And he saw Billy and Will and Nell, sitting at their usual table, all of them drinking and drumming their hands on the table-top in time to the music. And in Tom’s mind’s eye, there was somebody else with them at the table, somebody he didn’t know; an old woman with barely any teeth. She was wearing a striped red gown and she had a knitted shawl around her shoulders. She was drinking whisky, and Billy was telling her one of his silly jokes, making her laugh out loud, his arm draped around her skinny shoulders.

  The image seemed to shimmer and vanish as abruptly as it had come and Tom could not be sure if this was something he had seen last night or another night or indeed, something he had ever seen. So he could only shrug his shoulders, smile at his friend and choose one last morsel of food for his breakfast, before he and Jamie ventured out onto the cold streets of Tanner’s Close, in search of the McCallums.

  Ten

  They didn’t have to look for very long. As they walked along Tanner’s Close, they saw Mary and Cat coming towards them, draped in their warm, winter shawls and carrying straw baskets. When she saw Tom, Cat gave a welcoming smile and hurried towards him.

  ‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘How yer hangin’, bro?’

  Tom grinned, wondering if he’d been overdoing the lessons on Manchester slang. ‘I’m good, thanks. Where are you two off to?’

  ‘We’re going to the Grassmarket,’ explained Mary. ‘We need to pick up a few provisions.’

  ‘Come with us?’ suggested Cat. ‘Please.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  Cat looked at Jamie. ‘And you?’ she asked.

  Jamie looked decidedly reluctant. ‘Oh, C . . . C . . . Cat, you know I hate shopping,’ he said. ‘It’s so b . . . b . . . boring!’

  Mary put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you go on up to the house?’ she suggested. ‘Fraser’s there, messing around with those infernal soldiers as usual. I’m sure he’d be glad of the company.’

  Jamie grinned, nodded. ‘Thanks, Mary. I’ll see you tonight,’ he told Tom, and sauntered away.

  ‘Oh, what’s happening tonight?’ Cat asked Tom.

  ‘We’re running an errand for Will,’ said Tom.

  ‘What kind of an errand?’

  ‘Come along you two,’ interrupted Mary. ‘All the bargains will be gone if we stand around gassing all day.’

  They turned and headed back along the busy street. Mary ran an appraising eye over Tom’s dishevelled appearance. ‘I hope they’re looking after you at Laird’s,’ she said. ‘Your jacket looks like it could do with a good wash.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ he assured her. ‘Really.’

  ‘Still no sign of your mother?’

  ‘Er . . . no.
Not yet. She’ll . . . turn up, though.’

  ‘I hope so, Tom. It must be nearly two weeks now.’

  They passed the side street where Laird’s was located and walked on until they came to the familiar flight of steps. They climbed to the street above and turned right. The great, grey shape of the castle loomed above them to their left. ‘What exactly are we shopping for?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Vegetables,’ said Cat, wearily. ‘And perhaps a wee bit of meat.’

  ‘Only if we can find some at the right price,’ added Mary.

  Tom remembered what Billy had said about the supplier who could get hold of meat at bargain prices. He made a mental note to ask if perhaps the McCallums might be added to the list of ‘special’ customers. It would be a way of thanking them for all their help. But he decided not to say anything about it until he’d spoken to Billy, just in case such a thing wasn’t possible.

  ‘There’s a stall on the Grassmarket that sells ribbons and bows,’ said Cat, wistfully. ‘Perhaps I might treat myself to something there.’

  Mary eyed her daughter disparagingly. ‘I hardly think you have the money to be wasting on such fripperies,’ she said. ‘And it’s a long time to your next birthday, Catriona.’

  Tom slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans to make sure that his twenty pounds was still where he’d left it, resolving that if he could talk somebody into accepting his English money, he’d buy Cat the ribbons she wanted. It seemed the least he could do.

  They walked for ten minutes or so and came to the great square of the Grassmarket where row after row of canvas-covered stalls were set out on the busy streets; the vendors shouting their wares to the crowds of people who moved in and out, to stare, to prod and occasionally to spend money. But Tom’s attention was, for the moment, captured by a huge sandstone block which stood at one end of the square and into which was mounted a large white cross. Cat noticed him looking at it.