His vision came slowly into focus and he stared helplessly around. He was in some kind of cellar, he decided: cold, damp and windowless, filled with the thick scents of earth and mould, lit only by a single oil lamp standing on a rickety wooden table to one side of him. He studied the table and his stomach twisted as he saw that various metal objects were set out in rows on its rough wooden surface – knives, pincers, hammers, even a couple of rusty-looking saws. He didn’t want to think about what they might be used for.
He tried again to struggle against the bonds that held him, but when he focused his attention on them, he saw that the cuffs were securely anchored into the wooden arm rests. As his confusion subsided, a nagging fear began to grow in the pit of his stomach. Where was he? Why was he here in this unfamiliar place? Just then a voice spoke from a short distance away and terror engulfed him. It was a horribly familiar voice – coarse, rasping, pitiless.
‘So, Tom, here we are, at last. Just the two of us. I was beginning to think this day would never come.’
A cloaked figure stepped silently out of the shadows. The beaked mask had been removed and was clutched in one gloved hand. The animated, skull-like face was terrible to behold. McSweeny came to a halt beside the table, his sightless eye sockets gazing at Tom with a strange and terrible intensity. ‘I got tired of chasing you,’ he said, as if by way of explanation. ‘Decided it was time you came to me. So much less effort on my part.’
‘You . . . you’d better let me go,’ gasped Tom. He was so scared he could hardly breathe. ‘Let me go or I’ll−’
‘You’ll what, Tom? What will you do? What can you hope to do to me that you haven’t done already?’ McSweeny lifted his free hand to gesture at his exposed skull. ‘Look at your handiwork, Tom. Are you proud of it?’
Tom shook his head. ‘That’s . . . that’s not my fault,’ he insisted. ‘You kept coming after me. You wouldn’t give up. I didn’t mean for that to happen. You fell and I didn’t even know what was in that barrel!’
‘Is that a fact? But it happened just the same, Tom, and as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I’m far from happy about it.’ He pointed to something standing on the table, a small wooden cask. ‘Do you know what’s in that, Tom? Do you?’
Tom shook his head.
‘It’s quicklime. I thought perhaps I might return the favour.’
‘No!’ Tom tried again to struggle against his bonds, but it was no use. ‘No, you . . . you can’t!’
‘Oh, but I can. You see, I can do whatever I’ve a mind to. You’re my prisoner. I can do exactly as I like and I can take my own sweet time about it.’ He reached out to the table and brushed his gloved fingers along the line of lethal-looking instruments. ‘I could practice my surgery skills, perhaps? Been a while since I was called upon to demonstrate them. You remember the procedures we did in Mary King’s Close, Tom? How I made you help me with them? How about we make you the patient instead? We could see how much pain you’re able to take before you start begging me to finish you off.’
Tom looked frantically around the room. ‘Where is this place?’ he cried.
‘It’s somewhere of my own making,’ McSweeny told him. ‘A place between worlds. A place where nobody will hear you scream.’ He laughed unpleasantly and picked up a pair of pincers. He made a couple of snipping motions on the air. ‘A bit of dentistry perhaps?’ he murmured. ‘Are your teeth in good order, Tom? Do you think we should check?’
But he made no move to come any closer. A vague suspicion flowered at the back of Tom’s mind. He made a valiant effort to calm himself and stared defiantly back at his captor. ‘It . . . it isn’t real, is it?’ he said. ‘This place. Any of it. It’s just stuff you’ve made me see. Because you’re in my head. All of this is in my head.’
McSweeny chuckled. ‘Oh, is that the best you can do?’ he said. ‘Keep telling yourself that, Tom. It’s not real. It’s all in your head! It might help you to handle the pain.’ He took a threatening step closer, but still made no real attempt to attack which made Tom begin to think that he might be on to something.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why . . . that’s why you’ve never quite managed to get hold of me. Not since Mary King’s Close. Because you’re out of your own time. You’re like − you’re like a bad dream. You’re in my head, but that’s all you are.’
‘Think so, Tom?’ McSweeny sniggered. ‘Better try telling that to the wee girl. What was her name? Morag? Sweet little thing. Do you think she was convinced that I was real?’
‘Yes, but . . . but you were real then.’
‘And I’m real now. And quite capable of inflicting pain on you, my boy.’
‘Then why are you just talking about it? Why don’t you do something? Go on, let’s see what you can do.’
There was a long silence. The skull face continued to stare at Tom with evident hatred, but he sensed indecision. He really had hit on something here. And when he thought about it, it explained so much. All those near misses. All those times that McSweeny’s blade hadn’t quite hit its target. Even that last incident, when Tom and Lloyd had leapt from the hansom cab, seconds before it went into the river. It was as though McSweeny was haunting him, inflicting terror and worry, but not actually able to physically injure him.
‘I think that’s it,’ murmured Tom. ‘I can make changes because I’m still alive. But you died in 1645.’
McSweeny found his voice. ‘Shall I tell you what I’m going to do, Tom? Instead of hurting you directly, I’ll go after the new one. What does this one call herself? Oh yes, Catriona. Such a tragic turn of events! She was your sweetheart for a while, back in the day, wasn’t she? And now, she’s a lonely old woman, eking out her last months of life. Oh, and that hurts you, Tom, doesn’t it? It’s been exquisite experiencing your pain over the last few days.’
Tom glared at him. ‘Whatever you say, I killed you. I know I did. When we fell through that roof in Mary King’s Close, the knife went into your heart and you died. But now, you’re like . . . you’re like a ghost. How else do you follow me through time? It’s like you slip between the cracks in the pavement. And you’ve made this place out of your own mind, haven’t you? Which means that I can unmake it.’
Tom stared at his left wrist and concentrated hard.
‘What are you trying to do?’ mocked McSweeny. ‘You honestly think that’s going to make any difference?’
Tom continued to stare at the cuff, but still nothing happened.
‘You little fool! You really believe you can change things?’ There was a hint of desperation in McSweeny’s voice now and that gave Tom the power to continue. He deepened his concentration, imagined his wrist being unshackled and now, somehow, he could feel that it was actually beginning to work. As he stared at the metal cuff, it shimmered, faded, disappeared. His left hand was suddenly free and he was able to lift it to show McSweeny, who was looking at him now in evident dismay.
‘There,’ said Tom. ‘That’s how real all this is.’ The knowledge gave him more strength. He concentrated again, allowed his mind to travel outwards and this time it was much easier. His right hand and his ankles were free also. He got up out of the chair, while McSweeny stood there, clearly unsure of what to do. ‘Now what’s left for you?’ he asked McSweeny. ‘You’re beaten. I know what you are. I know how to deal with you.’
McSweeny’s lips curved into a mirthless smile. ‘But Catriona doesn’t know that, does she?’ he said. And he began to fade.
‘No, wait!’ Tom lunged forward and tried to throw his arms around McSweeny, but the man’s bony body seemed to dissolve like smoke and was gone. Tom hurtled forward towards the stone floor, but that too melted away before him and once again, he was falling, spinning, his head filled with a giddy red nausea
Nineteen
He came down hard, once again, in a sitting position and slumped back with a gasp against soft leather. Sweat was running down his face and the world was swaying and shuddering. It took him a little while to realise that
he was, once again, in the interior of a hansom cab. Opposite him, he saw Cat, looking at him with obvious concern.
‘Where did you go to?’ she asked him quietly.
‘I disappeared?’ he asked her.
‘Only momentarily. You became transparent. I could see right through you. I thought you were leaving me again, but then you came back. Did you return to your own time?’
‘You don’t want to know where I went,’ he told her. He shook the last traces of dizziness out of his head and pulled aside the window blind to peep out. The unexpected blaze of bright sunshine made him squint. He saw that the cab was moving along Princes Street, which was thronged with hundreds of people, all dressed in their winter clothes, moving restlessly to and fro along the pavements. The snow had melted away in the unexpected sunshine, leaving only stubborn clusters of ice here and there. Vendors were shouting their wares from stalls set up along the route and there was an air of high excitement. Tom reminded himself that it was New Year’s Eve.
‘So we’re off to meet the Stevensons?’ he ventured. ‘For the concert?’
Cat nodded. She looked tired, Tom thought, her eyes ringed with red as though she was in need of sleep. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said and that somehow reminded Tom that they were only hours away from 1882 – the year in which Cat was destined to die. Once again he felt torn. Should he tell her what he knew, so that she could prepare herself? Or was it better to leave her in blissful ignorance? He had a terrible sense of foreboding and began to wish that they had stayed at home.
‘Cat,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. It’s really important.’
She leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘You remember I told you about McSweeny? The man from Mary King’s Close.’
She nodded. ‘The plague doctor,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’
Tom narrowed his eyes for a moment, confused and then remembered that Cat had seen him briefly on Arthur’s Seat, had even been chased by him for a short distance. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Well, I’ve just realised something about him. Something important.’
‘Yes?’
‘He . . . he’s not real, Cat. He’s a ghost.’
Cat frowned. ‘The man I saw seemed real enough,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know he looks real. But if he should come for you, you must remember that he can’t harm you. He’s just a . . . a shadow.’
She seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ she said. ‘Do you have any reason to believe that we will see him again?’
‘I think . . .’ He was reluctant to tell her, but then decided that he had to. ‘I think he might try to get to you, Cat. To frighten you, because he knows that would cause me pain and I think he knows that’s all he can do to me now.’ Tom shook his head. ‘It’s crazy. I’ve spent so much time running away from him, scared out of my wits, but if I’d just stood my ground when he came back after I killed him, the first time.’
Catriona looked concerned at this. ‘You’re saying you killed somebody?’
‘Oh, not on purpose! We were fighting. This was back in 1645 when I first knew him, when he was human. We fell through a skylight and he was carrying a knife.’ For a moment, Tom was actually back there, running madly for his life across the rooftops of Mary King’s Close. He made an effort to shut the images out of his head. ‘I didn’t understand how he could chase me through time like he does. But now, I think I get it. And you know what? I’m beginning to think that I might be able to do it too. I just need to learn how to control it.’
The coachman shouted, ‘Whoah,’ and the cab lurched to a halt. The door swung open and there was Lou, smiling at them. ‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘A warm welcome to you both.’ He reached in to take Cat’s hand and helped her to climb out of the cab. Tom jumped down after her to see Fran and Lloyd standing a short distance away, by the park gates, both of them wrapped up in warm clothing. ‘We’re in good time for the performance,’ Lou assured Cat. He offered her his arm and gave the other to Fran, then led the way towards the entrance and down the long flight of stone steps which were crowded with throngs of people. Tom found himself walking alongside Lloyd. The boy had that sly look about him that Tom had already come to detest.
‘I’m really looking forward to this,’ said Lloyd, quietly. He was wearing a heavy overcoat, a tartan scarf and a cloth cap and he looked somehow much stouter than he actually was.
‘The concert?’ muttered Tom, although he already knew that Lloyd hadn’t meant that.
‘No. I’m talking about the moment when I expose you,’ Lloyd corrected him, smiling maliciously.
‘Why would you do that?’ Tom asked him. ‘I thought I told you, if you want your dad to be a famous writer, then . . .’
‘But he’s already done the rewrites,’ interrupted Lloyd. ‘So it can’t make any difference now, can it?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Tom assured him. ‘You remember what I said about the dominoes? You pull one piece out and . . .’
‘I can’t wait to see Papa’s face,’ interrupted Lloyd. ‘When he finds out that you’re from the future he won’t think quite so highly of you then, will he?’
Tom shrugged, thought about it for a moment. ‘I think he’ll be thrilled,’ he said.
Lloyd looked puzzled. ‘Huh?’ he muttered.
‘He’ll be mad for it, won’t he? He’ll probably think I’m the most amazing person he’s ever met.’
Lloyd looked doubtful. ‘No, no he won’t. He’ll think you’re an imposter,’ he insisted. ‘He’ll feel like you’ve cheated him.’
‘I don’t see it that way. I reckon he’ll want to know all about me. You know what? He’ll probably want to write a whole book about my adventures. Yeah, maybe that’ll be the book that makes him famous. The Adventures of Tom Afflick – Time Traveller.
Lloyd’s expression was priceless. He looked as though somebody was holding a rotten egg under his nose. He slowed to a halt. ‘You’re just saying that,’ he protested. ‘I think he’ll tell you to leave.’
‘Well, let’s put it to the test, shall we?’ said Tom, coolly. He pointed to Lou walking up ahead. ‘Tell him,’ he suggested.
‘I will too,’ said Lloyd. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’
‘Go on, then. Be my guest.’
But Lloyd made no attempt to catch up with his stepfather. He gritted his teeth and scowled. ‘I hate you,’ he said.
‘Hey, come on, don’t lag behind!’ The voice made Tom glance up in surprise, because it didn’t sound anything like Lou. And as he looked up, everything around Tom shimmered, rippled and went suddenly, abruptly dark. The man up ahead was Hamish, dressed in a heavy overcoat and a hat with woolly earflaps. The woman on his arm, wearing a thick quilted jacket, was Mum. Tom looked around and realised that Lloyd had vanished and now he was standing on an even more crowded staircase. All around him, people dressed in modern clothing were pushing and
jostling good-naturedly, many of them swigging alcohol from cans of beer and cider. Below them, the park was lit up by what looked like thousands of fairy lights and loud music filled the air.
‘Come on, slow coach,’ shouted Mum.
Tom quickened his pace and pushed his way down the last few steps. As he approached his companions, Hamish handed him a brightly coloured paper ticket. ‘Just in case we get split up,’ he shouted over the sonic roar of the music. He looked around in evident delight. ‘How about this?’ he bellowed. ‘The papers said there’s eighty thousand people out on the streets tonight! Imagine that!’
Tom gazed blankly around. He didn’t have to imagine it. It was all around him.
‘Where did you disappear to?’ Mum asked him.
Tom could only shrug his shoulders. ‘Er, I was talking to someone,’ he muttered. ‘Over there.’ He waved a hand in a general direction.
‘A stranger?’ Mum’s expression registered disapproval. ‘Well stay close, we don’t want to
get separated in this crowd,’ she said.
‘Come on,’ said Hamish. ‘Your band is due to hit the stage any minute.’
They continued on through the press of bodies. It seemed inconceivable that so many people could manage to crush themselves into such a modest space. Up ahead they could see the brilliant lights of the stage and when they finally jostled their way closer, they came to a narrow gateway guarded by two security men. They had to show their tickets to go through the gates onto the steps of the Ross Bandstand. ‘I got us VIP tickets,’ Hamish told them, beaming proudly as he led them into the smaller crowd beyond. ‘It was only another twenty notes.’ He waved at the much bigger crowd ranged up the hillside behind them. ‘We’ll have a better view than that lot.’
They edged through the rows of people ranged on the steps until they were standing right in front of the huge stage. As they settled themselves in, Tom saw that a DJ was hunched over a turntable in its very centre, pumping out an ear-splitting mix of sound, making the people in the crowd below him twitch and jerk like demented marionettes. He was drenched in floods of coloured light, changing and shifting in time to the music and clouds of dry ice swirled and billowed around him.
‘I don’t care for this house stuff,’ bellowed Hamish. ‘Bring on the live music, I say.’ He had produced a can of Tennents lager from the pocket of his coat and was taking liberal swigs from it. Clearly, even the new, more temperate Hamish drew the line at drinking diet Coke on New Year’s Eve. He offered Tom a swig from the can but Tom shook his head. He was feeling mixed-up enough right now without adding to the problem. The music emanating from the stage came to a sudden, abrupt halt and the DJ raised one hand in the air.
Tom squinted as sunlight blazed into his eyes again. As he stared in disbelief, the Ross Bandstand reshaped itself into a small round construction of cast iron with a tin roof. The DJ shimmered, rippled and turned into a portly, bearded gentleman wearing a navy blue uniform and a peaked hat. He was holding a conductor’s baton. Around him sat the various uniformed members of a brass band, their gleaming instruments reflecting the winter sunlight. The conductor raised the baton and waited for complete silence. Then he brought it down again and the band launched into a jaunty rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers.
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