‘What time is the tour?’
Astrid snapped her gum. ‘You know fine well, Robbie.’
‘Does it go underground?’ The man licked cracked lips. ‘I’m particularly interested in Mary King’s Close. If it doesn’t go to Mary King’s Close then I’m not interested.’
Astrid pointed to the poster lying on the counter between them. It said ‘Mary King’s Close tour: Experience the forgotten city.’
The man glanced at the paper and then fixed his unnerving stare back at Astrid. ‘I need to know if it goes underground. I only—’
‘You’ve taken the tour before. You know exactly—’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Fine.’ Astrid gave a quick sigh. ‘Do you want a ticket or not? Tour starts at seven prompt.’
‘Are you doing it?’
‘Sure am,’ Astrid said. She snapped her gum again and gave Robbie a wide smile.
He put a crumpled ten pound note on the counter and Astrid replaced it with a small rectangle of red paper.
They watched in silence as Robbie retreated back through the graveyard. Rose didn’t know how Astrid coped with the job – she seemed to have a revolving set of stalkerish fans. When she looked at Astrid, though, her friend was watching Robbie leave with a curious expression of satisfaction on her face.
After a moment, Astrid turned to Rose. ‘So. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘You missed cognitive psych again.’
‘Crap. He didn’t notice, did he?’
‘No, but—’
Astrid relaxed back on her stool, resting against the wall of the booth. ‘Don’t do that to me.’
‘What about the essays? The exam?’
Astrid waved one hand. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘How?’ Rose frowned. ‘Seriously. I’m worried about you.’
Astrid laughed, then shot a hand up to cover her mouth.
Rose tried not to be hurt, but in that moment Astrid looked like a stranger. With her blonde curls and flawless white skin, and her wide, toothy grin, she looked like every scary pretty girl Rose had been teased by at school. Something tilted and a tiny voice at the back of Rose’s mind said, ‘That’s not your memory. You don’t remember going to school.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Astrid made a visible effort to compose herself. ‘You’re right. I need to be more careful.’
She pulled out a packet of chewing gum and offered it to Rose. The smell of cherry menthol cut across Rose’s sudden confusion. And then something else occurred to her – the sweet, medicinal scent had been in her nightmare last night, overlaid by the cloying pine of sawdust. Had Astrid been in her dream? Rose’s heart was hammering.
‘You okay?’
‘Just tired,’ Rose said. ‘I had a bad dream last night.’
Astrid popped a fresh piece of gum into her mouth. ‘Tell all.’
‘No way.’ Rose shook her head. ‘I’m not one of those boring people who foist their subconscious onto others.’
‘But I’m interested. Really.’
‘What time does your shift end?’
Astrid slumped back onto the counter. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’
Rose thought about going home alone and going to sleep. Fractured images, her mother’s face melting, blood spreading across the floor of the lecture theatre. She kept her face carefully controlled. Maybe Astrid was right. Maybe alcohol was the answer. ‘I was thinking we could go out. To the pub, maybe.’
Astrid sat up again, her face very suddenly wide awake. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Rose shrugged. ‘I just thought it would be nice. Time I tried some new experiences.’
‘What have you done with the real Rose MacLeod?’ Astrid was smiling, but it didn’t look right. Strained. Rose felt her stomach swoop, just as it had in her dream. In an instant nothing looked right and Rose was falling through air, the scent of sawdust thick in her nostrils, choking her. Astrid’s smile had turned to a frown and Rose realised that she had taken too long to answer. She was being weird, and if she was weird she might lose Astrid forever. She forced a smile of her own. ‘You’re always on at me to go out. I don’t see what the fuss is about.’ She pushed the bad dream to the back of her mind. She wasn’t about to tell Astrid that her nightmares had been so horrific recently that she was willing to endure anything to put off going to sleep.
‘We could go for a quick drink,’ Astrid said cautiously.
‘Great.’ Rose worked hard at appearing casual, normal. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Then she remembered. ‘Oh, hang on. You’re doing a tour.’
Astrid frowned. ‘No I’m not.’ Then her face cleared. ‘Oh, I just told Robbie that so he’d buy a ticket. It’s Thomas tonight.’
‘He’s going to be disappointed.’
‘Fuck it. Crazy bastard has been on my tour twenty three times and every time he swears blind it’s his first.’
* * *
Across the city, Mal pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning for the past twenty minutes. The afternoon sun was hidden behind layers of grey cloud shrouding the city in early darkness, and the wind felt as if it was blowing directly from Siberia. His shoulder was frozen through like a joint of meat in a giant fridge. He pushed that particular image away and stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them.
He’d followed his target from The Royal Mile, down to the west end of Princes Street and into the New Town. He had dodged shoppers and office workers, keeping the target in sight until they hit a less affluent part of the west end. Eventually, the mark slowed at a small row of shops – a kitchen-goods emporium that looked like it had made a big mistake in its location, a second-hand store selling vintage tat and collectibles of dubious value, and a kebab shop with luminous yellow and orange signage.
The target ducked into the second-hand store, where Mal couldn’t follow. It was a small shop with nowhere to conveniently loiter without drawing attention. He knew the place, and knew that behind the grimy front door there was a cluttered room with all viewing angles covered from behind the counter with a series of mirrors. The owner was a dirty-haired misanthrope who, on Mal’s previous visit, had thrown him out for not buying anything after fifteen minutes of browsing.
The target emerged just as Mal was resettling himself against the wall. Thankfully, he continued into the smaller, residential streets behind the shops, the crowds finally thinning out. He was keeping a normal pace and seemed unconcerned, but Mal followed him for a few minutes longer, making sure he was alone. He’d jumped a demon once only to realise that there were four more in the vicinity. That had been a close run and not something he wanted to repeat. He was older now, and far wiser. He’d made it to thirty, an age he never thought he’d see, and that was down to his strength, combat skills, and hyper-vigilance. The target turned down a side street and Mal increased his pace a little. He walked past the turning, glancing casually as he did so. The target was closer than he expected, so he continued across the junction before doubling back to the side street.
The target had disappeared.
Mal loped down the street, cursing silently. The target must’ve entered one of the houses – tall town houses with several flats in each. He had no way of knowing which, although he’d guess it would be nearby. There hadn’t been time for the target to get far down the street. Mal carried on walking, keeping his pace regular and his posture seemingly relaxed. Body language was ninety per cent of successful close surveillance. And the other ten per cent was pure luck, he thought, seeing a front door that was ajar. He walked on a little further before stopping and pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, pretending to consult it. He was just a regular guy, checking a friend’s address before visiting. He turned back, preparing to check out the house more thoroughly, when he caught a movement surprisingly close and dodged just in time to escape a blow to the head.
Mal had his knife out and his balance back in time to block another attack, the target close enough for him to headbutt and then place a knee i
nto the soft part of his lower belly. The good thing about demons was that they had the same anatomy as humans, the same weak spots. Mal brought his knife up in an arc, slicing the man-shape vertically through the chest, then stepped behind him, looping an arm around his shoulders to pull him close, a parody of an embrace. He drew the knife across the demon’s neck quickly and deeply and then stepped away, letting the body fall to the ground.
There were lights in the windows of the houses and Mal didn’t know whether anybody had called the police. In a residential area like this, it was a fair bet that they had. If he thought he’d been unobserved, he usually cleaned up after himself, moving the body, burning it in the woods and power-washing the ground. It felt like the right thing to do, rather than leaving the unpleasant task for some other poor bastard. He couldn’t risk hanging about now though, so he dipped down and quickly frisked the body, trying to avoid kneeling in the pooling blood. The demon was wearing super-skinny jeans and it was obvious there was something in the right hip pocket. It was tightly wedged, so Mal helped matters by slicing through the fabric. The object was a small, smooth stone, dull black and with a bronze-coloured pin stuck to the back, making it into an ugly brooch.
To most folk it wouldn’t look like precious bounty, but Mal had ceased to be surprised by the things Pringle and his other clients asked him to procure. That was the thing with powerful objects – they so rarely looked the way you’d expect. He pocketed the brooch and moved away from the mess of gore. Not for the first time, he wished that demons would obligingly turn into dust or burn up of their own accord when vanquished. That would be civic-minded of the things.
He headed back into town, to his favourite bar. It was dark and unpretentious and filled with the kind of hardcore drinkers who kept to themselves. He ducked into the cramped bathroom, the first turning before the bar area, and washed the blood from his hands. He avoided his face in the mirror.
His clothes didn’t seem badly stained. Nothing was showing up on the black, anyway, and he congratulated himself on his forethought. If he’d driven the knife into the guy from the front, up underneath his ribs, then he would have fallen onto Mal and bled all over him. From behind was much cleaner.
The girl behind the bar was new. She smiled toothily at him. ‘What can I get for you?’
He surprised himself by ordering a half and half and, moments later, depressed himself with the realisation that it was the drink of choice of the sad clientele. He drank it anyway, and flipped open his old Nokia to call the client. Once upon a time, he’d been a man on a mission. He’d been his father’s son, fighting the righteous fight. Now, his father was dead and he was working for the man. The man with the money. Any man or woman with the cash, or, at a push, any demon. He preferred to kill the supernatural, but he wasn’t above working for them. He realised that his beer had already gone, and knocked back the remains of his whisky. The phone lay in his hand like a dead thing. He rolled his shoulders and reminded himself that he didn’t feel anything, but he still couldn’t make himself press the call button.
Tomorrow, he decided. He would call Pringle in the morning. He ordered another round and made automatic small talk with the barmaid, letting the sounds of the bar wash over him. Tonight, he was celebrating another successful job. Another payment into his account. Although what those payments were ever going to amount to, he didn’t know. Suddenly he felt like shit. He could feel his mood sliding downwards so he made himself move from the bar stool with its comforting proximity to alcohol, and go out into the street. The cool night air helped to sober him up. Not that he was drunk. He didn’t get drunk. He got numb on occasion, a little bit Pink Floyd his brother called it. The big geek.
Despite most definitely not being drunk, his feet weren’t behaving themselves, and they found every crack in the pavement. Once, they even found a short flight of steps leading into a closed shop, and he went down on one knee for a few seconds. How many ‘hauf and a haufs’ had he had? Enough to make several wholes, he guessed, although he couldn’t remember.
A group of girls with short dresses and high heels staggered past, their voices piercing and their good humour brittle and ready to break. He didn’t need the sight to know they’d be vomiting later, but knew he didn’t exactly have the high moral ground. The sky above the curve of coloured buildings on Cockburn Street was dark, a couple of stars struggling to twinkle through the light pollution. He made it to the Royal Mile and across the bridge, patting Bobby on the head before dropping down into the Grassmarket. The tall buildings seemed to be leaning down over him, like disappointed parents.
It was quieter here. The stag and hen parties wouldn’t really be out in force until the weekend, and the shoppers and after-work quick-drink crowd had long ago gone home. He was just thinking that it was a good thing he wasn’t the kind of person who had to be worried about spookily quiet, dark, narrow streets when something very heavy hit him in the back of the head and he went down. All was darkness. No stars.
* * *
Mal felt the pain in his head before anything else, but that was quickly followed by its equally strong friends in his back, ribs and arms. He badly wanted to open his eyes, but he could feel that his arms were pinned behind him and that he was seated, interrogation-style. He had the sinking feeling that with the opening of his eyes would begin a new set of horrors, and was in no particular hurry to bring them forth. He was thinking things through, of course, but his planning and assessment was strangely calm and that was somehow worse. He would’ve thought that the horrible numbness of recent months ought to be banished by a situation like this. He ought to be frightened. If not terrified, then at least mildly alarmed, but there was nothing. I might die, he thought, trying to goad himself into wakeful anxiety. Fine, the thought came back. That would be fine.
After a few moments and still alive, he focused on his situation. It was quiet. He hoped he was alone, perhaps tied up and left somewhere, but it was also possible that an array of bad people were lined up in front of him, just waiting for him to be conscious enough to respond satisfactorily to a beating. Or torture. He’d had some of that before and wasn’t anxious to revisit the experience. The thought was enough to clear away the fug of nothingness and he felt a spark of irritation. He wasn’t supposed to have to deal with this kind of shit any more. That was part of the fucking point of being a gun for hire. Everything was supposed to be neat and businesslike, with none of the messy old vendettas and grudge matches and taking sides.
There wasn’t a lot of light in the room or cave or wherever he was. Unless he was blindfolded. He cracked an eyelid, half expecting the soft brush of material against his lashes. Nope, nothing.
He risked opening his eyes a little further and, when nothing either jumped into focus or hit him in the face, he took a proper look. The lighting was dim, just a trickle coming in through a gap in the curtains. Heavyweight curtains, floor-length. Fancy.
His insides contracted with relief when Pringle walked in. He was wearing the same clothes as usual – a pale pink, fine knit jumper with a tiny embroidered leaping stag in the upper right corner, and beige chinos. His expression was mild and inexpressive, and everything from his light brown hair and blue eyes to his smoothly shaved skin and unremarkable features was designed to be instantly forgettable. Mal had tried, once, to recreate an image of Pringle in his mind when not actually looking at him, and it had been impossible.
‘What the fuck?’ Mal was aiming for bored irritation, but he was worried that fear had bled into his voice.
He heard a sound and realised that there was at least one person stood behind him. Mal told himself not to tense up. If he was going to get hit, it would be better if he stayed relaxed. Your body absorbed the blow better, minimised the damage. That was the theory, anyway.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Pringle said. ‘But there’s been a mix-up.’
Relief flooded through Mal’s body. ‘I’d say so.’
‘You targeted the wrong being.’
&nbs
p; He took a second to process the words then said, stupidly, ‘What?’
‘My friend is rather upset, and so this,’ Pringle waved his hand around the room, encompassing Mal tied to the chair, the goon behind him, the array of wicked-looking silverware on the side table, ‘is required. For the look of things. You understand?’
‘I didn’t get the wrong one. I never get the wrong one.’ That was why he had no trouble getting the work. He had a nose for the supernatural. He could hone in on a demon or a shape-shifter or a lupine or even a bloody piskie without breaking a sweat. It was a rare trait in a human, according to his father. He ignored the habitual prick of his conscience. He was well-practised at ignoring the little reminders of his dad and was very careful not to think about what his dad would say if he knew about his son’s chosen profession.
‘I’m afraid you rather did.’ Pringle shook his head regretfully.
‘I didn’t kill a human. There was no mistake.’ Mal hoped that was true. Killing an innocent bystander. A human being. That would be a new low, even for him.
‘Not human, but not the target. You were supposed to retrieve an object, yes?’
‘I did,’ Mal said. ‘It’s in my pocket. Or it was before I got clubbed.’
Pringle inclined his head and Mal felt a hand pushing into the pocket of his jeans. ‘My jacket pocket,’ he said hurriedly, before the investigation turned more personal than was necessary. Again, the relief flowed through him as the disembodied hand produced the brooch he’d taken from the demon corpse and delivered it to Pringle.
‘This isn’t the object,’ Pringle said. ‘It’s interesting, though.’ The brooch disappeared.
‘Honest mistake,’ Mal said, a spark of panic igniting. He took a conscious slow breath and looked into Pringle’s eyes. ‘I’ve never let you down before. Give me another chance and I’ll make it right. Sort it.’
The Lost Girls Page 3