Bill hunched on the edge of his pallet and peeled back the split sole of the boot with his thumb. Though recently made, the boot had been glued with little skill, and scarce attention paid to the quality of adhesive used. It might as well have been stuck together with horse spit.
Harsh coughing from overhead distracted him and he put the boot down, craning his neck back to stare at the ceiling. Above him, Joseph would be curled up, holding himself as he hacked and spat. A week ago, Bill would have agreed with the lodger's oft-declared opinion that he was on the mend, about to turn a corner, starting to feel fit as a fiddle. When they had shared drinks at Hogmanay he had seemed in better spirits than anybody had seen him in months. The slide back into his devastating cold, if that really was his affliction, had been sudden and painful to watch.
Bill stood and stretched, needing to get out of the lodging house and walk off some of his sloth, but not quite knowing where to go. A few days ago, the question would have been answered by the call of the nearest public house, and he could not deny that the urge was still upon him. He would resist, at least until the sun bade farewell for the day. The nightmares had faded a little, and required less smothering than before.
Nelly would be in the kitchen, helping Maggie run bed sheets through the box mangle. She liked to keep busy, having little to occupy her own days, and at night she sometimes spoke of how much she looked forward to having her own home to run. Bill had noted the interest she had taken in the operation of the lodging house--how Maggie kept books and organised her day--and he was waiting for her 'surprise' announcement that she might one day want to do the same.
Bill looked at the small pile of footwear in the corner and sighed, scratching the back of his neck. A lodging house of their own, from the profits he might make in business? Her faith was touching, and led him only to be disappointed with himself.
Accepting that with the afternoon light fading, and Joseph giving a full-voiced and pestilential chorus to see the sundown, he would be doing no further work that day, he wandered into the main dormitory. Although the beds were now empty, four were booked for the night. Maggie had told him this was not a bad state of affairs for the middle of winter, when casual work in the city dried up. The four beds in question had been stripped, and as expected he heard voices from the kitchen at the back. The mangle was in the small yard behind the building, next to the privy and accessible both from the adjoining stable and the kitchen itself. During summer Maggie might work there, but while the long, cold winter ran its course she preferred to be in the kitchen with the small stove burning so she could rub some life into her hands after handling the dripping sheets.
As he pushed open the door, he found that it was not Nelly who was keeping Maggie company, but William. Whatever they were discussing, it was heated. William was like a statue, but the fervour in his eyes had spread tension into the muscles of his neck and upper back. He seemed more excited than angry. Maggie had her hands on her ample hips, and her head was bobbing back and forth as she implored her husband.
"... last legs. It'll be a kindness, William, and nobody would tell you otherwise ..." William was facing the door, and saw Bill enter. With a disapproving twitch of his lips, he somehow stopped his wife dead in her tracks.
"Bill," he said, nodding. "Help you with something?" The message was clear enough. Bill had walked in on something private. From what little he had heard, it was something he wanted no part of. He remembered that first meal with Joseph, and the others since, and had often worried over the apparent charity on display.
Making himself smile, determined not to be intimidated, he met the challenge in William's eyes with more confidence than he felt. "Sorry to be disturbing you. I thought Nelly might be helping."
Maggie turned to him, her own smile a horrible falsehood. "You've only just missed her. I sent her to fetch some oats for the porridge."
Bill tried not to let the seed of his own resentment show, but his tongue was faster. "Sent her, is it? Why, she'll be fetching you breakfast in bed before long." It came out easy, as though it really was a joke, and he even managed to make his eyes smile.
Maggie was less skilled a liar, and even less formidable a student of subtlety than he had credited her for. She laughed. "Oh, aye. There's a thought for you."
William knew Bill better. "She's always looking to help us out, on account of the room being so cheap."
"Right enough. Can't do enough to make it up. Even after everything we've shared. She's a true friend to you, William. Not a devious bone in her body." William glared, and Bill stepped back, bringing a hand to his lips. "But pardon, have I interrupted something? Could I help you? Sometimes a fresh set of eyes is just the thing, if you're trying to make up your mind?"
"Nothing to concern you right now." William had ceased all pretence. He folded his arms across his chest.
"Well, be sure to let me know when it does. I'll be seeing you this evening, then?"
"Sure you will."
Bill backed out of the room and closed the door, then waited a moment. The conversation did not resume. William was alert, waiting for him to leave, and so he obliged, letting his footfalls thud. His heart provided a rattling counterpoint as he crossed the room, and an intense chill crawled over him. If he pretended hard enough, could he convince himself that he was wrong about what he had walked in on? Stepping outside, he resisted the urge to slam the door behind him. If he made a scene, if he made it more obvious, then he would be letting them know that he knew. That would make him a party to whatever might come, a silent accomplice to dark, damning deeds.
The light was losing its ardour, the shadows beginning to lengthen even though it was still an hour from darkness. That would have to be close enough. Bill stalked off with his fingers in his pocket, running the tips over the coins he had with him and trying to calculate what they might buy.
#
Head down, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, William shouldered open the door of the Hart and squeezed into the throng. At first, he wondered whether it was a lost cause searching the place. From where he stood by the door, all he could see were shoulders and backs pressed together in a crush of boozing flesh. William was not one to trouble or humiliate himself by straining to see over the shoulders of larger men however, and had discovered a long time before that the stiller he was, the more he made his presence felt. Under no illusions about his stature, he nevertheless contrived to make himself more dense.
Nobody turned to see who it was who had brought a sudden unease to the room, but spaces began to appear in the crowd where he might need them. Two men in front of him parted, despite being deep in conversation, giving him room to walk between them to the shorter leg of the bar. The bar was the best place to wait. Bill needed to drink. William needed to catch Bill. He well knew the Hart to be his troubled friend's favourite hole, and if he was patient then Bill would come to him eventually.
Raising a hand to catch the barkeep's attention, and pointed at a jar of whisky behind the counter. As his drink was poured, he scanned the room. It was a Saturday, and the public houses were full to bursting with workers promised the Lord's day in which to recover before another week of graft, and the crowd in the Hart was in merry spirit. There was rarely trouble there, although the same could not be said of the other pubs around the long rectangle of the Grassmarket. The Last Drop, closest to the gallows at the end, was guaranteed to see a scrap most nights, as though the scent of violent death were contagious. That somehow made it no less busy a tavern than any other. There were always those in the mood for trouble, whether they wished to partake and vent their frustrations in person or just hover on the edge of disaster, too scared to jump in but too enthralled to seek less hazardous hostelries. William liked the Drop, and when he was on his own made it his first port of call for a dram. Like many, he enjoyed the keen edge of danger that closeted the place. Unlike most, he was rarely a spectator when the inevitable took place.
The barman deposited his drink, and he sli
d his pennies over the bar before resuming his scan of the crowd.
There. Behind those pressed against the bar there was another group, crowded round a table. They were boisterous and mocking, and William could not at first see the subject of their mirth.
Sliding round the bar, those gaps appearing before him as he went, he saw Bill at the table. His eyes were red with weeping, and dull with drink. He was swaying where he sat, barely able to focus on the taunting crowd around him. William heard them clear enough.
"I'm thinking it's blind-drunk Burke's turn to buy a round boys. All in favour say aye!" That was the biggest of the four, the one with shoulders like an ox and thick lips to match. The other three, smaller variants on the same theme, cried "Aye!"
Bill shook his head, and said something William couldn't hear. The labourers didn't either, but they saw the refusal quick enough. "That's not polite, Bill Burke. That's not Christian. Want me to tell you what we do to you godless Irish in here?" Other patrons were trying to shift away from the growing ugliness of the scene and its likely outcome.
"Leave him be," shouted one of the serving girls, but she cringed down fast enough when the big man glared.
"Want me to tell you what we do to your godless wives, Irish?" Though he had lowered his voice, it carried well. Bill's brow creased with anger, but when he tried to rise he lost his balance and collapsed back onto his stool. The big man reached down to grab him.
William stepped forward, grabbing the man's wrist. It took little effort to push it straight down to the table, making the brute lose his own balance and stumble forward. Drawing a small knife from his coat, he made brief eye contact with the man, who returned it with startled fury. The room fell silent.
"Got me a wife," William said, his voice carrying. "I'd like to hear about it. Stick around and tell us." He reversed the knife in his grip, and drove it through the back of the man's hand, into the table.
Blood pooled and the man screamed, crunching to his knees. Those nearest to them crushed backwards, some fleeing the pub altogether, others wanting only some distance from the scene to watch it play out. Bill's eyes were wide where he sat, but there was no disapproval on his face.
The big man's other hand played around the hilt of the knife as he whimpered, too afraid to grab it and pull it out. His three companions hovered, not sure whether to step in or run for the hills. William straightened, and looked at them each in turn. "Don't have my friend's way with words," he said, gesturing at Bill. "So why don't you just fuck off."
They were almost grateful for the suggestion, pushing through the unwashed crowd with vigour. The big man was the one crying now, unable to speak, as though his words had bled out through his hand. He clutched the table with his good arm, holding his injured one perfectly still, staring at the metal buried through his flesh and the deep red blood pulsing out around it. "Let me help you with that," William said. Seizing the blade, he pulled it out, giving it a twist once he sensed it was free of the table and feeling small bones snap. The man shrieked, collapsing the rest of the way to the floor. William hawked, and spat phlegm in his face.
Nobody in the Hart moved.
Bill stood, careful this time, aware that all eyes were on him. "I think we'll be getting along now," he said. Although he was slurring, he was making more sense than a few moments before. Stepping over his would-be assailant, pausing to add his own spit to the man's weeping face, he called over to the barkeep. "Hope you'll see as how this one brought it on himself, Sean. You coming, William?"
William nodded, and followed his stumbling friend into the fresh air.
Outside, Bill leaned against the wall, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. A chill mist had settled over the Grassmarket, giving them the illusion of privacy despite the shouts and laughter they heard from others on the street. "A quarter hour ago you were the last person on God's earth I wanted to see, but I suppose I should be thanking you."
"Sure you'll pay me back."
Bill sighed, resting his head on the stone, closing his eyes. "More debt, is it? I'm tiring of hearing about how much I owe you."
William winced. "The rent? Could be you're right. It was offered in good faith. Not fair to be harping on it."
"Really?"
"My word, Bill. I'll speak to Maggie."
Bill straightened. "That's a fine thing to be hearing. It's been hard for Nelly. We're not used to being charity cases."
"You never were." They stood there a moment, Bill still swaying, neither sure where to go from there. Inside the Hart, the noise was picking up. "We should move on, before his friends drink some courage and come looking for more trouble."
Bill pushed himself off the wall. "Home?"
"Not yet. We've more to talk over. Best done away from the women."
Bill smiled, the promise of more drink cheering him. "I'll listen, William. You've earned that much, but I promise no more." Staggering on his first step, then recovering into an almost respectable weave, Bill set off up the street, aiming for the Drop.
"It's a start." In saying so, William already knew where they might find the end.
Chapter 15
William Burke
Sunday, January 6th, 1828
He oozed to icy wakefulness, aching and sick, wondering what had happened to his bed to make it so cold and painful. He was curled on his side. Something dug into his side. Several somethings, regularly spaced and freezing cold. Metal bars.
He let that thought settle, then challenged it further. Somehow, he was lying on cold metal bars, and from the bite of the air he knew he was outside. For a few moments he had no reason to open his eyes, wanting only to stay as he was and sink back into whatever semblance of sleep would have him. There was no rush to face the day, and little to be accomplished while the grog was on him.
It was too late fool his muscles, which could no longer deny the bite of winter. He shuddered from the core, and try as he might to control himself, once he began he could not cease. With a jagged groan, he drew his knees closer to his chest, scraping himself on the bars, but there was no heat left in him, and shifting position only exposed him to the fresh chill of iron which had not been shielded by his body.
He opened his eyes to find the fog in his mind reflected all around him. Dense mist weaved between headstones and lonely trees, greying out the world and spreading what light daybreak could offer too thinly to be of use. It was a graveyard. Somehow, for some reason, he had chosen to sleep the night away inside a graveyard.
It took a long count for the surreal notion to root in his head, as though by staying still he could make it not have happened. It was not the first time Bill had woken with no recall of what had transpired the previous night, but the waking was usually somewhere he called home. Dread started to stew in his belly, competing with a growing nausea that he did not know whether to attribute to his hangover or the terror of discovering what might have made him pass the night in such a place.
Scrabbling with one hand, he found a bar and gripped it. Whatever he was using as a bed had kept him off the frozen ground, and he wondered if that was why he was still alive. The knowledge that Edinburgh's winter teeth had sent others to their death failed to excite him, though he engaged the thought enough to wonder just how he had survived. The drink weakened a man's resistance to the elements, and he was no hardier a soul than any other.
Lifting his head an inch from the crook of his arm, he realised he was a foot or two up. Fog swirled around him, giving him the strange sense that he was floating in a bed of the stuff, and he blinked against an irrational surge of seasickness. Looking down, he saw he was on an iron cage, shaped like an upturned coffin, over the recently turned soil of a fresh grave. A mortcage. He had seen them every now and again, passing by the city's kirks. Not too long ago, there had been two or three leased out to the wealthy in most graveyards. The freshly dead were interred beneath them for long enough that the cadaver might spoil beyond the use of the city's medical men, saving it from the attentions o
f resurrectionists like Merry Andrew. In the last year, more and more had appeared, permanent fixtures no longer intended solely to keep people out. These days, with nobody certain who might rise up from the ground to feast on the living, mortcages were intended to keep the dead in.
Fantasies puttered through his head, of arms reaching through the bars, snatching his legs, holding him trapped while teeth bit. Bill jerked, rolling to the edge and trying to stand. His legs would not hold him, his muscles letting him know at last how much strength the night had stolen. Pitching forward to the ground, scraping his hands as he caught himself on the frozen earth, he muffled the urge to cry out and accepted the new cuts as penance for whatever had led him there.
With a weary heave, he flopped onto his back, and found himself staring at the familiar rise of Greyfriars kirk. In the Canongate then, a mile or more from home. His astonishment at being alive grew tenfold. How, especially in the state he must have gotten himself into, had he found his way inside the walls at night? Like most graveyards, Greyfriars was watched after dark by armed men not scared to discharge their shot at shadows. The resurrectionists could be brutal when caught, and the revenants sparked terror in the hearts of even the bravest warden, all of which transferred an eagerness to their trigger fingers. When shifting shadows were enough to make a man shoot, or slash out with a blade, the death of a stumbling drunk in the wrong place at the wrong time would barely merit reporting to a watch house.
Bill pushed himself up, staggering on numbed legs but finding his feet. It was his turn to fear the shadows now. Nobody had any business at Greyfriars until the gate opened in the morning, and as he had no idea what he was doing there, he doubted he could present an explanation faster than he could be struck down for trespass. It was tempting to find a hiding place in which to hunker down, but he couldn't risk it. He had heard of dogs being used to sweep the grounds for trespassers, and having come to his senses he too feared that the dead might be hunting through the fog for him. Greyfriars was long-rumoured to be haunted, and men had died for little obvious reason within its walls long before staggering corpses had stormed the city. With such thoughts in his head, the mist came suddenly alive with motion. It was all the easier to see clasping, dancing shades swirling all about.
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