Seventeen Coffins

by Philip Caveney

  Nell grinned ruefully at Tom. ‘See, it’s not just you,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, ignore her,’ suggested Will. ‘She’s in one of her moods. Come on, let’s drink.’ He raised his glass of whisky. ‘To free enterprise!’ he said and knocked it back in one gulp.

  The rest of the evening dissolved into a drinking session. Tom got through it by politely sipping at his foul-tasting ale, while Billy and Will got progressively drunker. At one point a woman at the top end of the room got up to sing along to the man with the fiddle, some nonsense about when she ‘walked out one fine summer’s morning.’ The woman had a screeching, toneless voice, which only made the resulting noise even more unbearable. Billy and Will sat there making rude comments about the woman’s singing and laughing uproariously at their own jokes. Tom began to feel tired and, although he had only sipped at the ale, a little woozy. He wondered if he could politely slip away, but luckily Nell seemed to notice his predicament. She leaned closer.

  ‘You want me to show you where you’ll be sleeping?’ she asked him.

  He nodded gratefully and she got up from the table and led Tom up to the far end of the room. As they went past the bar he was aware of Margaret, looking daggers at them. Nell ignored her and led him through a door at the side of the room, along a hallway, out through a back entrance and across a cold yard. Tom glanced up at the sky and saw that it was now pitch black, glittering with handfuls of stars. Ahead of them lay what looked like the open doorway of a stable, a long, low building with a thatched roof. At the entrance Nell paused to light an oil lamp which stood on a barrel beside the door. She lifted the lantern and led the way inside.

  Sure enough, it was a stable. Tom’s nostrils were assailed by the powerful smell of pigs, something all too familiar to him from his last visit into the past. He could hear the sounds of them grunting and snuffling on the other side of a wooden partition. But Nell led him to an empty stall, spread with a thick layer of what looked like clean straw. She set the lantern carefully down on a barrel. She was quite drunk, Tom thought, swaying slightly on her feet. She indicated a rusty bucket standing in one corner.

  ‘That’s for if you have to make water,’ she explained.

  ‘If I have to . . .? Oh er . . . thanks,’ said Tom, embarrassed. He looked forlornly around.

  ‘I know it’s not much, but if you snuggle down deep into that straw, you should be warm enough, I reckon.’

  Tom nodded. He supposed he’d be warmer than Jamie, sleeping rough on the street, at any rate. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He stood there uncertainly.

  Nell was looking at him intently. She seemed to have something on her mind. ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘A wee word of warning.’

  ‘Er . . . yes?’

  She stepped closer. ‘Don’t be too trusting,’ she told him. ‘People aren’t always what they seem.’

  ‘Er . . . ok,’ he said.

  ‘I was out on my own when I was your age,’ she said. ‘Green as grass, I was, and twice as raw. And I had to take some hard knocks before I knew what was what.’ She took a deep breath. ‘All I’m saying is, not everything in this world is put there for our benefit.’ She seemed to decide that she’d said enough. She leaned impulsively forward and pecked him on the cheek, much as Cat had done, though in Nell’s case he was aware of the powerful fumes of whisky coming off her. ‘Sleep well, young Tom,’ she whispered. ‘And keep one eye open.’

  He was about to ask her how he might manage to do such a thing when she turned and strode out into the night, weaving from side to side as she walked. Tom gazed after her for a moment, wondering exactly what she had meant, but he was too tired to ponder it for long. He turned and surveyed his bed. He could feel exhaustion creeping up on him, so he got down onto his hands and knees and burrowed into the deep straw. Once he was well covered he turned onto his back and gazed up at the roof. He was momentarily surprised to notice that he could somehow still see the stars shining faintly through it. What was he supposed to do if it rained, he wondered. Then he became aware that the straw beneath him was softening, deepening and he was sinking into it as though it had turned to quicksand. Alarm juddered through him and he wanted to scramble upright again, but the strength seemed to have gone from his limbs. He stared upwards at the stars, burning brighter, brighter, until there seemed to be no ceiling above him at all, just the midnight black sky. Then the straw closed around him like a warm, oily wave and he sank into darkness without leaving so much as a ripple . . .

  Eight

  The softness beneath him shuddered then firmed up until he was aware of hard ground pressing against his shoulder blades. He was still looking at those same stars, except now there was no roof between him and them. He was out in the open air and a cold wind rippled around him, making him shiver. He managed to sit up although his head was woozy and he had to wait a moment to allow a wave of dizziness to pass. Everything came back into focus and he looked around.

  He was lying in an alleyway again and for a moment he thought he was right back where he’d started when he’d first arrived in the nineteenth century. Just then he noticed that the rubbish in this alleyway was stored in black plastic bags and a sense of hope sprang up in him. He got unsteadily to his feet and looked along the alley. Yes, he decided, it was the same stretch of cobbled road, leading to a flight of stone steps, but it was the sight of an empty crisp packet, stirring in the breeze, that convinced him he really was back in his own time. Perhaps the unplanned visit had only been a short one.

  He hurried along the alleyway, weaving a little at first, but growing steadier as he walked. He reached the narrow road and looked to his left, expecting to see the archway that led into Tanner’s Close but it was no longer there. The road was wider and there were houses on only one side of it. He crossed the road and started up the steps, leaning on a metal handrail that he was pretty sure hadn’t been there before and he made it to the street above.

  The view there was somewhat different than he remembered. The row of houses to his left looked pretty much the same, apart from the odd satellite dish, but the row that had been to his right was gone and the road, covered in smooth black tarmac, was much wider than before and flanked by pavements. As he stood there, deliberating what to do next, lights illuminated him and he saw the familiar shape of a black taxi approaching from the top of the street. He watched as it motored past, the driver intent on the way ahead, two people huddled in the back seat. The red taillights moved on into the night and everything was silent. Tom wondered what time it was. Late, he thought, there didn’t seem to be a soul in sight. Well, he knew pretty much where he was, all he needed to do now was to find his way back to Hamish’s house in Fairmilehead. Maybe he should try and find a taxi himself?

  He looked hopefully around, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Perhaps he needed to walk into a busier area. As he stood there, pondering the matter he heard a sound. The slow measured tread of heavy boots clumping on stone. He turned his head, looking this way and that, trying to find the source of the footsteps. They sounded close and yet, he couldn’t see anyone . . .

  A figure stepped out of the mouth of an alleyway off to his right, a cloaked and hooded figure that stood for a moment, looking at Tom through red, goggled eyes. Tom felt the blood in his veins slow as fear enveloped him in an icy grip. He watched in dread as the figure moved closer, seeming to glide across the intervening space like some phantom. And Tom knew that this time it wasn’t just some hapless worker in fancy dress. This time it was real.

  The man lifted a gloved hand and pulled the beaked helmet off his head. The thin, wolfish face that grinned at Tom was all too familiar. It was Hamish’s face yet at the same time it was also the face of a seventeenth century criminal called William McSweeny, a man who had pursued Tom across the rooftops of Edinburgh and had come uncomfortably close to catching him.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ said McSweeny in that familiar, rasping tone. ‘Here you are, at last. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  Tom shook his he
ad. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No way. You’re . . . you’re dead. I killed you.’

  McSweeny chuckled and shook his head. ‘You thought you killed me,’ he said. ‘You hoped you did. But you should know, Tom, that I’m no’ so easy to get rid of. And I said I’d have my revenge. You remember that, don’t you? I said I’d get you for what happened to my mother, no matter where you tried to hide.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault!’ protested Tom. ‘You were the one pretending to be a plague doctor . . . taking money from people . . .’

  ‘And you’re the little rat who told the authorities,’ said McSweeny. ‘You’re the one who pointed me out to them. Did you really think I was going to let you away with that? Is that the kind of man you had me down for?’ McSweeny reached a hand to his side and when he lifted it again, a curved blade glittered dangerously in his grasp.

  Tom started to back away, his heart hammering in his chest.

  ‘You’re . . . you’re not real,’ he said, desperately. ‘You’re just a bad dream.’

  McSweeny laughed, a deep, rasping chuckle that sent chills crawling down the length of Tom’s spine. ‘Keep telling yourself that, Tommy, boy,’ he whispered. ‘You’re not real. You’re a bad dream. It’ll be scant consolation for what’s about to happen to you.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Tom. ‘Please. You’ve got to–’

  He broke off as McSweeny lunged, swinging the blade at Tom’s head, and Tom reacted instinctively, dodging to one side. There was nothing dreamlike about that blade. It cut a deadly arc inches in front of Tom’s face and the tip of it swung lower and caught the shoulder of his jacket, slicing through the fabric as though it had no more substance than smoke, but thankfully missing the flesh beneath. Tom didn’t wait to allow McSweeny another chance. Before the man could raise his arm he sprinted past him, heading along the street.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ cried McSweeny, and when Tom glanced over his shoulder, it was to see the man’s dark figure coming in pursuit, the leather cloak flapping around him like the wings of some huge bat, his long legs covering the intervening space with ease.

  Tom looked frantically this way and that, seeking some avenue of escape. The mouth of an alleyway yawned on the far side of the road and he veered instinctively towards it, not knowing what lay in that direction, but absolutely sure that if he stayed on this straight path, McSweeny would catch him and cut him down in minutes. Another steep flight of steps lay ahead of him and he ran up them, three at a time, not even daring to look back. He gained the top, gasping for breath and saw a narrow opening in a wall to his right. He headed for it and his footsteps echoed as he raced into the dark, narrow passageway beyond. A short distance in, the place opened up and in the gloom Tom could see a forest of stone pillars with a narrow aisle between them. He angled left, to hide himself in their midst. He slammed his back up against a pillar and stood there, trying to catch his breath, listening intently.

  He heard the footsteps entering the passageway, heavy boots clumping on granite and then McSweeny’s voice rang out.

  ‘Oh Tom? Tom? Come on out, why don’t you? Come and see what I’ve got for you. A bright, shiny toy.’

  Tom gritted his teeth and tried to still his ragged breathing. The footsteps slowed. They were close now. McSweeny kept talking, hoping perhaps that Tom would give away his location.

  ‘Remember the wee girl, Tom? What was her name? Morag, wasn’t it? She had more courage than you, boy. She came out fighting. She didn’t hide like some whipped dog.’ A long silence then, ‘It’s your fault she died, Tom. Do you know that? Your fault. Her blood’s on your hands.’

  Tom’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted to weep but he clamped a hand over his own mouth in an effort to stop himself. The slightest sound would give his position away.

  ‘Tom, I’ll make it quick. You’ll hardly feel a thing. I promise.’

  Now Tom became aware of a shadow lengthening on the ground to his right. He steeled himself. McSweeny was moving past the pillar behind which Tom was hiding. As Tom watched, horrified, the cloaked figure moved into view, his head moving from side to side as he tried to see in the limited light.

  ‘Tom? I know you’re in here somewhere. Why don’t you–?’

  Tom made his move, stepping quickly around the pillar and aiming a wild punch into McSweeny’s side. His knuckles connected with something hard, the shock shuddering along the length of his arm and he heard McSweeny gasp in pain, but Tom was already heading back towards the entrance to the passageway. He burst out into the fresh air and stood for a moment, looking frantically around. To his right, a dead end; he’d have to go back the way he came, there was no other choice. He turned and ran towards the stairs, aware even as he did so that McSweeny had burst out of the passageway behind him, his leather cloak flapping in his wake.

  ‘T-o-m-m-m-m!’ His voice seemed to reverberate like a clap of thunder.

  Tom kept going. The steep stairs lay ahead of him and he had to go down them this time. He was terrified that he would miss his footing and fall, but he didn’t dare slow his pace either. He was halfway down the long flight when something heavy thudded against his back and a pair of powerful arms gripped him around the chest. McSweeny’s weight swept him off his feet and he was falling, he was twisting around and they were tumbling headlong down the steps in a deadly embrace. Something struck Tom hard between his ribs, slamming the breath out of him and he caught a glimpse of McSweeny’s face, inches from his . . . no, not McSweeny, it was Billy, Irish Billy, laughing out loud. And now there was a blanket being pushed into Tom’s face, covering his mouth and nose. He was aware of the soft touch of straw beneath him, but he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t breathe. He struggled, lashed out with his arms, kicked his legs and for a moment he wrenched the blanket away and saw Billy smiling serenely down at him, attempting to push the blanket back into place. Behind him stood Will, holding a lantern, looking calmly down at his friend. Tom tried to speak, but then the blanket was in his face again, cutting off his air and he struggled desperately to free himself. Then he heard a woman’s voice shouting, ‘What’s going on here?’ and suddenly he was released. He lay there on the straw, gasping for breath. Billy was looking towards the entrance of the stall and Tom looked too. There was Nell, her hands on her hips, an expression of outrage on her face.

  ‘We . . . we brought a blanket out to the boy,’ said Billy, still kneeling in the straw beside Tom. ‘I went to put it over him and he went crazy, so he did.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Will. ‘I think he was dreaming or something.’

  ‘I . . . I was confused,’ gasped Tom. ‘The blanket . . .’

  ‘I was just trying to put it over you,’ said Billy, his face a picture of innocence. ‘I thought you might be cold out here. But then you started shouting and kicking like the demons of hell was after you.’

  Tom nodded. He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. ‘I had a nightmare,’ he said.

  Nell stepped into the stall and glared at the two men. ‘Get back to your drinking,’ she advised them. ‘I’ll see to the boy.’

  Billy got to his feet and grinned at Tom. ‘I’d say Nell’s taken a shine to ye,’ he observed. ’I think you must bring out the mother in her.’ He looked at Nell pointedly. ‘Business is business,’ he said ‘Don’t forget that.’ He walked out of the stall and, after a moment’s hesitation, Will followed, grinning his sardonic grin.

  ‘We’ll get you another drink in,’ he said, as he passed and he set the lantern back down on the barrel before he left.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she shouted after him. ‘I’d say we’ve all had enough for one night.’

  She stood for a moment, looking thoughtfully down at Tom. Then she moved closer and settled herself on the straw beside him.

  ‘A nightmare?’ she asked.

  Tom nodded.

  ‘What’s a bright young lad like you done that would give him nightmares?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Stuff.’

>   She smiled at him. ‘Well, nightmares can’t hurt you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He didn’t feel convinced. ‘What did Billy mean?’ he asked. ‘About me ‘bringing out the mother in you?’ Have you got kids?’

  Nell sighed. ‘I have two children,’ she told Tom. ‘A boy and a girl. Perhaps I should say, ‘had.’ I . . . left them with their father in Maddiston when I first met Billy. He was working on the canal there and . . . ah, I let him sweet-talk me into walking away from ‘em. I must have been mad or in love. I suppose it amounts to the same thing. The boy would be around your age now. I don’t know where my children are or what they’re doing. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. Isn’t that terrible?’ She looked at Tom and he could see that she was close to crying. Instinctively he reached out and put a hand around her shoulders.

  ‘Why did you leave them?’ he asked her.

  ‘Because I listened to Billy and his fancy words,’ she said. ‘Ah, that man can talk me into just about anything if he puts his mind to it. But there’s a limit,’ she said. ‘There has to be a limit.’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and smiled at Tom. ‘You’re a good lad,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. You try and get some sleep now.’ She lifted his arm away and said, ‘I think I’d better find you a needle and thread.’

  He looked at her blankly and she indicated the shoulder of his jacket. It was torn wide open, the edges even, as though cut by something very sharp. Fear hit him like a punch to the chest.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Nell asked him. ‘You’ve gone white.’

  ‘What you said about nightmares not being able to hurt you,’ he gasped. ‘I’m not so sure you’re right.’

  She eased him back down onto the straw and settled the blanket around him. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she advised. ‘I’ll see to it that nobody bothers you.’ She got up and walked to the exit. ‘Do you want me to put that lantern out?’ she asked him, stirring the thick straw with one foot. ‘It’d be safer.’