Tom stood there, looking at the old woman and wishing there was something he could say to cheer her up. But he was beginning to think that she was right and the more he thought about it, the more he realised that it had something to do with Billy and Will. He remembered meeting Peggy Haldane, that time she’d turned up looking for her mother. Margaret had been as nice as pie to her and had led her away for a drink of brandy. And that very evening, he and Jamie had been hired to make a second delivery to the Surgeons’ Hall. He looked at Cat. ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘I need to have a talk with Billy.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ she asked.
Tom shook his head. ‘I think I’d better do this on my own.’ He looked back to Mrs Wilson. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If I hear anything about Jamie, I’ll come and let you know.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ said the old woman.
Tom suddenly felt terribly sorry for her. He had the distinct impression that Jamie wasn’t coming back. He reached into his pocket and took out what was left of the money he’d been paid for making the two deliveries to Surgeons’ Hall. He stepped forward and pressed it into the old woman’s hand. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but it’s all I’ve got.’
‘Bless you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
Tom shrugged. They said their goodbyes and let themselves out of the damp old house. They walked slowly back to the McCallum’s.
‘Why do you need to talk to Billy?’ asked Cat.
‘Because he knows something,’ said Tom. ‘He’s told me lies about Jamie.’
‘Lies? Why would he do that?’
‘Because I think he knows more than he’s letting on.’
She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘Be careful,’ she warned him.
‘I will,’ he promised her.
After dropping Cat off at the McCallums, he made an excuse and headed back towards Laird’s, walking with some urgency. Since he wouldn’t stay to eat, Mary made him a sandwich and presented him with his damp washing in a cloth bag, telling him to peg it out to dry somewhere. Tom ate the sandwich as he walked along, but he was barely aware of the taste because now, a whole series of questions were whirling around in his head, questions that urgently needed answering. There were so many unexplained things that had happened to him since he’d arrived here, and he’d taken so much on trust, because he genuinely liked Billy and had been charmed by his confident, affable manner. He’d accepted the story about the deliveries of dodgy beef up to the Surgeons’ Hall but now he wondered if there was something else in those tightly-nailed packing cases, something more sinister. What had really happened to the Haldanes? Why had Margaret pretended that Peggy’s purse belonged to her? And most damning of all, why had Billy lied about Jamie having relatives in Leith?
Tom was striding along, concentrating furiously and at first he didn’t notice that he seemed to be speeding up, moving faster and faster along the street. Then a man passed by him in a blur of movement, going so fast that Tom couldn’t really make out any details. He realised his speed was increasing, second by second and he made a conscious effort to slow himself down, but he simply couldn’t do it. His feet seemed to have a life of their own, covering the ground beneath him at an incredible pace and now it seemed to him that he was running, he was running faster than he had ever run in his entire life, faster than even seemed humanly possible, the other people on the street whizzing past him like briefly glimpsed phantoms. His head began to fill with that familiar whirling sensation.
Oh no, he thought, not now! But he was powerless to do anything but surrender to what was happening to him, the world whizzing past like an adrenalin-fuelled carnival ride, a maelstrom of stomach-lurching sound and colour.
Suddenly he came to a halt, so abrupt that he gasped to catch his breath. A face was looking at him; a round inhuman face with cut-out eyes, triangular slit nostrils and a jagged grinning mouth, all of which seemed to glow with an eerie, supernatural light.
‘What do you think?’ asked Billy. He was holding a knife and he was smiling at Tom, his clay pipe clenched between his teeth. ‘That should scare the very life out of ‘em, don’tcha think?’
Eighteen
Tom stared stupidly around. He was back in the stable and it was evening. The only light came from an oil lamp and the flickering candle inside the Hallowe’en lantern that Billy had just finished carving. As Tom looked on he made a few last minute adjustments to it, working the sharp knife into the large hollowed-out turnip with well-practised ease. Tom looked down at himself. He was back in his regular clothes which seemed slightly cleaner than when he had last seen them, though they had already lost the just-washed freshness that he would have expected them to have. He struggled to find words and Billy gave him an odd look. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Umm . . . er . . .’ Tom waved his hands, trying to find appropriate words. ‘I . . . I thought you said you were moving out of Laird’s?’
‘I did. Weeks ago. I still come back here to drink though.’ He winked. ‘I like the company.’ He studied Tom for a moment. ‘Are you all right? You seem . . . a little unsettled.’
Tom could only point stupidly at the lantern. ‘What’s that in aid of?’ he asked dismally.
‘It’s for the party,’ said Billy. ‘Sure, it isn’t a proper All Hallow’s Night without a Jack-O-Lantern.’
‘All Hallow’s Night?’ muttered Tom. ‘That means it’s . . . October the thirty first?’ he said.
‘They don’t get much past you,’ observed Billy.
Tom realised that time had jumped on again. When he’d set off from Cat’s it had been the middle of October. He had lost two weeks in a matter of moments. He still felt dizzy and confused and had no way of knowing what had happened in the time he’d lost.
‘Oh, when I was a lad,’ said Billy cheerfully, ‘we had some great Samhain parties, so we did. We’d do all the games, you know? Ducking for apples, hiding rings in a bowl of colcannon. And then me and the other lads of the village, we’d take off and we’d play tricks on all the farmers round about us. Afterwards, we’d have ghost stories. They’d tell us all about Stingy Jack and the Banshee and the Pooka. We’d go to bed terrified, so we would, and we’d lie awake the whole night, listening for the wail of the banshee, convinced that she would come for one of us that very night.’ He chuckled. ‘Me and some friends – one time, we were convinced we’d seen the Pooka. A big black dog, it was, with eyes that glowed like hot coals . . . I tell you what, we ran home and dived into our beds and pulled the covers up over our heads . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘They were good times,’ he said. ‘So I said to Nell. Tonight we’ll have ourselves a real Hallowe’en party. Never mind all them disapproving Protestant Scots! Margaret didn’t want to do it, of course. She said it was godless and inviting the devil to come and claim us. But Will managed to persuade . . .’ He stopped talking and looked at Tom. ‘Are you all right, boy? You look as though you’ve seen Stingy Jack yourself.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ said Tom, making an attempt to gather his wits about him. ‘About Jamie.’
Billy looked weary. ‘That again?’ he complained. ‘Sure, I thought I explained everything to you.’
‘Did you?’ Tom frowned. ‘I . . . I don’t remember.’
‘Ah, sure you do! That business about me, thinking he had relatives in Leith? Is that what you’re talking about?’
‘Er . . . yes. That’s exactly it. Why . . .? I don’t understand why you lied to me about it.’
Billy sighed. ‘I didn’t lie. It was just something I was told. But you remember, in the end, I decided maybe I’d got him mixed up with one of those other n’er-do-wells he used to hang about with.’ Billy frowned. ‘Look, lad, I know the two of you was close, but what happened to Jamie could have happened to any young lad that spent his nights sleeping rough. I don’t know how many times I told him to get some shoes on his feet and find himself somewhere warm to spend the night. But he wouldn�
��t listen to any of us . . .’
‘Wait! What do you mean, “what happened to Jamie?” He’s . . . he’s just missing . . . isn’t he?’
Billy looked awkward. ‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it me that broke the news to you in the first place?’
‘What news?’ persisted Tom.
Billy frowned. ‘Jamie’s, dead, boy. Somebody up at the Surgeons’ Hall recognised his body. They think he must have frozen to death.’
Tom stared at Billy, his mouth open. ‘Dead?’ he croaked. ‘No, you . . . you must be mistaken. He can’t be . . .’ Tom didn’t even want to say the word again, because that would make it real.
Billy shook his head. ‘They’re pretty sure it was him. Trouble is, by the time those damned surgeons had been at work on him, it was hard to tell. He’d been, what do they call it? Dissected.’ He grimaced, shook his head. ‘Lad, I don’t understand. You knew all this. Sure, didn’t I come and tell you the moment I heard the bad news?’
Tom’s vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He had feared something like this, had even suspected as much. But to be told about it, weeks after the event, as though it was common knowledge? It was too much. He wondered if the McCallums knew. Grief overcame him and he began to cry. Billy came over and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.
‘Now then, don’t take on, so. Jamie wouldn’t have wanted you to cry for him, like that. Poor simple soul that he was, he . . .’
‘He wasn’t simple!’ snapped Tom, angrily. ‘He was clever. He was one of the cleverest guys I ever met. And one of the kindest.’
Billy nodded. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said. ‘Really.’ He waved a hand at the lantern. ‘Ah, come on,’ he said, ‘What say we take this inside and raise a glass or two to Jamie’s memory? He wouldn’t want to see you standing there blubbing over him like that.’
‘But . . . we can’t just . . .’
‘Sure we can! Come on, we’ll go in.’ Billy stepped away from him and lifted the turnip in both hands. ‘The ould gang’s waiting for us in there. Will . . . Nell. She’s there. You can talk to her about it.’ He started towards the doorway and Tom had no real option but to follow, even though he had never felt more like being alone. They crossed the darkened yard. A huge full moon hung in the cloudless sky, gazing serenely down on them and it was bitterly cold.
They went in through the back entrance and along the corridor to the main room. Billy pushed open the door and Tom saw at once that the place was packed with cheery, raucous drinkers. In one corner of the room a group of children had a barrel filled with water and were bobbing for apples. Others apples were strung from a line and the taller children were trying to take bites out of them, their hands clasped behind their backs. The grey-haired fiddle player was sawing out one of his discordant jigs on the makeshift stage and the audience were clapping their hands and stamping their feet in time to the music. There was a big cheer as Billy strode into the room and lifted the turnip above his head so every one could see it. ‘Here’s Stingy Jack,’ he roared. ‘Now the party can really begin.’
He set the turnip down on the bar, had a quick word with Margaret and then led Tom through the crowds up to the top table. Will and Nell were in their usual places and Tom saw that there were other people sitting there too, a middle aged couple, who sat either side of Will and a grey-haired old lady who was chatting to Nell and drinking eagerly from a large mug of whisky.
‘Find a seat for this young feller,’ shouted Billy and a wooden chair was brought and set down beside Billy’s. Nell looked across at Tom with evident concern.
‘Tom, what’s the matter?’ she asked him. ‘You look like you’ve been crying.’
‘Ah, he was just thinking on young Jamie,’ said Billy, settling down beside her. ‘I thought he’d already come to terms with it, but he’s feeling it bad tonight.’
Nell reached past the old woman and squeezed Tom’s hand. ‘We don’t know for sure it was him,’ she said. ‘It seems some young doctor thought he recognised him when the body was first brought in, but by the time anybody got there to have a look, he’d been . . .’ She grimaced. ‘Well, you know. They couldn’t properly identify what was left. He could turn up yet. Don’t lose hope.’
Tom nodded, but at the moment, hope seemed out of reach.
Margaret trudged over with a tray of drinks and set them down on the table. She had the usual disapproving expression on her face.
‘Ah, don’t look like that, Margaret,’ said Billy. ‘Tonight of all nights, you should be happy. You and all the other ould witches!’
There was laughter at the table although Margaret clearly didn’t find the remark in the least bit funny. She glared at him and stalked away.
‘Ah, come on!’ he shouted after her. ‘Sure, I was only kiddin’ ya.’
‘Leave it,’ advised Will. ‘Let her stew.’ He studied Tom for a moment. ‘Give the boy a strong drink,’ he suggested.
Billy placed a mug of whisky in front of Tom. ‘There now,’ he said. ‘Get that inside you. You’ll feel better.’
Tom didn’t have the strength to resist. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a gulp. The liquid seemed to blossom like fire as it went down and he couldn’t stop himself from coughing.
‘That’s the spirit!’ yelled Billy and slapped him hard on the back. ‘Come on now, we’ll have no long faces tonight. Jamie had no time for that kind of thing. Tom, let me introduce you to some new people.’ He indicated the couple next to Will. ‘This is James and Ann Gray, who have been lodging over at my place for a few days. They’re moving on tonight, so we invited ‘em to our little get-together.’
The Grays nodded and raised their drinks, prompting Tom to have another sip, vile though it was.
‘Good health to you,’ said Mr Gray.
Now Billy indicated the old lady. ‘And this lovely creature is Mrs Mary Docherty, who I met in the Grassmarket today and who I believe may be a relation of mine. Sure, wasn’t Docherty my mother’s maiden name?’
The old woman directed a gap-toothed grin at Tom.
‘De-lighted,’ she said. ‘Sure, any friend of Billy’s is a good friend of mine!’ She had a strong Irish accent and it was clear from her slurred words that she had already drunk more than was good for her. She insisted on knocking her mug of whisky against Tom’s with such force that liquid splashed all over Billy’s lap, but he just laughed and urged her to drink up because she had another mug waiting for her.
Tom sat there, desolate, as the party rattled on around him. He reminded himself of what Nell had said, that maybe the body hadn’t been Jamie’s, but somehow, he couldn’t find much hope within him. If several weeks had gone by and there’d been no sign of Jamie then surely something bad had happened to him. And he couldn’t stop thinking about what Billy had said. Jamie’s body had turned up at the Surgeons’ Hall – the very place that Tom had visited on two separate occasions. Surely that had to be more than a coincidence.
As the hours rolled by and the drinking intensified it quickly became clear that Mrs Docherty had had more than enough. Her skinny body began flopping this way and that, and her occasional comments became increasingly incoherent. At one point she attempted to sing an old Irish song, but she conked out halfway through it and her head slumped onto her chest. Billy looked at Nell.
‘I think Mrs Docherty’s ready for her bed,’ he observed. ‘Nell, why don’t you take her over to our place and make her comfortable in our room? I’ll be along in a little while.’ Tom noticed that an intense look flashed between Billy and Nell, as though she was momentarily defying him over something, although she nodded obediently and helped the old woman out of her chair. She threw one of Mrs Docherty’s arms across her shoulder and led her away from the table, and through the midst of the crowd towards the exit.
‘I reckon she’ll sleep well enough,’ observed Will, with that sardonic smile of his. His raised his mug of whiskey. ‘To sound sleepers,’ he said and everybody drank. Billy laughed as
if at some private joke. It was clear that he too was pretty drunk. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and took out a brass snuffbox. He flipped it open and taking a copper spoon out of it, lifted a pinch of snuff to his nose and inhaled deeply.
Tom stared at him. ‘Where did you get that?’ he snapped, in a voice so loud, that everyone at the table turned to look.
‘Wha’?’ grunted Billy.
‘That snuffbox. It looks like Jamie’s.’
Billy sneered. ‘Ah, don’t talk daft, boy. This is mine.’ Billy attempted to put the spoon back into the box, but Tom was already up out of his chair, leaning forward to make a grab for it, scattering clouds of snuff in all directions.
‘What’s got into you?’ snarled Billy. ‘Have you gone mad?’
Tom had the spoon now and had turned it upside down to reveal seven little holes punched into the handle.
‘This is Jamie’s!’ he yelled. ‘What are you . . . what are you doing with it?’
‘Ah, sure, he gave it to me before he left,’ said Billy, waving a hand as though it was nothing.
‘No way. He wouldn’t do that!’ Tom looked around in disbelief. ‘Why has Billy got –?’
His words were cut off as Billy grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down hard, into the seat next to his. He leaned in close, still smiling, affable as ever. ‘I’d advise you to lower your voice,’ he said quietly, his own heavy with menace. ‘Or I’ll be obliged to lower it for you.’
Tom stared at him in disbelief. It was as though Billy had been wearing a mask and it had just slipped to reveal an entirely different face beneath. ‘But Billy, Jamie wouldn’t have given that to anyone, it was his most favourite thing in the world.’
Seventeen Coffins Page 14
