Shadow of the Castle
Matthew Macleod
Copyright © 2016 Matthew Macleod
KINDLE Edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This story is set in modern day Edinburgh, however all of the clubs or bars where any scene occurs are fictitious.
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 1
The rain beat a tattoo on the window pane of the flat, echoing through the dark. Outside on Victoria Street, the water was gathering in the gutters and sweeping down the pavements towards the Grassmarket, the rubbish of the day being carried along in its wake. The luminous face of the bedside clock indicated it was 03:58 and from the look of the downpour outside, Luke Calvin reckoned even the most reluctant drunk would have found his way home by now.
A solitary taxi cut through the gloom with its headlights, searching the sodden street for a fare. It bumped slowly up the cobbled street before rumbling on past leaving only the constant rainfall to fill the silence. Edinburgh in the night-time. Despite the fact that most people thought a major city never slept, Luke had always felt like it was at least dozing between four and five. If he looked up through the haze and water he could see the castle looming ominously over the Old Town. A stoic watcher. Throughout the day it seemed a landmark and a point of focus; a destination for the throngs of excited, yammering peoples from here, there and everywhere to gather. To point and to take photos. Once dusk fell though, the impression shifted. Once the tourists had taken shelter from the dark and the wet, the castle looked down on the people and saw everything that was being done in secret.
From the window ledge where he sat, Luke saw all this. His bed felt far from inviting and his bedroom was probably just as chilled as the rest of the flat by now. That was the issue with these old flats: the high vaulted ceilings and listed facades looked glorious by day but there was just no way to keep the heat in them by night. The thermostat clicked back on for the hundredth time that night. Across the wooden floorboards came the creaks and moans of contraction or expansion, whichever one was happening. He could never remember. The living room where he sat was sparsely decorated; a simple table and chair by the old fireplace, no longer usable but retained for 'aesthetic purposes' by the owner. A three-piece sofa with one seat clearly used more than the rest. The TV flickering on its unit, spilling an ambient glow onto the rug under the coffee table. All were ignored in favour of his favourite perch: - the deep window sill. Wide enough for him to lean with his back against the side of the glass, the way it protruded from the room on both sides meant you could see up and down the whole street. When the night fell and the darkness closed in, when the light retreated and the roar of traffic and people died down, when the rest of the world was dreaming and resting, he often sat here. Watching the castle watching them. The most peaceful he could be.
There had been many nights like this. An attempt to sleep while staring at the ceiling through the dark. A cigarette. Watching the wisps of smoke meander endlessly up into the black through the orange glow. The long slow look to the alarm clock. The mental calculation of how much sleep he would get if he fell asleep right this instant. A sigh. An acceptance. Clicking on the lamp. Padding to the kitchen. Putting on the coffee. His mind worked better when everyone was asleep anyway so he'd pour his coffee into his mug, take his cigarettes and sit in the window and watch.
This flat was his home. Ever since he got out of the service, he'd been put up here. Never had a bill to pay or a mortgage to worry about, just cover his overheads, sparse as they were. The day he was handed the keys, there was also a mobile phone. Even now it sat in its charging cradle, constantly scanning, waiting for the signal to smash the silence with its obnoxious ring. The phone was never to be switched off and never had been. The phone was never to be out of his immediate vicinity and never had been. That phone was his job, his co-workers and his 9 to 5. Sitting, scanning, waiting; it was his very own custom fitted golden handcuffs. It would be silent for days - silent for weeks even sometimes - but whenever it eventually did ring it would be answered before the third chime. There was a niggling anxiety that was brewing inside him about his phone. A subtle pressure; building, growing, constantly expanding. It had been a fortnight since it had gone off last and his subconscious had been waiting for the next ring. For 2 weeks he had waited. For 14 days he had gone about his business, feeling the phantom vibration in his pocket with ever increasing frequency. For 336 hours (well 342 technically, but who was counting), he had waited and watched and slept less and smoked more. With every single one of these 20,000 odd minutes (20,508 technically) his unrest and unease had grown. Snowballing inside him. The fear of the unknown sat heavy on his chest and made it harder to relax. It lay beside him in bed and stole away the covers and his peacefulness. It lurked in every cup of coffee, sharpening the knives that needled his brain. It was the slow transformation in the condemned man from anxiety about the impending doom, to acceptance and finally impatience to have the sentence carried out. The sweet release of all the worry.
Still the rain fell and the floorboards creaked and the television spilled light onto the table. The phone sat in its cradle, waiting for the signal. Luke sat in his window, watching the phone. Watching the street outside. Watching his coffee grow cold and his cigarette smoke pooling lazily against the topmost lintel of the frame. And the castle loomed above it all, seeing what was being done in the dark.
Up on Arthur's Seat, you could almost make out the outline of where the castle was although the constant downpour had reduced visibility to practically zero. A car was waiting in the gloom on the slopes of Edinburgh’s iconic hill, with the engine cut and lights off. The man in the driver's seat kept his hands on the wheel and wished he could turn the engine over, just to get some heat through this icebox that the car was steadily becoming. He could see nothing out the windscreen: the massive droplets smashed into it from all angles, creating a cacophony of noise that was infuriating and setting him on edge. The knuckles on the wheel whitened as he gripped harder and muttered under his breath, 'Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.', fogging up the inside of the windows.
The passenger window suddenly darkened for a moment and the click of the door handle star
tled him. His companion lowered himself into the seat with an audible squelch and tossed something into the back seat before slamming the door shut again. Dripping water on the floor and mud all over the upholstery, the passenger huffed and puffed, blowing hard into his hands. The mud was caked all over his legs and most of his arms. Even the cap under his hoody was speckled and ruined. The driver shot a disapproving look at the mess and the carelessly tossed shovel that had turned the back seat into a Jackson Pollock. He turned the key and once the engine had taken its time and decided to turn over, blasted the heat on. The wipers opened up his vision and settled into the rhythm of the fastest setting. It was almost enough to make the driving conditions safe. The passenger had his hands stretched towards the hot air and was starting to breathe a little better, taking a proper lungful every time. The car pulled away from the roadside and started its journey off the hill, back towards town. They would dump it in the agreed place. They would change into clean, dry clothes. They would torch the car with everything in it and then that would be that. The rain kept on and the wipers were catching briefly on the upswing, echoing his thoughts from earlier, louder and more intense.
'Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up......'
When the phone finally rang that morning, it filled the room, jolting Luke from his uneasy sleep on the couch. Sitting upright, his hand fumbled for the receiver and picked it up just before the second ring. The familiar pressure in his chest was no longer there, replaced for the moment with too much smoke and not enough sleep.
'Luke speaking.'
The sun had begun to shine through the windows. People had begun to wake and go about their day on the streets outside in dribs and drabs: human traffic flowing down the pavement just like the overnight rain that had disappeared without a trace.
'You have a job.'
The voice on the other end of the phone was high and girlish. Laura, his usual point of contact in the “office”. She was always business down that line but still sounded as though she was stifling a constant giggle and struggling to do so. Luke had yet to see her in person in the two years they had been conversing but had built up an image in his mind, adding and correcting details here and there, yet the main themes remained. He had decided that she was blonde: hair shoulder length and straight. Relatively young: no older than 30. Her accent was pretty much absent leading him to believe she was an Edinburgh girl or had lived here a good few years. All of this remained to be confirmed but he maintained the utmost faith in his baseless deductive reasoning. She broke into his thoughts with more information.
'The client will be visiting in person at 1000 hours at your address. I have passed him all your details but he was very insistent that he would only discuss the nature of his visit with you himself.'
She was wearing bangles of some description - He could hear the faintest jangle as she moved the phone on her end. That was a new thought, he'd never thought of her as a bangle sort of girl. He tried discreetly to clear his throat before replying.
'Laura, this isn't the normal procedure, usually...' he broke off to cough and instantly felt better for it. 'Excuse me. Usually...'
This time it was she who cut in abruptly, her voice rising slightly, her bangles (or could they be bracelets.... he hadn't considered that option) jingling down the line.
'I am fully aware of what the procedure usually is and I appreciate this is a deviation from the norm but I spoke with the Major who vouched for his credentials absolutely and insisted I did as he asked.'
She had said all of this so quickly that Luke believed her. Up until now she had done everything by the book and she was not the sort of girl to break fundamental procedure without express command to do so. In truth she seemed more upset than he was with the alteration of normal routine. He imagined that she always waited for the green man before crossing. Never put her feet up on the seats of the bus. Had never littered in her life. Her desk was probably meticulously organised and she remembered to put the bins out the night before. She probably wore cardigans all year round.
'I was just checking Laura. Please don't think I was accusing you. As if I could do such a thing.'
His attempt at being coy felt flat and forced. It was too early for their usual one sided banter but she probably blushed anyway.
'No offence taken. Mr. Calvin. Your client will be arriving at 1000 hours. Will there be anything else?'
He was sat in his boxers, the bright day dawning, the old town full of promises and possibilities. Last night's stress was gone. It had evaporated along with the rain, been soaked up in the sun and absorbed by the unknown client. He imagined she was sitting at her desk with a pencil skirt on and matching glasses. She'd probably have a salad for lunch. She probably drank Latte Machiattos.
'Not unless you're going to let me take you out for that drink like I've been asking for two years...'
She probably didn't wear lipstick. He doubted she was out of tights even in the hottest summer. It was probably just his improved mood but he was feeling much better and he was sure she was smiling down the phone.
'Goodbye Mr. Calvin.'
She probably went crimson right down to her sensible shoes.
Chapter 2
When the flat buzzer rang out it was exactly 10 a.m. Luke had just finished his breakfast of bacon and eggs and was enjoying a second cup of coffee when it broke the silence. Now dressed in dark jeans and a plain grey t-shirt, he crossed to his door. The buzzer was a standard front door entry system with a button for each of the 6 flats below and his larger flat on the 3rd floor. There was no difference on the street level but while most flats simply had a receiver to lift and a button to press if they wished to allow access, he had an advantage they did not. Secreted in the woodwork of the common entry door frame was a minute camera which fed directly to a display just by his front door 3 floors above.
On this display he could see a man in a suit and hat crouched over, studying the names on the other buzzers, obviously unsure if he had pressed the right one. As he straightened up and pressed the buzzer again, Luke made some initial guesses as to his proportions: - probably 6' 4” or thereabouts, a comfortable 18 stone. It was always difficult to gauge things too accurately from the screen since the angle had the habit of skewing proportions like a fun house mirror. The buzzer was being held longer the second time. Luke sipped his coffee and kept his eyes on the impatient giant. His guest was looking around, clearly becoming increasingly exasperated. Pressing the button one final time, he fumbled in his pocket for his phone and raised it towards his ear. Only then did Luke pick up the door handset at his end. He opted for feigned ignorance.
'Hello! Hello. Hello?'
The visitor lowered the phone slowly and turned to face the speaker. It disappeared into the pocket of his suit jacket as he stooped down slightly to be closer to the speaker.
'Yes. Hello. I am here to see a Mr. Calvin. I have an appointment for ten.'
The voice was cool and confident. Educated perhaps; definitely English. (The two were pretty hard to distinguish sometimes in his experience.) It carried authority and weight. Luke didn't like it. This time he adopted for a polite and gracious tone.
'Ah, yes. Please come in. I am on the 3rd floor. Right the way up the staircase to the very top and the red door.'
He saw the man lean down again to express thanks or understanding but Luke pushed the door open button and held it down. His guest waited a second for the buzz to stop before realising it wasn’t likely to and decided to push the door and enter the building while the offer still existed.
Luke reckoned about 90 seconds would see his visitor comfortably to his threshold, so he took the opportunity to refill the coffee maker. A fresh pot always seemed to set thing off on an even keel. The kitchen was arranged neatly; he wasn't one for hosting or cooking too often. The 4 mugs on the stand were usually 3 too many and the cupboards were all but empty. The American style fridge/freezer only really served to emphasise how little food he required and if it weren't for th
e takeaway containers the bin wouldn't need emptied for weeks. Out of the few appliances, the coffee maker saw the most action by a long chalk. He emptied the grounds out of the filter into the bin and replaced the filter paper. The cupboard directly above housed a myriad of different brands and strengths, purporting to be from many exotic locations. Reaching for a new pack that promised a relative strength of 4 (out of 7 for some unfathomable reason) he was stopped momentarily when the doorbell rang. Not seeing the point in leaving the job half done, he grabbed the packet and was dumping a few heaped spoonfulls into the filter paper when the doorbell rang out again, shrill and persistent. The avalanche of grounds grew steadier and larger and once the doorbell had silenced once more as he added an additional spoon for good measure. It was obvious already this was going to be an ordeal.
With the water gurgling and dripping through into the pot he walked slowly across the cold kitchen tiles and along the floorboards of the corridor to the door. The peep hole offered another distorted image, a fish eye lens this time, making the face on the other side appear grotesquely misshapen. There was only one way to get a proper impression of his guest. He yanked the door open and the man on the stoop started for a moment before regaining his composure and introducing himself.
'Ah, Mr Calvin I assume? Geoffrey. Geoffrey Reid. So good to meet you. I've heard a lot about you and all of it good I might add which is unusual within these sort of circles.'
All of this tumbled out in one long tirade and as he spoke he swept off his hat and let himself into the flat. Luke's hand was grasped, pumped and discarded as Geoffrey strode through to the living room, his voice quieting by a measure, reducing now to the sound of an idling jet engine rather than a roaring one as he reached the threshold of the front room. Luke reckoned his estimation had been out. Mr Reid was probably a good 5 inches over the six-foot mark, with at least a 3-inch advantage over himself. His initial estimation of 18 stone may have been on the conservative side and he thought he would make mention of this if his “guest” kept up his bullish behaviour.
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