Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

‘You do that,’ Irene watched as he padded naked to their lounge and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon. ‘Your cell phone was ringing, so you’d better see who it is. I’m going for a walk.’

  Patrick tossed back the bourbon and poured himself another. He nodded. ‘Coffee and a walk. That means that you are thinking about something.’

  ‘How well you know me,’ Irene flattered. Suddenly anxious to be out of the house, she pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt, slipped into her oldest and most comfortable sneakers and threw a very out-of-season leather jacket on top. Lifting her bag from its repository at the back of her favourite chair, she pulled the door quietly shut behind her before she started to swear.

  Irene did not notice Mark opening the door for her, and she checked her purse as she walked the familiar streets. The small card oblong seemed to cling to her fingers, with its bragging claim to a royal connection and the telephone number scrawled across the back.

  Irene held the card in her hand as she walked across the city. There were many places in New York from where she could make a transatlantic call.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Edinburgh, June

  ‘Well now; this is an unexpected pleasure.’ Drew held out his hand.

  Irene took it. For years she had calculated every move, ensured that all the angles were covered before she committed herself to anything, but now she had acted on the spur of a very insubstantial moment. She looked up at this smiling Scotsman and wondered if she was being completely stupid, decided that she probably was and then decided that she did not really care. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  They strolled a few paces with the sound of birds in the air and the castle a friendly giant in the background. Princes Street Gardens may have been much smaller than Central Park, but the scenery was just as interesting.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Drew stepped back, ‘but don’t tell me that you’ve come to Scotland just for my sake.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Irene dismissed the notion with a slight shake of her head. ‘No. I was coming here on business and I thought that I’d look you up.’

  ‘I see.’ There was an awkward silence for a few moments, and then Drew shrugged. ‘Well, here we are. Do you want the tourist bit? Or a meal in some fancy restaurant? Or what?’ He shrugged, suddenly serious. ‘I’ve never been out with an American before, so I’m not sure what to expect. I’m not even sure if this is a formal date, or just a casual hello.’

  Irene laughed. ‘I don’t think I’m any different to any of the thousand Scottish girls that you’ve dated in your life.’

  ‘God, I hope so,’ Drew met the laugh. ‘They all dumped me, and the last one slapped my face.’

  ‘Oh, I can do that too. You probably deserved it anyway.’ They found a handy bench and sat side by side, with the world strolling past them and the hum of traffic pleasant in their ears. A squirrel scurried close, hoping for nuts.

  Drew nodded. ‘Probably, but that’s hardly the point.’ He said nothing for a few minutes, but Irene saw his eyes roaming over her face. ‘So what brings you back to Edinburgh? Apart from an overpowering desire for my company, of course.’

  ‘Is that not enough?’ she answered at once. If she was brutally frank, she did not know why she had arranged to meet him. Her telephone call had been made in anger, a spur-of-the-moment decision. This liaison was madness, considering how close she was to committing a crime that would dominate every media outlet in the world.

  He was quiet again as Irene examined him. His clothes were different to those of Patrick, not quite tweedy, but certainly conservative. She could not imagine Drew wearing a baseball cap and tight denims, and there was an aura of quiet confidence about him that she found nearly disturbing. He seemed so sure of himself that she felt somehow superfluous, yet simultaneously completely secure.

  ‘Who are you, Drew? I don’t even know your last name.’

  ‘Me?’ His shrug was characteristically self-deprecating. ‘I’m just myself. It’s who you are that is more interesting. You don’t know my last name; I don’t know any of yours.’

  ‘I’m an American tourist in your city.’ Recognising his attempt to turn the conversation, Irene refused to be drawn. ‘And my name is Ire…Amanda,’ she used the name that was emblazoned on her false passport, and then stood up. ‘Take me to the castle.’ It was an insane idea, returning to the target so soon before the hit.

  ‘Come on then, Ire…Amanda.’ Drew was on his feet on the last word, automatically reaching for her hand in a gesture that Irene found quite appealing. ‘As I still don’t know your real name, and I object to using a nom-de-plume, I’ll settle for no name at all.’ When he did not press for an answer, she stepped in front, until she realised that she was unsure of the route.

  ‘That way,’ Drew helped her out. ‘Over the railway bridge and up to the left.’

  He took her up a steep path that skirted the base of the Castle Rock and ended at a small gate into the Esplanade. The place was busy with workmen erecting scaffolding, their Edinburgh accents raucous with abuse.

  ‘What’s happening? Is this for the Queen?’ Irene felt a slight thrill of apprehension, in case there was something new to add to her calculations.

  Drew shook his head. ‘The tattoo. It’s like a military pageant they hold every year. Lots of tartan and pipe bands. ’ He led her past the scaffolding and into the castle. The soldiers at the gate stared directly ahead, wooden-faced.

  The castle was much busier than during her previous visit, with more visitors crowding the open spaces and the military more active than ever. Drew pulled her back as an army Landrover roared past, and a small group of soldiers wandered past, chattering cheerfully to some children. She watched them for a second, trying to reconcile her images of the military in Iraq and Afghanistan with these noisy, laughing young men who lacked any of the machismo she had expected.

  ‘Awright?’ The word seemed a common greeting among British soldiers, until Irene realised that the soldier was addressing her. He was smiling, his freckled face alive with recognition. ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘Hello there!’ Irene tried to bring the memory back. ‘We met in the pub didn’t we? I thought you were off to Afghanistan or somewhere.’

  ‘So we were,’ the red haired private said, ‘but they brought some of us back. We’re going in the Tattoo.’ He sounded proud, but there were new lines on his face and a shadow behind his eyes. ‘Wee Tammie’s here too,’ he indicated the private with the scarred lip, who acknowledged Irene with an inclination of his hand. ‘So who’s this then?’ The red head nodded to Drew. ‘Did you dump the marine? Quite right, he looked a complete wanker.’

  Irene nodded, surprised at his frankness. ‘He was.’ She saw no reason to explain herself to a couple of Scottish private soldiers. The memory of a slogan came back to her. ‘Up the Royals!’

  ‘Up the Royals!’ Both privates returned the words, one looking sideways at Drew, as if expecting him to complain.

  Drew grinned. ‘Wrong regiment,’ he sounded quite comfortable in their company. ‘I was a guardsman.’

  The red haired Royal surveyed him for a second before shaking his head. ‘Nah. You’ve got the height, right enough, but too many brains.’ His companion laughed. ‘So where are youse off to then?’ The question was directed to Irene.

  ‘Nowhere, anywhere. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Aye, there once was a fairy,’ the private with the scarred lip shrugged. ‘We’ll have to be getting along. You two enjoy yourselves.’ He moved away, with the red haired man giving a final grin.

  ‘There once was a fairy?’ Irene looked at Drew for an explanation.

  ‘There once was a fairy,’ Drew grinned, ‘and she was called Nough. Fair enough?’

  Irene laughed and, linking her arm with his, walked up toward the battlements. She knew that she should be missing Patrick, that she should feel guilty, that she should feel hurt, but she felt none of those things. Instead she al
lowed the Edinburgh wind to blow her hair free across her face, and jumped at the sharp crack of the One-o-clock gun, the artillery piece that fired every day at one in the afternoon.

  ‘I forgot about that,’ she giggled like a child. Drew had taken the opportunity to grab her arms and was now holding her tight.

  ‘It’s a thing we do in Edinburgh,’ Drew told her solemnly. ‘It helps us to distinguish the locals from the tourists.’

  ‘What do you call this, the Edinburgh bear hug?’ He released her immediately and she stepped back. ‘I was not complaining, you know.’

  The view from the battlements was as breathtaking as she remembered, with Drew producing a camera for the highlights that she pointed out. A friendly Japanese couple took their photograph as Irene straddled one of the eighteenth-century cannon, with Drew’s arm light but supportive around the waist.

  ‘Down you come,’ he lifted her as if she were a child, and she laughed, impressed by his strength.

  They spent a contemplative quarter hour in the War Memorial, with Drew leafing through the Book of Remembrance for the Scots Guards, and then brightened their mood with a pair of giant ice-cream cones complete with chocolate that dripped crumbs down Irene’s shockingly expensive blouse.

  ‘I’ll brush it off for you.’

  ‘You won’t bother.’ Laughing, Irene pushed away his hovering hand and guided him inside the Royal Apartments. ‘My accustomed lifestyle,’ she explained. It seemed only natural that they should graduate toward the Crown Room, and both gaped at the Honours as they glittered in splendour in their glass case.

  ‘That’s something,’ Irene muttered, as though she had never seen them before.

  ‘Aye. Not bad. Not what I’m used to at home, of course,’ Drew’s sudden grin took her by surprise and Irene could not contain her laughter.

  She was quiet again as she stared at the glory under the lights. Here was history and sacrifice and splendour. She knew their story so well now, from the simple coronet that Robert Bruce had slipped on at Scone to the gunfire and powder smoke of the siege of Dunnottar and the long century when the Honours had been believed lost. ‘What are they worth, do you think? In the open market, I mean?’ Irene did not know why she asked the question; perhaps she just wanted to hear Drew’s opinion.

  He shook his head. ‘Incalculable. Intrinsically they are probably worth millions, but the historical associations would multiply that a hundredfold, or more.’ When he looked up, there was a quizzical smile on his face. ‘If I said a king’s ransom, I would not be far wrong, but they’re worth more than any monarch. And yet,’ he pointed to the rough oblong of sandstone that sat nearby, ‘to the Scottish people, that is probably worth more.’

  ‘It’s just a lump of stone,’ Irene complained. ‘It’s ugly.’

  ‘I’ve heard it called the soul of a nation,’ Drew said, ‘and that’s probably ugly too, given its history.’

  Irene smiled and shook her head. She allowed her fingertips to brush against Drew’s arm as she moved past him. ‘Enough history now. Surely there’s more in this city than old things.’

  ‘Surely there is.’

  Drew knew of an intimate French restaurant tucked into a basement in a New Town side street, but his impressive knowledge of the cuisine was spoiled by a poor command of the language. Laughing, Irene helped him out.

  ‘My father insisted that I learn a foreign language,’ she explained, as the waiter bowed toward her. ‘He said it would help my career.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Drew approved, not in the least embarrassed by his display of ineptitude. In a similar situation, Patrick would have withdrawn into a tongue-tied sulk, with his male ego wounded.‘ You’ll know about French food too, then. Recommend what’s best.’

  They lingered over the meal, with Irene insisting on lighted candles for the wine and Drew barely flinching at the bill. By the time they left, the traffic had calmed down and long evening shadows picked out the dressed stonework of the architecture.

  ‘Take me somewhere nice,’ Irene demanded. ‘Somewhere quiet where we can walk and talk.’

  Drew nodded, catching her mood, and guided her down a short hill to a walkway beside a river. ‘This is the Water of Leith,’ he explained, and she did not object when he took her hand. There were the ubiquitous blackbirds singing nearby, and a brood of mallards paddling in the water.

  ‘This is nice.’ Strangely disinclined to stride in her usual fashion, Irene stood for a moment, listening to the ripple of the river.

  ‘Not bad,’ Drew agreed, and led her slowly down a flight of steps. They were in a gorge with wooded sides that were alive with birds, while insects hung on the shafts of sunlight. They walked for a few minutes, passing under the massive arches of the Dean Bridge over which she had once peered, pausing to stare at the thunder of a small waterfall before reaching an area of red-stoned houses unlike anything Irene had seen before.

  ‘This is the Dean Village,’ Drew told her.

  Irene smiled and looked around. ‘When I first came here I expected small cottages with thatched roofs, or ugly stone buildings with no plumbing. This is more like fairyland. Who lives in a place like this?’

  ‘I do,’ Drew said. He stopped at a low bridge overlooking the water, with a converted mill opposite. Trees from the riverbank reached gently over the parapet. ‘Top floor flat with one of the best views in Edinburgh.’

  Irene looked at him. She knew that she was on the rebound, reacting to Patrick’s infidelity and it would be far more sensible to keep a low profile. She also knew that she had to ask her next question. ‘With your girlfriend?’

  ‘I think we both know that I do not have one.’ Drew’s smile was gentle. ‘If I had, I would not be here with you, and that would be a great loss.’

  ‘Oh.’ Irene looked away. She focussed on a man walking a nondescript dog beside a terrace of houses. The dog was pulling at its lead, determined to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure from its outing while the man looked harassed. Which was she, the dog or the man? More like the lead, she thought, a connection between two worlds, and unsure to which she belonged.

  When Drew slipped a hand into his inside pocket, Irene thought that he was going to produce a pipe. She could imagine him as a pipe-smoker, calm and serene among agitated people, but instead he pulled out a small brown box.

  ‘I kept this,’ he said quietly. ‘In case we ever met again.’

  Irene snapped open the box. Sitting on a bed of green silk, the Luckenbooth brooch shone in silver simplicity. She looked at it for a long moment, aware that its symbolism was far greater than any intrinsic value that it may possess. In itself the brooch was nothing, a piece of inexpensive silverware, but if she accepted it, she felt that she would be making a commitment that she would be reluctant to break.

  Drew shared that knowledge. He perched himself on the low stone wall with the water beneath him and the blackbird’s call soft above. He said nothing.

  Irene slipped her fingers beneath the brooch. It felt reassuringly cool, but the silk was the same shade of green as used by the Manning Corporation. ‘No,’ she withdrew. ‘No, Drew. I do appreciate the gesture, but I cannot take it. I have work to do, a career to build.’

  ‘It’s a brooch,’ Drew said softly, ‘nothing else.’

  Irene drew a deep breath. ‘I cannot accept your gift,’ she said.

  ‘As you wish.’ Drew retrieved the brooch, looked at it and snapped shut the box.

  There was silence for a long minute as Irene looked away. The man and his dog passed unheeding and the blackbird sang with subdued notes.

  ‘Perhaps I had better be getting along,’ Irene said.

  Drew shook his head. ‘There’s no urgency. You decided not to wear my brooch, that’s all.’ He smiled, ‘after all, you haven’t slapped me yet.’

  ‘I could do that,’ Irene told him. The thought was there, simultaneous with the desire to kiss him, accept the brooch and allow him to pin it on her breast. She closed her eyes, fighting perso
nal images that could only betray her career aspirations. ‘I could so easily do that.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back to your hotel instead,’ Drew suggested.

  ‘Just point me in the right direction.’ Reaching out, Irene touched his arm. ‘I should not have contacted you. I am sorry, but business…’ she shrugged, unsure what to say, and unsure how she felt.

  Drew nodded. ‘I’m not sorry,’ he said. He nodded up the steep street from where the dog walker had come. ‘Princes Street is up that way and straight ahead. You know your way from there.’

  Cursing herself for allowing emotion to control her logic, Irene stalked up the hill. Why had she contacted Drew, when all she needed was to keep quiet for a few more weeks? Now there was a further complication in her life. When she reached the top of the hill, she realised that she was at the edge of the Dean Bridge, and turned around. Drew was leaning against the wall, watching her. She did not respond when he raised a hand in good-bye.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Edinburgh, July 12

  ‘Are we all set?’ Irene felt the tension gnawing inside her. The events of the next few hours would change her life, one way or another. Either she could present Ms Manning with an addition to her collection, or she would be staring at the blank walls of a Scottish jail. Either she would be the heir to immense wealth, or endless years of confinement would turn her into a broken woman with neither a past nor a future.

  ‘All set.’ Desmond tapped the transmitter at his side. He looked more nervous than Irene had expected. She had thought that men with a history of armed struggle against the British state would be completely composed, but instead his hands were trembling, and sweat filmed his forehead. Hollywood was never like this.

  This time they had booked into two separate hotels, with an arrangement to meet outside the Canongate Tolbooth. Irene had insisted that they arrive at different times, and drift into their pre-arranged rendezvous at Panmure Close as though they were strangers.