Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  At first she felt only the tangle of weeds and grass, then the softness of earth and finally she made contact with something substantial and cloth covered.

  ‘Got you,’ Irene said, softly, and knelt down for a better grip. The river swirled around her waist, splashing upward as she struggled under the surface. She swore, spat out a mouthful of dirty water, took a deep breath and plunged her arm under again, reaching deep into the hole.

  Once she obtained a hold on the cloth it was the work of a moment to haul the bundle free. With her hands trembling, Irene dragged off the sodden coat and stared at the sceptre. Filtered by overhanging trees, the sun gleamed along the length of the gilded silver shaft and reflected a thousand shards of light from the crystal orb on top.

  Irene breathed deeply. She held her destiny in her hands; nobody knew where she was and the future was bright. All she had to do was reach the United States for her life to reach an entirely new level.

  ‘Hey you! What’s that?’

  Irene looked up. Five youths leaned over the railing, one grinning, the others staring at her. One of the two girls smiled slowly and pointed. Her accent was broad and ugly.

  ‘Are you deaf? I said, what the fuck’s that?’

  ‘Nothing for you.’ Hastily re-wrapping the sceptre, Irene glanced to her left, where the river suddenly descended in the waterfall that she had admired earlier. Then it had been something to enhance the scenery, now it was a brawling barrier that blocked her retreat. The banking rose steeply to her right, disappearing under the tall arches of the Dean Bridge. There was no escape in either direction.

  ‘Come here.’ The girl obviously spoke for the rest of the youths, who clustered against the railing. One lifted her bag, rummaged inside and swore.

  ‘Just shite.’

  ‘Nae money?’ Grabbing the bag, the spokeswoman glanced inside. ‘Gie’s that thing.’

  ‘Come and get it,’ Irene invited. She knew that she would have no chance if they all came at once, but gambled that they would be reluctant to enter the river.

  ‘You bring it here,’ the spokeswoman ordered. ‘And I’ll have that too.’ She pointed to the Luckenbooth brooch that was pinned to Irene’s breast.

  Irene looked at them for a long minute. Each face crammed fifty years of cynical experience into its sixteen years of life. The boys wore hooded tops and baggy trousers while both girls sported long-peaked baseball caps. The spokeswoman had her hands deep in the pockets of her fringed white jacket.

  Swearing loudly, the taller of the boys swung himself over the railings and plunged into the water. He landed clumsily, slipping on the uneven ground, and Irene swung the sceptre in a frantic round-arm blow that caught him across the head. She thrilled at the contact and as he stumbled, shouting, ‘that was sair.’ Irene hit him again, venomously, so he fell face first into the river. Dirty water cascaded, droplets hanging for a second, glittering in the sunlight before dropping to the disturbed surface.

  ‘You bitch!’ Lifting a stone, the first girl threw it at Irene. ‘We’ll kill you for that!’ She vaulted the rail with ease, landing lightly in the water. ‘Get her!’

  The other youths followed, splashing onto the flooded riverbank in a flurry of spray and a volley of language more foul than Irene had ever heard. She hit at one, and then stepped backward, stumbling as her feet left the bank and thrust into the deeper water of the river.

  Now it was Irene’s turn to swear. She staggered, nearly falling as the spokeswoman aimed a punch for her throat. Irene jerked back, further into the river, and glanced sideways. She could see the lip of the waterfall, swollen by the rain into an ear-battering deluge.

  ‘Oh Jesus Lord!’

  The second girl pulled something from her pocket, fingered a switch and a three-inch long blade flicked out. She circled her wrist, feinted for Irene’s face then slashed sideways at her stomach. One of the boys giggled high-pitched and jumped to her side. ‘Cut her! Rip her open!’

  Irene did not see Drew arrive until the furthest youth yelled and fell suddenly quiet. The second boy turned around, swearing. Drew blocked his kick with a sweep of his foot, scraped the edge of his shoe down the youth’s shin and stamped down hard. When the boy roared, Drew rammed straight fingers into his throat.

  ‘Oh Jesus Lord,’ Irene repeated.

  Thrusting the sceptre back inside its dripping cover, she stepped back into deeper water, turned and ran. She had noticed that there was a slight lip along the very edge of the waterfall, a smoother ledge of shallower water. Either she chanced the lip, or she tried to explain to Drew exactly what she was doing. Irene knew that she could not cope with discovery and imprisonment; she must escape.

  The first steps were terrifying, with the current thrusting against her legs and the shocking drop tugging her down, but Irene pushed on, sobbing her fear. She could hear the noise behind her, the constant curses from the youths and the sound of blows, but she dared not turn back.

  ‘I’ve not finished with you yet.’ The knife girl had followed, lifting her legs high as she traced the lip of the fall.

  Irene turned just as the girl lunged forward with her face contorted and knife slashing wickedly. Irene ducked, swayed and nearly fell as the current smashed against her thighs. The roar of the waterfall increased, white water cascading smoothly down to explode in a welter of froth and spray. She saw a bus passing over the bridge above and for one surreal moment she wondered what the passengers would think about two females fighting on the lip of a waterfall in the early morning.

  ‘Come here you cow!’ The girl jumped at Irene, screaming to her friends to help her. Irene cowered under the ferocity of the attack, jerked back to avoid the knife and yelled as the girl swung a roundhouse punch that smacked against her cheekbone. She reeled and swayed sideways, facing the drop as the current surged around and between her legs. She watched, horrified, as a tree branch hurtled end-over-end downward before it was trapped in a mini-whirlpool, circling for eternity at the base of the fall.

  ‘You little bitch.’ Irene was not sure if it was the sting of the punch or the horror of that drop that shocked her into retaliation. She turned around, flinched as the girl spat at her, and instinctively pushed outward. The girl lost her balance, and sat heavily in the foaming brown water, screeching profanities.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ The girl kicked out with one foot, raising a cloud of water and spray but not making any connection.

  Irene ducked back, slipped, and looked down. Again she saw the swoop of brown and white water and the suck and surge fifteen feet below.

  ‘Come on! Get her!’ The second girl hauled her friend upright and pushed her toward Irene, a pair of sodden, baseball-hatted youths that screamed obscene hatred as they tottered along the lip of the waterfall. Turning, Irene fled.

  There was a stone ledge at the opposite side of the river, and above that the cliff-like face of an old mill building, since converted into flats. Wincing at the re-awakened pain in her ribs, Irene dragged herself onto the ledge, kicked backward at the nearest of her pursuers and felt the satisfaction of solid contact. She plunged ahead, into a patch of tangled shrubbery that clawed at her face and body. Swearing, she swung the sceptre in a desperate effort to escape, squealed as something wrapped around her ankle and plunged on, sobbing.

  ‘Irene!’

  She heard Drew’s voice behind her but did not turn around, scrabbled up a wall by her fingertips and nearly fell into a neatly groomed garden complete with a line of washing. Scrambling over a low railing with a locked gate, she flinched when the sceptre caught between the rails. Tugging frantically, she jerked it free and emerged into the street opposite Drew’s flat. Ignoring the familiar dog-walker, she turned right and ran uphill and onward until she was stumbling down a steep hill of terraced Victorian houses. After a few minutes she turned round but there was nobody following her, and little traffic. She leaned against a lamp-post, gasping to catch the breath that burned in her chest.

  Keeping the coat secure arou
nd the sceptre, Irene walked solidly downhill, knowing that people were staring at this sodden creature plodding through Edinburgh’s conventional morning. When a group of business-suited women at a bus stop deliberately stared, Irene knew that she must find somewhere to hide and collect her thoughts. She stopped at the top of a street that swooped downward to a gothic palace of spires and turrets. Trees lined the road, stretching backward into what Irene decided must be a public park, somewhere that promised concealment from the inquisitive.

  Hugging the sceptre to her side, she passed through the park’s empty space and entered the adjoining Royal Botanic Garden. After the last hectic hour, she felt as if she had entered an oasis of calm, with copses of seclusion and shaded corners for sanctuary.

  A fine group of greenhouses offered a combined asylum of warmth and shelter, so Irene paid the entrance fee, forced a smile when the attendant asked if she had fallen in the pond, and moved to the warmest of the environments. Almost immediately steam began to rise from her clothes. Golden fish swam languidly among placid water lilies.

  ‘Sweet Lord, how did I get into this situation?’ Irene leaned against the bole of a palm tree and took deep breaths to control the racing of her heart. She looked down at her dripping denims and sodden sneakers. What had happened to the woman who shopped at Herald Square, who treated Macy’s like her neighbourhood store and was on first name terms with the manager of Gucci on Fifth Avenue?

  It seemed forever since she had walked in the shadow of the Empire State Building or dodged the Times Square traffic. She missed the Manhattan skyline and the cosmopolitan bustle of Queens, the look of an Armani suit on a downtown city trader and the nasal sting of a New York accent. Even more, she hated this running, wondering whom she could trust and where she could go.

  For one moment Irene pondered sending the sceptre back to the castle and returning, tail between her legs, to relative obscurity. Surely as a runner up in The Neophyte she could land a well-paid job at home, something that would provide security and a comfortable life style. She touched the jacket, feeling the hard shaft of the sceptre, the smoothness of the crystal ball and sensing the latent power. No; Irene shook her head; she had come too far to give up now, she must continue.

  She thought of Ms Manning’s expression when she saw the sceptre. There would be surprise, astonishment, delight and finally admiration. Ms Manning would extend her hand in congratulations and open wide the door of opportunity. Ms Manning would eject Kendrick from his position and install her as the new neophyte, with all the honours and advantages that the position held. Within ten years, perhaps within five, she would be installed as the new owner of the Manning Corporation, with more power than most people could ever comprehend.

  Again Irene ran her fingers over the sceptre. This was her ticket to security; all she had to do was transport it over to the United States. It was only then that the next horror struck her. She had recovered her true passport from the secure locker at the railroad station, and thrown it casually in her bag, but now that bag, and all its incriminating contents, was lost. The youths at the waterfall would have it.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Irene felt the familiar slide of despair. ‘Oh dear God!’

  Hearing footsteps, she hastily replaced the cover on the sceptre and looked up, but the short man in the black jacket was far too busy stealing samples from a plant to pay her any attention. Holding the sceptre close, she fought to control the trembling of her body. Where could she go from here? Sensing somebody beside her, she glanced upward.

  Drew adjusted his sleeve so it covered his watch. He was smiling as he looked at her, his head tilted to one side. ‘You’re a hard woman to keep tabs on.’

  ‘Drew!’ Hugging the covered sceptre close, Irene struggled to her feet. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Following you.’ Drew said quietly. ‘It looks like you’re in trouble.’

  She shook her head instinctively. ‘No, no. I’m fine. I just panicked, that’s all.’ Reaching out with her left hand, she touched his arm. ‘Look, thanks for your help back there. I…’ she forced a stutter, ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘I think that there’s more than that.’ Drew’s look was as level as any Irene had seen in her life. Ignoring the curious glance of the man in the black jacket, he knelt down beside her and spoke quietly. ‘Half the world is searching for the object you are holding so tightly.’

  ‘What?’ Irene pulled the jacket closer to her side.

  ‘The sceptre,’ Drew said quietly, ‘from the Honours of Scotland.’ His sudden grin put her off balance. ‘It’s all right, Irene. I’m not going to tell anybody. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  Holding the sceptre so tight that her hand ached, Irene dragged herself to her feet.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go home and we can discuss all this.’ Although Drew only placed the tip of one finger on her shoulder, she squirmed at the touch. ‘You need some dry clothes anyway. And your passport.’ Opening his very-conservative jacket, Drew allowed her to see the bulge of documents in the inside pocket. ‘It’s quite safe.’

  Irene nodded, feeling a fresh surge of relief. Drew always seemed to be available when she needed him, like some guardian angel. She looked up. ‘Could I have it, please?’

  The passport was in the front of the bundle of documents that Drew placed in her outstretched hand. ‘But now you’re wondering if you can trust me,’ he voiced her thoughts.

  Irene nodded; the shaft of the sceptre was hard beneath the coat.

  ‘Can you afford not to?’ He held the stare of a uniformed attendant until the man dropped his eyes. ‘Come on, Irene, and I’ll tell you all about me. My favourite subject.’

  Irene nearly smiled as she allowed him to guide her out of the greenhouse. She still held the sceptre close but did not complain when Drew’s arm wrapped around her shoulder.

  Changed and dry again, Irene was uncertain whether to feel defeated or glad when she placed the sceptre on top of the kitchen table. They both looked at it without speaking, and eventually Drew ran his finger up the shaft onto the crystal ball near the tip. ‘That’s some machine,’ he said.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Irene agreed.

  ‘Were you part of the robbery? Or did you just happen to find this lying in the street.’

  ‘I was part of the robbery,’ Irene confirmed. She waited for the condemnation.

  Instead, Drew sat opposite her, his face concerned. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ When Irene shook her head, he smiled. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Drew.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, so I can see. Running through Edinburgh in wet jeans with this little beauty bundled under your arm is not the answer. Neither is hiding in the Botanics, waiting for better days. I take it that you had intended to escape in that yacht the Navy caught?’

  ‘Yes, but it all went wrong.’ Irene fought the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted desperately to tell Drew everything, but knew that she should not. ‘I don’t know what happened, but I ended up with the sceptre and all the rest were killed.’

  ‘I see.’ Drew leaned back. ‘So what is your plan now? Do you have a plan now?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘So why not just dump this thing and get home? As far as I can see, the police do not know about you. They are chasing a completely different woman.’ Drew placed his hand on the sceptre. ‘It all depends on how badly you want to keep this.’

  Irene put her hand beside his and gripped tightly. ‘I have to have it.’ She was surprised at the determination in her own voice. ‘It means everything to me.’

  ‘Everything?’ Drew did not relinquish his grip. ‘Think about what you really want before you make a decision. People have already died because of this bit stick. Does it mean enough for you to risk your life too?’

  Irene considered. What were her alternatives? She had come so far and actually had the sceptre in her hand. If she returned it to Ms Manning, her future
would be assured. If she gave up now, what would the remainder of her life hold? She would always be seen as The Neophyte loser. At best she would be offered a position in middle management in some mediocre organisation. If she were lucky she would be in New York or Chicago; if unlucky she would be in Nowheresville, some hick town at the back of beyond. But people had died because of her; that realisation made her sick. She straightened her back, knowing that she could not bring them back.

  ‘Yes,’ Irene answered slowly. She had cleared her mind of doubt. She needed this sceptre to create the life that she wanted. ‘Yes, I am prepared to risk my life for this artefact.’

  ‘Right then.’ Drew nodded. ‘That’s the first point. Second point: what do you intend doing with it? I take it that you don’t want to keep it as a souvenir of Scotland.’

  ‘I intend to sell it.’ Irene felt her chin rise.

  ‘Very good. It will not be easy to sell on the open market as its image has been transmitted across the world. I doubt that there is anybody, anywhere who is not aware of the theft.’

  ‘I know that,’ Irene said quietly.

  ‘So either you are very optimistic, or you already know where you’ll sell it.’ Drew looked directly at her. ‘Despite your recent antics, you do not strike me as the overly-stupid type, so I think you will have a buyer all lined up.’

  Irene said nothing.

  ‘But you are not going to tell me, which is probably very wise.’ Standing up, Drew made coffee and placed one cup on either side of the sceptre. ‘But I would like to know if you intend the sceptre to remain in this country, or if it will be transported abroad?’

  Again Irene kept quiet. She sipped her coffee and shook her head.

  ‘OK. As you wish. Now listen. I think you realise that I like you.’ He waited until Irene nodded before continuing. ‘I also think that you are a rogue, searching for something, perhaps an anchor to keep you secure.’