The Exiled

by William Meikle

  * * *

  The library proved to be a quaint stone building attached to an old chapel in a very quiet hamlet. They were the only visitors and the portly gentleman who showed them in seemed only too pleased to leave them to their own devices among the shelves once Grainger identified himself as a police officer—a little white lie, but a necessary one.

  They quickly found out that they were looking for a needle in a haystack. Grainger got increasingly frustrated as time wore on and finally Alan spoke up.

  “Go for a walk, have a smoke. This is my side of things—this is what I do. So leave me to it. I’ll yell if I find it.”

  Grainger didn’t need a second opportunity. He made his way out into watery sunshine and sucked gratefully on a smoke. Once that was done he turned to head back inside, but noticed that the door to the small church beside the library was open. Curiosity got the better of him and he stepped in.

  It proved to a very pretty old chapel, all wood paneling, rough walls and stone floor. He had a momentary flashback to the cathedral, but where that had been huge and overwhelming this small building was both homey and comforting. It also felt cooler in here, and somehow relaxing.

  Grainger and Alan had been brought up Church of Scotland—religious education classes at school, Sunday school and church on Sundays. It hadn’t taken in either of them and both had stopped attending when their father got diagnosed with cancer and withered to a horrible, pain-filled death in the space of two months. Grainger had been sixteen, Alan twelve, and since then the only churching they had was at weddings and funerals. He had attended too many of both over the years, but he’d never felt like this—he was almost calm, for the first time since Simpson’s death.

  He sat on a pew and let the silence seep into him.

  Almost immediately he thought of Simpson—not of the shroud-covered dead meat on the gurney, but as the young D.C. he’d first met five years back. She’d stood up to three youths they had collared for a stabbing at a football match, and kneed one of them in the balls when he got too mouthy. He’d known then that she was going to work for him. Yes, she talked too much, but she was Scottish, and a woman, so that was pretty much a given anyway. He’d come to like her droll, almost surreal, sense of humor, and she always knew when he needed to know something, and when he didn’t.

  I’m going to miss her.

  He sat there for a while—he didn’t cry, but he mourned her all the same. And before he stood to leave he didn’t pray, but he made a promise to her, and anyone else than might be listening.

  I’m going to get that bastard Galloway—I don’t care where he’s hiding.

  * * *

  When he got back to the small library, Alan was bent over a desk studying a book that looked almost too frail to be touched. The younger man looked up.

  “I think we’ve found it, John. But I’m not sure it’ll do us much good.”

  Grainger went over to have a look. Crude drawings surrounded text scrawled across page after page of what looked little more than gibberish—he skimmed over stuff about antimony, pelicans, retorts and white matter, and the need for quintessence of quicksilver at several stages of what looked to be a long and convoluted process. He couldn’t make head or tail of any of it.

  “What the fuck is this?” he asked.

  “An alchemy experiment by the looks of things,” Alan replied.

  “And what makes you think it’s what we’re looking for?”

  Alan turned a page and pointed.

  It was a single drawing, covering almost the whole sheet of the page, done in deep black ink—a swan with piercing eyes, wings pulled forward in a hood.

  Grainger looked at it for several seconds before speaking.

  “Do you understand any of what it says needs to be done?”

  “Not a lot,” Alan replied. “But I know a man who does.”

  “Ferguson? He won’t give us the time of day.”

  “He will if we buy him enough booze.”

  14

  Alan helped the curator as they carefully photocopied the relevant pages of the old book while John went outside for another smoke.

  “There’s a strange thing about this particular book. Nobody looks at it for two centuries, then we get three requests in as many years,” the man said as he turned another page.

  “Three? Was one of them an elderly gent? Bald and bearded?”

  The curator nodded.

  “I remember him well—he was fine in the morning but most abusive later on, and he smelled of strong drink. I had to expel him when he started ranting about Freemasonry.”

  “And the other one?”

  Alan expected to get a description of Dave Galloway, so was rather surprised by the reply.

  “A woman—’30s, well-spoken, Glasgow accent, I think. She knew exactly what she was looking for—I photocopied these exact same pages for her. I never did get her name, but I had a feeling I’d seen her somewhere before.”

  “When was this?”

  “The rude man must have been three years ago. The woman was here last Friday.”

  * * *

  “So there’s another player in town?”

  They were in the car, headed back to Edinburgh, and Alan had just told John what the curator had said.

  “Looks like there might be. But I don’t see how it helps us any.”

  “It might, if Ferguson won’t play ball.”

  Alan finally voiced what had been worrying him for a while.

  “Do we actually have a plan? I know we’re chasing around following up Ferguson’s story, but where are we headed? What do we hope to achieve?”

  Alan thought he wasn’t going to get a reply. John lit up a smoke before answering.

  “I made a promise back there—a promise to Simpson, and to the four wee lassies. I’m going to find Galloway, and see that justice is done. If that means taking a trip to the Twilight Zone, then that’s what it takes. But I’m playing it by ear here. Let’s just see how we get on with Ferguson first, eh?”

  They got stuck in traffic just south of the bridge on the way back, having driven in silence most of the way down to that point. Alan looked over to check on his brother—he’d looked in pain back there when they got to the library, but John had his copper face on now. Alan knew that one only too well—John had made up his mind to do something. Anyone that got in his way from this point on was going to regret it, sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  They found Ferguson easily enough—he was back on his pitch outside M&S shouting at random passersby. He showed no sign of recognizing Alan as they approached.

  “Lend me five pounds and I will tell you a secret,” he said. Then he spotted John and backed off to cower against the store window. “I’m not doing anything illegal. You can’t arrest me.”

  They’d already agreed that Alan would do the talking—John said he didn’t trust himself not to get angry.

  “It’s okay, Brian,” Alan said softly. “I’m a fan. I just want to buy you a drink.”

  The magic words worked. They returned to the Kenilworth, and it was only then that Ferguson remembered having seen Alan before. Fortunately by that time they had him boxed in a corner with the brothers on either side to stop him escaping.

  “You’re that fucking Mason,” Ferguson started, jabbing a finger in Alan’s face. Alan resisted the temptation to bite it, and pushed a pint of beer over the table towards him.

  “Would a fucking Mason buy you a pint?”

  Ferguson looked at Alan, then at John. He stabbed out a finger towards the older brother.

  “He’s a copper. They are all fucking Masons too. Is this a trap?”

  Alan didn’t say anything, just pushed the beer closer. Ferguson looked at the pair of them, then at the beer. It was no contest—the beer won. The old man wrapped both hands round it and knocked back half of it in a few gulps.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway,” Ferguson started, but Alan interrupted him. He took out the phot
ocopied papers and laid them on the table.

  “This is about the Swan, Brian. We need to know how to make this work. We want to go over.”

  The old man looked at the papers and for a second his face showed only startled fear, but that quickly changed to animal cunning.

  “It will cost you,” he said. “And none of this watered-down pish they serve here either. A box—the full twelve bottles—of decent whisky, or you can go fuck yourselves.”

  “Done,” Alan said, and he didn’t know who looked more surprised, Ferguson or John.

  * * *

  After the obligatory detour via the off-license, Alan expected Ferguson to lead them in a meandering path to Dundas Street, so he was surprised when the old man headed south along George Street and across into Mitchell Street. He led them away from the town center and into the quieter stretches of the New Town.

  “Taking the long way round are we, Brian?” Alan said. He’d already had to change his grip twice on the box of whisky, and didn’t fancy having to carry it too much farther. John had the sandwich board under his good arm, and he didn’t look too happy at that either.

  “You do not expect me to do a conjuring in that small flat, do you?” Ferguson said. His gaze never reached Alan’s eyes but remained fixed on the box in his arms. “I have a little place all set up and nearly ready to go—you’ll see.”

  The wee place turned out to be a lockup garage, last in a row of them behind a terrace at the far end of Mitchell Street. Ferguson unlocked the roll-up door, heaved it open and showed them in. The only light came from a small window at the far end, too dim to make out much detail of the interior until Ferguson threw the main switch and a long fluorescent tube flickered on overhead.

  The place was empty save for a small wooden cabinet off to one side—just four stone walls, a tin roof and a concrete floor.

  “What is this?” Alan said. “Where’s the equipment?”

  Ferguson acted like he hadn’t heard. He pulled the garage door down behind them.

  “You can put the box down—in the corner—we will need the center of the floor clear.”

  “Clear for what?”

  Again Ferguson seemed oblivious to the question.

  “Let me see those papers again?”

  Alan handed the photocopies to the old man. Ferguson took the last two out of the pile and put them on top of the cabinet. He tore the others up into little pieces and stuffed them deep in his pockets.

  “Insulation. That is all that lot is good for.”

  “What did you do that for?”

  “We don’t need all the alchemy mumbo jumbo—I found that out a while back. All we need is a focal point to ground us—that, and the will to get where we want to go. It is magic we wish to perform, not chemistry—and all magic is just a matter of will.”

  John raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as Ferguson shooed them over so that their backs were to the door.

  “Stay quiet and let me work for ten minutes,” he said. “I need to get ready.”

  The brothers stood and watched as the old man went to the cabinet, produced some chalk and string, and started to mark out a detailed diagram on the floor. It covered most of the available space—circles, five-pointed stars and a strange pictorial script that looked a bit like Egyptian hieroglyphs but in a more flowing style.

  “I’ve seen this on the telly,” John whispered. “It never ends well.”

  Ferguson went back and forth, comparing his diagram to one that was on one of the pages he’d kept of the photocopies, rubbing out and redoing some areas, adding others. Finally he announced himself satisfied.

  “Right. Are you sure you want to do this?” he said.

  “Now?” Alan said.

  “What do you want to wait for? Christmas?”

  Ferguson motioned them forward.

  “Don’t step on the lines—come over here into the middle.”

  The brothers looked at each other. John shrugged.

  “I suppose it’s what we came for. I’m game if you are?”

  They stepped forward together.

  * * *

  “Before we start,” Ferguson said. “A word of warning. Do not try to fight it. You will lose.”

  He began a chant, a singsong rendition following a tune that Alan almost recognized. The light tube above them flickered and seemed to fade, the light leeching out of the lockup. Alan smelled salt spray, felt a wind on his face. He turned to John. His brother clutched at his bad shoulder, all color drained from his face, teeth clenched in pain.

  “Stop,” Alan said.

  “No!” John said. “Keep going. This will pass.”

  It didn’t seem as if Ferguson had heard in any case. His chant grew louder, echoing and building around them until it seemed like a whole chorus of voices was raised in unison. The walls wavered as if in a summer haze.

  Gulls screeched even above the sound of the chant, and the smell of grass came with the breeze. Watery sunshine flooded the room, coming from everywhere yet nowhere. The chant rose to a crescendo as the four walls faded out and somewhere else faded in.

  The three of them stood on top of a high cliff. Far below surf pounded on the rocks, sending spray high into the air. To their right the landscape rose up to a tall outcrop topped with jutting stone turrets, several of which were little more than shattered spires, having tumbled into ruin in some distant past. Ahead of them a cliff-top path led away into the distance to blue, snow-tipped mountains.

  Gulls screeched angrily. Scores—hundreds—took to the air from cliff nests, swirling and swooping in terror, the source of which became apparent all too soon. It was black, it was huge and it swooped up the cliff face like a jet fighter, headed straight for them.

  “Time to go,” Ferguson said.

  “No,” John shouted. “I’m not leaving without Galloway.”

  “And you’re not leaving with me,” a voice said from behind them.

  * * *

  Alan turned, faster than John, who seemed to be hampered by his bad shoulder. A heavyset man—Galloway—stood by the door of a tumbled edifice of high arches and tall windows—John’s cathedral. He held a long-handled axe with a stone head, cradled in his arms like a child.

  “You’re coming with me,” John shouted. At the same instant a black shadow rose up and over them and giant wings flapped, the downdraft threatening to send them all tumbling.

  Ferguson started to chant again, louder, more frantic this time.

  Galloway laughed.

  “Come and get me, copper,” he said.

  John made to move forward, just as the scene wavered and melted. Darkness fell around them as great wings hooded, blotting out the sky. The wings threatened to enfold them, the only light coming from a channel ahead with Galloway in the center and the cathedral ruins beyond, as if they were being herded in that direction.

  Ferguson’s voice rose to a shout. Alan saw a neon tube flicker above them, smelled motor oil.

  “No!” John shouted, and leapt forward.

  Galloway brought up the stone axe and swung—a blow that would have caved in John’s head if it had hit.

  Ferguson shouted, a single word.

  Everything went dark for the space of a heartbeat. Alan looked up to see John standing on the far side of the lockup from them, pounding the wall in frustration with his good hand.

  “Take us back. Right fucking now,” he shouted.

  Ferguson scuffed the diagram on the floor with his feet, erasing almost a quarter of it before turning away and heading for the box of Scotch. John almost ran across the floor. Alan knew that look only too well—his brother was spoiling for a fight. He stepped into John’s path just before he reached the old man.

  “No, John. You saw. Either the Swan gets us, or Galloway does. You’re in no shape to fight either, never mind both. We need a better plan than this.”

  “We don’t need him anyway,” John said. “I got through just fine on my own the last time.”

  He move
d back and stood in the center of what remained of the circle.

  “Come on, you bastard. Come and get me. I’m right here.”

  Nothing happened.

  Alan put a hand on his brother’s good shoulder.

  “Come on, John. The old man knows more about this than we do.”

  John turned. The anger had drained—slightly.

  “Does he? Does he really? Tell us, Mr. Ferguson—how many times is it now you’ve run away from the Black Bird?”

  Ferguson was already making serious inroads into the first of the whisky bottles. John went over and took it from him. The old man wailed like a baby deprived of a comforter and reached for the bottle. John kept it just out of his arm’s length.

  “Not until you tell us. How did we get through without all this nonsense the last time?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  Alan realized this was a stock reply from the old man—they’d been making the assumption that Ferguson was some kind of guru. Now he saw him for what he was—an old drunk who had stumbled on something he didn’t understand, and was too afraid to look any further. It had only been the promise of whisky that had got him this far.

  “If you know anything, now is the time to tell us. Otherwise that whisky all leaves here with us,” Alan said.

  The old man made another snatch for the bottle but John kept it well out of his reach.

  “Not until you tell us,” Alan said.

  “I don’t know anything,” Ferguson wailed.

  “Then there’s nothing left to say. Come on, John, let’s go.”