I had only one way to get some answers. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.
I took a long walk, tried to figure things out. At Holyrood Park the sky turned grey, shot through with red. The queen’s wee bit hoosie provided just the dark overtones my mood needed. The royals used to hold court up the road at the castle. Legend has it they moved down to Holyroodhouse because it was less draughty. In the gardens is Mary Queen of Scot’s bathhouse, where she used to bathe in goat’s milk and white wine. Every time I pass I see it as a nice reminder that the upper classes of this city have always been first with their snouts in the trough.
As I crossed the road to Arthur’s Seat, a swan sat on the tarmac.
‘Off… come on, move yourself,’ I told it. I waved my arms about, but it wouldn’t take me seriously. Stamped my foot at it, jumped in the air. It took the hint, waddled off.
‘Nice work, Gus,’ I thought. And not a broken arm in sight.
I followed the tourist trail, even on a day like today with the wind sharp enough to cut glass, they were out in force. You want to practise your French, or German, Italian — Japanese even, this is the place. All nationalities brave the elements to get a view of the city from on high. It didn’t seem much of a way to spend your vacation, but then this place did have some undertones for me.
At the top, I lit up. Straightforward Benson and Hedges this time.
I scanned the skyline. Picked out Calton Hill, the parliament, the schemie eyesore of Dumbiedykes. I knew, from where I stood, any one of these sights could have been Billy’s last.
I was close to the spot where he’d met his end.
I felt no ghosts here. Maybe my own demons held them at bay. Maybe there’s just too many fighting for attention. It is, after all, where they found the Murder Dolls.
Seventeen minute figures in their own coffins. Eerie artefacts. Two schoolboys out rabbiting found them in 1836. At first the authorities thought they belonged to some sick practitioner of the black arts. Then someone pointed out that the grave robbers, Burke and Hare, murdered exactly seventeen people.
To this day, the Murder Dolls remain one of the city’s mysteries. One of the many. To take a stroll down the Mile and see the ghost tour guides grabbing punters, you’d think the streets perpetually ran with blood.
‘And some of that blood would have been Billy’s,’ I whispered to the hills.
The wind picked up, threatened rain. I looked at the tourist trail, they still streamed all the way up to the summit.
‘Come on, Billy, give me a hand here. Do right by Milo and those girls.’
I put up my collar, stuck my hands in my pockets. Inside I felt the Glock I’d taken from Mac. A 10mm auto, it felt unusually light.
I’d seen Bruce Willis with a Glock in Die Hard 2, he called it a porcelain gun made in Germany, said: ‘It doesn’t show up on your airport X-ray machines, and it costs more than you make in a month.’
I’d asked Mac if this was true. He’d said, ‘No. It shows up on X-ray and it costs more than you make in a year.’
I told him I’d give him it back in one piece, hopefully unfired. But I couldn’t promise anything.