In a minute three figures emerged into the light in front of the bandstand. Two men, one a teenage tearaway in a leather jacket, the other the religious fanatic, still in his long black coat, warmly wrapped up with a red scarf. Romella propped between them, head lolling from side to side. She was wearing a short skirt and a simple T-shirt. Findhorn thought she must be utterly frozen, perhaps even close to hypothermia. The men stood, gazing into the dark around them.
The musicians were hardly ten yards away. They were paying no attention, and Findhorn suddenly knew what it was about them. They weren't testing their instruments.
And no seating had been set up for an audience.
And the men on the ladders were taking forever to set up the banner.
He stepped out of the shadow of the tree and walked towards the three. They spotted him about thirty yards away. Romella went still.
Someone else, a small, plump woman, approached out of the dark like a ghost, and stood beside the two men. She was carrying a large, plain black handbag.
Findhorn walked into the light of the bandstand. The men were watching him intently.
Some of the musicians were climbing down the bandstand at its far end and walking into the shadows.
Romella was shaking her head in a doped but urgent way.
12
Doomsday
Findhorn is conscious of moving shadows beyond the circle of light. He walks forward, holding up the briefcase. Closer in, he sees that the plump woman behind Romella is holding a hypodermic syringe. Romella says, 'Fred, clear off,' but her voice is slurred and barely reaches him.
He puts the case down on the frost-covered grass about ten feet from the men, and steps back. Everyone's breath is steaming in the icy air. He has never known such an alertness in all his senses; everything around him seems slow. He wonders what is going on behind the circle of light but doesn't dare to turn round.
Mister Religion leaves Romella, steps warily to the briefcase, as if he expects it to explode. He crouches down to open it and pulls out a diary at random. He pulls a small black torch from his pocket and shines it on the book, flicking rapidly through its pages. Then he shines the torch into the case and briefly counts the diaries. The lasers are flickering overhead and Findhorn feels as if he is inside some weird science-fiction fantasy.
'You can let her go now,' Findhorn says. He is judging distances.
The man looks up. 'If only life were so simple.'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'
'All men are liars. Psalms…'
'Stuff the quotes. We have an agreement.'
The man sighs. He closes the briefcase, stands up and puts the torch in his pocket. 'It's only fair, in your closing moments, that I tell you this. Miss Grigoryan is privileged. Her talents will help to solve a great mystery and enable a great prophecy to be fulfilled.'
'Prophecy?' Findhorn asked, to keep him talking.
'With her help we will be able to turn the key to the bottomless pit.' Mister Religion turns and nods. The syringe woman, and the men holding Romella, move backwards. It is as if they are on wheels. For a moment Findhorn half believes he is in a bizarre nightmare.
He hears movement from behind.
The bandstand lights switch off.
Suddenly there are only the strobing blue lights in the sky, and silhouettes against the Castle wall.
Findhorn rushes forward. He collides painfully with a dark figure who says 'Oof!' Someone from behind grabs him by the arm, shouts, 'Run, you fool! We have her.' He pulls free and sprints in her direction. He catches a whiff of Romella's perfume. She is being hauled along by the hand. Findhorn grabs her free arm; he can't make out the other party. Torches are probing dark corners. Staccato, angry shouts follow him into the dark. Someone runs past, footsteps pounding on the frozen ground. Findhorn whispers, 'Go to the left!' They run wide at the big Christmas tree, keeping away from its radius of light, towards the narrow pedestrian bridge over the railway.
Stefi, gloved and helmeted, is revving the engine of her Vespa. Seconds are lost while Romella climbs onto the pillion. She seems about to collapse. Then Findhorn is shouting 'Hold tight!' and Stefi accelerates away on the footpath, lights out. Findhorn races along the path after them, his companion following. On to a road, with lights and cars, and across it to a multi-storey car park. Footsteps pacing them from behind. Stefi's scooter is disappearing briskly round a corner, Romella clinging like a baby monkey.
The car park will have security cameras and there is a busy street on the far side. If the Syringe People want to avoid cameras, the car park is a buffer. But now, in the street lights, Findhorn recognizes the other man: Mister Speedhand. He shouts to Findhorn and beckons towards a car, jumping into it.
Four men burst onto King Stables Road from the park entrance. Their faces are concealed under balaclavas. Findhorn knows he has no chance in a race. They spot the car, race Findhorn to it, but Findhorn gets there first and leaps in, slamming the door. It is the sort of car that has in-flight navigation and quadrophonic CD and deep leather seats and air conditioning and twin carbs, and there is a satisfying thrust in Findhorn's back as the driver takes them from zero to sixty in a millisecond. The pursuers shrink to gesticulating dots in the rear window.
Findhorn, his heart thumping, and gasping for breath, wonders about the liquid in the syringe. He looks at Mister Speedhand, and Pitman clinically studying him in the mirror, and he wonders if he should have taken his chance with the religious maniacs.
Along the Grassmarket, with its winos and bistro crowds. He thinks he glimpses a red tail light disappearing up the Candlemarket, a steep cobbled hill ending at a T-junction. The car goes up this hill. The turn, left or right, is going to be crucial. Findhorn is gasping.
Left is down the Mound, skirting the Gardens again; but it is also city centre, traffic lights, evening crowds. Right is no stopping, suburbs, countryside beyond; right is dark lay-bys, and narrow tracks winding into the Pentland Hills.
The big car turns left. Findhorn feels his legs going to jelly which is unfortunate as he intends to jump out at the first red traffic light. He sees Stefi's bright yellow scooter a couple of hundred yards ahead, wonders if Pitman has spotted it, or even if he is following it.
Down the Mound. The traffic lights are co-ordinated so that if they are green at the foot of the hill they are green all the way and he will be swept through the city and on to an unknown destination and an uncertain future.
Don't let them suspect your intentions. You are the Grateful Rescued.
'Thanks. I thought my e-mail was a long shot, especially as I just pressed the reply button. Were the musicians your people?'
'No, they were theirs. You owe us, Findhorn.' Speedhand's tone is icy, but it carries an undertone of seething anger.
'Who are they?'
'You've just lost us the diaries, Findhorn. Why should we tell you a fucking thing?'
Down the hill, the lights are at green. The cars ahead are accelerating through. Pitman is strumming his fingers on the steering wheel, studying the traffic flow, judging a system of vortices and eddies unknown to the authors of the Highway Code.
Stefi has skimmed past the traffic and she is through. Findhorn imagines that Romella, without helmet or riding gear, is being freeze-dried. The scooter turns smartly right then left, speeding up Hanover Street and out of sight.
'You didn't rescue us as an act of charity.' Findhorn's mouth is dry.
The queue ahead is streaming fast through the lights. The lights turn orange but the drivers ahead are chancing it. Pitman accelerates. The streets are packed with Christmas shoppers.