Revelation

The lights are now red. Still he is going to try for it. An Edinburgh citizen, full of his rights, steps onto the road. Pitman curses and stops.

Findhorn contemplates the crowded pavements. He stays put. 'How did they find us?'

Speedhand said, 'How many translators of Armenian do you think there are in Edinburgh?'

'Okay, I'm an amateur. But I'm learning fast. What do you want from me?'

'You've just created us a mountain of trouble, friend.' The traffic flow has changed; filter traffic is turning off. It won't be long. Findhorn pretends to look out of the window but he is examining the door lock and the handle. A long stationary queue has accumulated behind them.

A horrible thought strikes him. Maybe there's a child's lock. Maybe he won't be able to open the door.

The car is an automatic. It moves off smoothly; the big engine can hardly be heard. Speedhand is saying, 'Unless you're even more stupid than I think, you've made copies of the diaries. We'll have those.' The car is slowing to turn left up Hanover Street. In a department-store window, reindeer with no visible means of propulsion are pulling Santa Claus into a snow-filled sky.

People are jaywalking. Pitman swears briefly, idles, picks up speed. Findhorn waits as long as he dares. He snatches at the door handle. The door opens; he jumps out. The car is doing about fifteen miles an hour and he staggers, almost falling, before swerving onto the pavement and muscling his way through the crowds. The car, swept along by the traffic flow, is heading up the street. He looks back and glimpses Mister Speedhand at the rear window. The man's face is out of control, full of surprise and rage. Findhorn gives him a wave but he shows no sign of Christmas spirit.

* * *

Romella emerged from the downstairs toilet after half an hour of vomiting. She was chalk-faced, apart from livid bruises around her eye and lips. She waved aside an offer of help and made her way to the leather couch.

Findhorn said, 'I'm sorry. Maybe you should just walk away from this.'

She managed a weak, defiant stare through one eye. 'Don't blame yourself, Fred. You told me the situation and I chose to think it was just a fantasy thing. You're a bit weird, after all.'

Stefi came in bearing hot chocolate.

Romella was whispering again. 'And thanks for turning up. You didn't have to do that.'

'It was the least he could do,' Stefi said. 'Look at you.'

'If you didn't turn up they were going to burn holes in me until I told them where you were. There were three of them.' She managed to pull the blanket from around her knees. 'Look at my tights!'

Findhorn obliged. 'What happened?'

'The bastards dumped me in the boot of a car and drove off. I don't know where we went. They drove for hours and I nearly froze to death.'

'They were keeping you on ice until they set up the meeting with me,' Findhorn suggested. 'They'd have killed us both, me right away. I'd have been just a braindamaged smackhead who overdosed in Princes Street Gardens. They'd have dealt with you later, once you'd translated for them.'

'When they finally let me out, it was dark and I was in a car park. My legs wouldn't hold me at first but when they did I started to struggle. They got alarmed at the noise I was making. That's when the punching began. I don't know what happened next except that they shoved me back in the boot, and next time they opened it they forced some horrible liquid down my throat. I'm sure it was just cough mixture. You know, two teaspoons only, don't overdose, may induce drowsiness.'

Romella's voice was beginning to trail off, and her eyes were beginning to swim in her head.

Stefi put the mug on the coffee table and said, 'That's enough. No more talk.'

'The car was a Mercedes 600 SL. Maybe a year old. Boot smelled new.'

They laid her out on the couch.

'Green Merc. Swiss registration, I think. Didn't get the number.'

Findhorn took off her trainers. Stefi tucked the blanket around her and switched off the lights. The room glowed a gentle red from the stove. 'She needs medical attention.'

Findhorn said, 'With bruises like that, and an overdose of medicine, a doctor would have to call the police.'

'So what?' Stefi wanted to know. 'I'm calling the police anyway.'

'Romella has a say in this. Wait until morning.'

* * *

'Any change?'

'She's breathing more easily.'

'You look like death warmed up, Fred. Get some sleep.'

Findhorn staggered off. If men were going to burst into the house waving hypodermic syringes, he hoped they would do it quietly.

* * *

Findhorn was awakened by sunlight. A voodoo mask stared at him with empty eyes, on top of a small bookcase devoted to travel books, thrillers and cricket. He looked out over the Edinburgh skyline, with its monuments and steeples. The Castle was less than a mile away, black and dominating. Stefi's yellow scooter was propped up against the wall of the back garden, out of sight from the streets. He dressed, discovering a swollen ankle, and limped down the stairs. Romella was turned towards the back of the couch and an elegant leg protruded from under the blanket; the offending tights had disappeared. Her breathing was normal. Stefi was on the armchair, head tilted back. She was snoring slightly.

In the kitchen, he found a percolator and coffee beans from a small sack stamped Blue Mountain, Mavis Bank, Jamaica. Typical Doug, he thought; no nasty instant powders for little brother. The noise of the coffee grinder was rasping in the still of the house. A couple of minutes later Romella appeared, bare-footed, hair dishevelled and with a colourful yellow and blue swelling surrounding her right eye, and a bruised lip. Her sweater and skirt were wrinkled from a night's sleep.

'The Swamp Thing,' Findhorn said.

'What?'

'An old horror movie. You remind me of something I saw in it.'

'Thanks, Fred.' She winced.

'Shall I get you a damp cloth?'

'I still feel drugged.'

Over tea and toast, Stefi turned up looking like Action Woman in black sweater and leggings. She poured herself coffee, added condensed milk from a tin and flopped down at the kitchen table.

Findhorn broke the silence. 'I had no idea things would get this heavy. I can't have you risking your lives like this. I think you should just walk away. It's me they want, and the diaries.'

'Who are they?'

'I don't know. There are at least two groups after the diaries. One of them offered me a lot of money.'

Romella studied Findhorn over her coffee. He found her steady gaze disconcerting. 'How much money?'

'A million pounds.'

There was a stunned silence.

Stefi eventually broke it. 'A million pounds? Are you joking?'

'I'm very serious.'

'And you turned it down?' Her voice was incredulous.

'Money isn't the primary issue here, Stefi. It's not clear who really owns the diaries, if anyone. But the main thing is, I want to find out for myself what's in there. Petrosian was an atomic scientist, remember. Say he's discovered some way to make a super-bomb, or even some political secret that people don't want out. I might just want to burn the lot.'

Romella touched her bruised eye and groaned. 'Forgive me, Fred, but who are you to make judgements on things like that?'

'Diaries plus conscience equals responsibility. I had no idea what I was getting into but here I am, stuck with it. There's nobody else.'

'And suppose it's something beneficial?'

'Then I'd want to patent it first and become wildly rich.'

Stefi looked at Romella, fixed a look on Findhorn, and spoke in a tone which allowed for no argument. 'I think you'd better start at the beginning, Mister. Spill the beans.'

Findhorn thought that maybe Stefi Stefanova had picked up some of her English from old B movies. Romella was having some difficulty drinking. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and patted her bruised lips. 'Yes, Fred, it's time to spill the beans.'