Dark Angels (22 page)

‘Just turn up, Brodie, that’s all you need to do.’

As an afterthought he added: ‘And try to look presentable. Shut the door on your way out.’

The brass door handle was cool, and smooth on my hand. It should have calmed me. Instead, I paused in the doorway, desperately wanting to tell the slimy little bastard who had just offered me all I’d ever want on a plate to just fuck right off–but a part of me realised there was another option.

I could get through this.

Maybe.

Three gin and tonics later, and a swift resume of the past few days behind us, Lizzie and I parted company. I’d much rather spend the evening with her than continue with the plan laid out in front of me, but I knew I had precious little choice in the matter. I’d gone home to get dressed–with help from my new sartorial assistant of course–and then headed towards the High Street.

The crowd cheered and clapped ecstatically, as the young man on the unicycle blew fire into the air. Pushing my way through the tourists, I felt light headed. Trudging on, I tried to make my way to Parliament Hall, and the WS library.

The Royal Mile was teeming with life of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. A lone piper stood on the steps of St Giles’ Cathedral. He had eschewed the usual smart but dull uniform, and instead traded on his raw sexuality as much as his talent. Looking like an extra from
Braveheart
he was not afraid to show a muscled thigh. His white linen shirt was open, and dishevelled. I was
going to have to admit my penchant for men in kilts sooner rather than later, but my lack of sex life wasn’t going to get to the top of the agenda any time soon the way things were going.

Women were queuing up to have their picture taken with the piper–until recently I too had associated photographs with happy memories, but now they were simply sickening reflections of sadistic and taunting minds. That was what I now needed to focus on.

To reach the entrance to the WS library, I had to walk across the cobbled square. Usually, I’d belt along in my biker boots or sensible two-inch heeled matronly shoes, but today I was dressed to impress–myself as much as anyone else. The square had not been made with five-inch Jimmy Choos (a gift from Kailash via Malcolm) in mind. The square is very old and on the left hand side is the main entrance to St Giles’ Cathedral. A church has occupied that site since the twelfth century, and during the Festival a medieval market occupies the square, so I was further hampered in my movements not only by my ridiculous (but gorgeous) footwear, but also the higgledy-piggledy stalls.

I spat at the Heart of Midlothian that is set into the stone at the start of the square–not showing off my commoner’s roots, but because I dare not risk incurring the wrath of the gods at the moment. I added my wish to the spittle that flew out of my mouth–survival.

Wiping the spit from my chin, I tried again to make my way to the reception. In 1637, an Edinburgh woman called Jenny Geddes started a riot here to protest at the
imposition of a new bible–was there any way I could use that as precedent to get out of the function?

I made my way through the crowds, cobbles and stalls by following a German couple intent on entering St Giles’. A shiver passed through me as I went by. The Cathedral has been used for many purposes down the centuries; one of them was that it stored ‘The Maiden’, Edinburgh’s guillotine. I made a final push towards my destination.

The pit of my stomach felt heavy, as I continued to loiter outside the nineteenth century panelled wood and glass doors. I pressed the ancient intercom and spoke my name. A click told me that I been granted silent entry.

The buzz of genteel small talk surrounded me as soon as I passed through the thick stone doorway. A silver buttoned lackey tried to take my pashmina, but I declined to give it to him in case a quick getaway was in order–it was also pretty useful to cover the many cuts and bruises which still adorned my arms and chest. I moved half-heartedly in the direction of the noise, squaring my shoulders and giving myself a pep talk. I was lucky–I had got through everything thrown at me so far and I should be bloody thankful for that. Frank Pearson would love to be walking into a WS reception tonight. To be fair Frank would have loved an invitation to any WS reception at any time, but the likes of him were not invited–with or without S&M gear. I fleetingly thought that maybe there was something in Jack’s assessment of my career–I had got very far, very fast, and Roddie had made it quite clear that would continue if I kept to my side of the bargain.

I had a quick recce round the room–tartan trews abounded, but there was no one here tonight who wore them with the panache of Malcolm. I was pleased that I had asked him to help me tonight. I had wanted to make my mark, and his fashion advice had certainly done that (even if my feet would be aching for days, and my breasts would probably be deformed for life given the shape my bra was manipulating them into). I didn’t fit in with this group in the slightest–and that was exactly what I wanted. They were dull, badly dressed little sparrows. The male of the Enlightenment Society was no great shakes but still they managed to outshine their female counterparts.

I was both overdressed and inappropriately dressed and I was delighted by those facts. I had absolutely no competition whatsoever. Some of the outfits on show appeared to have been brought out of mothballs from the 1930s. The high priestess of appalling fancy dress masquerading as evening wear, Eilidh Buchanan, was bearing down on me like a barracuda. Sadly, her long tartan skirt, although puffball tight at the ankles, didn’t hamper her movements. Looking as if she were sucking a lemon, she stood before me, arms folded. On close inspection her blouse looked grubby. It was probably an antique, and worn by her great grandmother at a Royal ball, but with my newfound sense of style, I was unimpressed.

Every woman in the library, including Eilidh Buchanan, was covered from head to toe in tartan in a variety of colours and linen of varying shades of whiteness. The only décolletage on show was mine, but
thanks to Malcolm I was more than making up the deficit.

‘I told you to contain the situation–not take lessons from that whore,’ Eilidh hissed.

‘And good evening to you too, Eilidh.’ As I had promised myself, the smile remained fixed–until I saw someone who wiped it from my face.

Lord MacGregor stalked purposefully towards me. He must have arrived after I did, for he was a peacock in full highland dress and everyone’s eyes were upon him.

‘Ms McLennan! It’s a delight to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Some of it has even been quite good.’ A smile split his face at his own final comment. True to form tonight, I laughed ingratiatingly. Eilidh Buchanan was getting ready to wet her knickers–like an excited bitch on heat she leaped around Lord MacGregor. Casually, he clasped my elbow, and with a flick of his hand he dismissed his acolyte as one would an aggravating mosquito. Unable to resist the temptation I looked over my shoulder and gloated, although truthfully I would have preferred to stay even with her, rather than this man–I didn’t know much about him, but I didn’t like what I had seen so far. His association with Moses Tierney made him even less welcome to me.

Until this hellish day, I could never have imagined such a scenario anyway. Choosing between Eilidh Buchanan and Lord MacGregor? Hardly my usual band of friends. Unable to do anything else, I allowed my new benefactor to parade me round the room like a
prize cow. I felt as if I were being taken on a specific route, as Judge after Judge after Judge acknowledged me and my udders.

Lord MacGregor turned to speak at me: ‘It’s many years since I’ve been in this place.’ The gaggle of women (I use the term loosely) who were coming out in a cold sweat rather than a menopausal flush every time he walked by them were actually right–Lord MacGregor looked pretty good despite his age.

Our parade of two had stopped in front of an oversized oil painting of an old man in judicial robes.

‘He hated that, you know.’

Lord MacGregor inclined his head towards the picture.

‘Said it made him look portly and decrepit…he refused to allow them to hang it where anyone who mattered would see it. My father was vain like that–and that over there is my grandfather.’ He waved his liver spotted hand in a direction over my shoulder.

Was I naïve to think that the red judicial robes of a democratic country should not be passed down the generations like some plumbing business?

As Lord MacGregor held me in his gaze, I sought a diversion. His little procession involving only me and him had induced the intended effect. I was in no doubt who was insisting that I was an Amicus Curae–he was showing me that he could deliver the red judicial robes of my ultimate ambition if I played along.

Over his shoulder I spotted her. She was wearing a black blouse and a frown. As she bore down on us, I felt that I should warn my so-called benefactor but I
couldn’t quite find the words. As she entered our space I instinctively stepped back.

‘Father.’

Bunny MacGregor’s word was neither a question nor a greeting. Just a bald statement. I could almost see her father-in-law’s heart miss several beats as he stared straight ahead. My own mouth was dry and my heart raced. I knew that I was not just a bystander in this confrontation–Bunny MacGregor was including me in her silent wrath.

‘Darling, are you sure you’re up to this?’

Lord MacGregor turned, and seamlessly kissed her on both cheeks. I had the suspicion that he was not referring to the reception but to some silent vendetta that raged between them.

‘With your continued collaboration,’ she answered, the same lack of warmth in her voice, ‘I’m sure that I’ll pull through.’

Bunny flicked her fingers, and a waiter jumped to attention. I grabbed a red wine from the silver tray, and as I did so, Joe’s remonstrations came to me. I ignored them–I always tended to.

I expected the red wine to soothe me a bit, but it was cold and cheap, its bittersweet taste lingered with me, my lips twisted with distaste. Lord MacGregor looked quizzically in my direction, presumably wondering if it was the wine or the company that was making me grimace.

I blurted out an excuse.

‘I’ve got a big case on and a glass of wine helps me relax.’ I could have kicked myself.

‘My dear, no one here–least of all me–has forgotten about your case.’

Bunny MacGregor’s eyes burned into me as she spoke, deliberately enunciating every word. I marvelled at the woman’s restraint.

Lord MacGregor produced a racking laugh, shaking like a silver birch in the wind. I put it down to nerves. Some people laugh when they are nervous, don’t they? It’s nature’s way of dispelling the darkness.

As I looked at him, his laughter ceased.

‘No parent should have to bury a child, Brodie.’

As he walked away, I thought of Lord Arbuthnot lying on the gurney. Flaccid. Naked. Dead. It was hard to think of him being someone’s child, but he was. I suppose they all were, although I had never thought of it that way. Looking around the room I wanted to escape. Einstein may have believed in the power of imagination, but my mother did not; she believed I suffered from an overactive one. Tonight may have been the first time she was correct. As I looked around the hallowed library, I thought I saw the dead girls walk in and out the genteel group. Every step they took they demanded justice; either that or they were reminding me that I was next. In my mind’s eye Frank Pearson joined them; thankfully he was not dressed as I had last seen him.

Lord MacGregor returned, dressed for the ‘Red Mass’. Despite no longer holding office, like all others high up in the judicial hierarchy, Lord MacGregor was loathe to give up his costume. Indeed he wouldn’t be the first to be buried in it. He approached me directly. I observed
the red judicial robes; the silk cloak was ankle length, the collar and cuffs trimmed with white ermine. A white silk band ran down the front of the robe, and for the first time, I noted the significance of the six red Templar crosses upon them.

The Equilateral Blood Cross of the Knights Templar.

If the Templars were the forerunners of the Masons and the Enlightenment Society, then why did our Scottish judges proudly wear the mark of the Masons?

What had Joe said?

Hidden in plain sight?

I felt the familiar stirring of nightmarish panic. A hot flush ran through my body and I wanted to vomit. Tiny beads of sweat broke out along my upper lip.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Lord MacGregor was good at sounding concerned, but he held me whilst stepping back, rightly afraid that I would throw up on his hand-made shoes.

The peculiar taste in my mouth persisted, and as I stumbled, he dragged me from the library out into the cooler air of Parliament Hall. Thankfully, the dead remained where I had last seen them. Silence resounded in the great Parliament Hall, and although my mind was fuzzy, I was uncomfortably aware that I had broken my promise to Joe.

‘Don’t ever leave the group, Brodie. And if anyone tries to get you on your own, that’s the bastard you have to watch out for. Well, one of the bastards anyway,’ he’d said.

I tried to stand, but Parliament Hall swam round me.
Clutching onto the carved wooden bench, I tried again. Woozily I moved; with great force of effort and will I placed one foot in front of the other. My senses were heightened with fear–and drugs. Someone had spiked my drink.

Every step I took seemed to announce my escape plan to the world.

I just made it across the Victorian tiled floor and was leaning against a wooden bench staring at the south window that dominates the hall. The stained glass is supposed to represent the inauguration of the Court of Session from the Pope. It depicts a man kneeling in supplication. Those in my profession see it for what it is–the first time a lawyer asked for an additional fee.

I rose and was pushing through the antiquated swing door when it was opened from the other side. Falling, I almost knocked Lord MacGregor over. For a slight man, he was remarkably strong. Carrying me easily, he deposited me in the front seat of a car. I seemed to have lost the power of speech and all control of my limbs. A sense of overwhelming doom came upon me.