Watcher (11 page)

St Margaret’s Chapel, Edinburgh Castle
Monday 24 December, 3.30 p.m.

A piper played ‘Mairi’s Wedding’, and Connie sang in her clear high voice, changing the words to suit the occasion. She skipped along excitedly in the late afternoon air; sometimes she ran back to squeeze my arm and whisper it was Christmas Eve. It was already dark and Edinburgh Castle was floodlit, eerie in the freezing fog. The bridal party marched across the bridge between the statues of Bruce and Wallace, through to the inner entrance.

The uphill route to St Margaret’s Chapel was hazardous, the icy, uneven cobbles threatening to trip us up. We chatted and laughed as Dark Angels carrying flaming torches lit the bride’s way. Lavender held on to Grandad’s arm as they marched through the portcullis, as much to steady her nerves as to keep her balance.

Eddie and Glasgow Joe in full Highland regalia were waiting at the altar. As a special concession to Eddie, Joe had agreed to matching kilts in Hibs’ tartan, predictably a fairly vivid green, toned down by black Prince Charlie jackets and waistcoats both with silver buttons. Full sporrans, brogues and traditional cream socks complete with skean-dhu daggers and green flashes completed their ensembles. Lavender was already ten minutes late; late enough to keep Eddie on his toes. Malcolm held on to my arm, probably afraid of slipping in his new, leather-soled shoes, but he kept bringing out his hanky and sniffing; there had been no last-minute reconciliation with Derek.

St Margaret’s Chapel is high on a mound within the inner castle. Joe had left the Norman church to check if the bride was en route. He didn’t see us. He wandered over to the battlements. Edinburgh was partially hidden from him, like a fairy city concealed in the mist. He looked jumpy to me. He was swallowing too hard – from what I could remember, that was pretty much the only sign that Joe was afraid. He seemed to be searching the ramparts – I don’t know why. I might have to believe in Thomas Foster’s innocence, but Joe could rest easy and believe the story the police were putting out.

In truth, I felt as if someone was walking over my grave. Maybe, we were both just remembering the tacky Las Vegas wedding chapel where we tied the knot. Sniffing the wind, I could smell that snow was coming, but there seemed to be something else out there, something that made my skin crawl. The Boxing Day sale signs were already up in the department stores on Princes Street – everything looked normal. But it didn’t feel normal, and I had no idea what was causing me to feel that way.

Joe spotted us and waved. ‘You look gorgeous!’ he shouted at us. ‘Eddie’s here, he sent me out to check he hadn’t been stood up.’

In an effort to include everyone in her happy day, Lavender had asked Patch to be the celebrant. When Joe saw him, it just looked as if his day had been made even more macabre – Patch had carried out the autopsies on the Ripper’s victims and the nuptials were now feeling just a bit too closely allied to death.

Joe continued to search the night sky. He scrutinized the faces of the bridal party as well. He seemed to be the only one bothering. Moses was too busy ensuring no one set light to Lavender’s train to have much else on his mind. The Dark Angels formed a guard around her; not such a fabulous plan as hot wax seemed to be dripping everywhere. It certainly landed on my arm as I marched through to the church, sending me rushing into the chapel like a scalded cat.

The Norman church was small, and serene; people had been baptized, married and buried there for nearly a thousand years.

Huge candles lit the tiny chapel; flowers filled the altar and Eddie Gibb smiled from ear to ear as his bride walked towards him. William Wallace had worshipped here, as had The Bruce, but the look on Lavender’s face said only one man was her hero.

The size of the chapel dictated that the Dark Angels remain outside; it was no bad idea. Their presence inside would have given Joe the willies even more. He was appalled when Eddie had told him he’d already seen Lavender today. That was considered so unlucky that no Scottish girl would allow it – but Lavender was from London after all and they were a different breed down there.

Patch stood waiting at the altar and, as Lavender walked towards Eddie, Elvis crooned that he couldn’t help falling in love with someone or other. The pathologist claimed that he was Elvis’s biggest fan, attending conventions, and even standing at the gates of Graceland on his hero’s birthday. Joe often said that he didn’t know what unnerved him most: Patch’s fondness for the dead or the fact that a member of a strict, Scottish, Presbyterian congregation could risk eternal hell and damnation for Elvis.

I looked across at Connie who, despite her previous excitement and delight at being a bridesmaid, was now fidgeting and, regardless of the romance of the occasion, already beginning to look bored. Fleetingly, I remembered my own awkwardness as a young teenager at adult events. No matter how much I’d looked forward to them, I’d felt out of my depth and lacking in confidence. As the only child present, being still, quiet and behaving ‘like a grown-up’ observer was as alien to her as it would be to a Labrador puppy. Both were used to being the centre of attention.

I turned my attention back to Lavender and Eddie, facing each other, holding hands, ready to recite their vows. She looked absolutely beautiful – and a damn sight thinner than I’d ever seen her in the past. Give him his due, Eddie didn’t look too bad either – clean and, from what I could tell, sober. Joe watched me out of the corner of his eye, no doubt for any sign that I remembered our wedding day. Marry in haste, repent at leisure was the theme of that excursion into marital bliss. It was Joe who’d backtracked the quickest. Divorce in haste was the mistake he’d made. There was no way that I would come back to him, as I told him then – from my vantage point, he’d cast me aside, even if he claimed that it was for my own good. For more than two decades, Joe and I had laughed and loved and hated one another. It was a pattern and passion that looked set for life, and I refused to be tabloid fodder for marrying and divorcing the same guy over and over.

Perhaps Jack represented an escape route from that fate. Perhaps that was his attraction. When Jack was in my bed, Joe couldn’t be. And the temptation was removed. But despite the highs and lows, it was difficult to imagine my life without Glasgow Joe somewhere at the heart of it.

Looking at the assembled cast, I realized that, even though he liked Joe in theory, my Grandad would probably cut his eyes out rather than watch me be with him. He would never think Joe was good enough for me, and I guess he still thought that old families had certain standards to maintain. Assassins didn’t come into that – even if paedophiles did. The old man allowed a tear to fall unashamedly from his eye as the vows got underway and Eddie’s voice cracked with emotion. In accordance with the ancient tradition of the Celts he and Lavender spoke in unison.

Joe placed the gold Celtic knot rings on Patch’s Bible. With a trembling hand, Eddie placed one on the third finger of Lavender’s left hand; she steadied his hand and firmly placed a ring on him. Eddie kissed his bride, then ‘Amazing Grace’ filled the night air as Mr and Mrs Gibb walked out through the torchlight arch held by the Dark Angels. Lavender shouted ‘catch’ and her bouquet spun through the air. I don’t know whether it was a reflex or perhaps Lavender had aimed it directly at me, but I had to catch it to avoid serious injury. I didn’t want anyone to get ideas.

The Dark Angels were feeling the cold. Edinburgh Castle is a draughty place to be, even in August when the tourists flock there, but on a Christmas Eve that seemed to deny global warming, it was beyond bitter. Moses’ lips seemed to be turning blue as he kept an eye on his crew, and the piper led the procession smartly back down through the cobbled roads of the inner courtyard before he had a death on his hands. Marching quickly down the hill, Grandad admonished us all to plant our feet firmly to avoid sliding. We concentrated on this instruction, and striding through the portcullis, in our absorption, no one noticed that Connie wasn’t with us. No one that is, except Joe who, just as he had before the ceremony, had patrolled the battlements and chapel surrounds after it.

Whatever he was looking for, he instead found Connie, huddled in the doorway, lip trembling, but trying to hold back the sobs of self-pity and confusion to which only a thirteen-year-old can succumb.

‘What’s wrong, darlin’?’ he asked anxiously.

He told me later that night that Connie couldn’t quite explain, other than that she felt anxious, left out, in the way, ignored, and at the same time guilty about not feeling happy.

Joe didn’t know what to do except envelop her in a comforting bear hug and assure her we all loved her.

Clearly, once Christmas was out of the way, I should schedule a sisterly chat about how to deal with the natural, but nonetheless unpleasant, effect that blossoming hormones have on mood swings.

Fortunately, by the time Connie and Joe had caught up with us at the bottom of the hill, her spirits were restored – and we had a wedding to celebrate.

Edinburgh Castle
Monday 24 December, 3.30 p.m.

The fog hung in dense pockets like ectoplasm. It covered his tracks, muffling any sound he might be careless enough to make – even his breath was concealed in the cold night air. The freezing mist was harsh on his lungs. He stuck his nose deep into his scarf in case he coughed. It was extremely unpalatable; the material was wet with snot and condensation but he couldn’t take any chances.

The night-vision goggles showed the groom’s party arriving, denting his hopes. He should be filled with triumph. His plan was working, but instead of a tingle of excitement, his muscles constricted, causing him to momentarily double in pain – the bastard was still looking for him.

Glasgow Joe’s kilt moved the air around him as he turned from side to side, watching his back. The big man cased the joint as though he were looking for a sniper. The Glaswegian was light on his feet, despite his size, but The Watcher was quick. Too quick for him. Thomas Foster was in jail and that was enough for the present. Anything else was the icing on the cake.

The Lewis bridal song called out to him as a small clear voice sang and eased his fears. It was all worth it. The excitement now began to flow through his limbs. He struggled to remain where he was. He wanted to see them and he wanted to smell them but, most of all, he desired to touch them.

I want never gets
his mother had admonished. Well, he was fed up being the good boy. He wanted a taste of the action himself, and what a delicious dish it was. The flickering flames held by those juvenile delinquents called attention to the bridal party. His girls, as he had come to think of them, were particularly appetizing today.

Unusually, they were dressed identically in red duchesse satin cut on the bias, which shimmered as they walked. In deference to the weather, they wore short cream fur stoles over their shoulders. The Watcher rubbed the front of his trousers, satisfied with the throb, feeling the blood pump back into his loins. A slow smile crossed his face and he nodded to himself as he stared at them, stroking methodically with his right hand.

Connie’s hair fell in long, loose ringlets. Her eyes were wide with delight as she hopped and skipped trying to get attention. He watched as her bottom lip jutted out. Would she be happy if she knew he was watching? He thought so – in fact he knew she would be. Brodie was a different kettle of fish altogether. Her scarlet dress clung to her curves; some would say that it was too tight but The Watcher felt it was just right.

His body temperature was rising. She was here. It was all worth it. He was doing it for her and, one day soon, she’d know it.

Fuck it
.

They were going in just when he was starting to enjoy himself. The Dark Angels remained on guard by the door of St Margaret’s Chapel; he felt himself wither inside as she disappeared. His heart couldn’t take the strain, he would have to bring it to a climax soon, perhaps sooner than he would have liked, sooner than was safe or sensible. With Thomas Foster in jail, the only reason to hurry was his need. It was growing every day. Every day he found it harder to stand in embalmed silence and watch her.

The chill settled into his bones. He sniffed back the snot that had formed on the end of his nose, and waited. He was no longer so good at waiting.

To those inside it was no doubt a short, happy service; to The Watcher it seemed interminable. His patience was growing shorter, and that wasn’t a good sign for anyone. He closed his eyes to dream. Pictures came into his mind that made it difficult for him to swallow – they made him ashamed but he did not open his eyes until he heard the skirl of pipes. Uncoiling, he stared through the binoculars he had fixed on her and observed the antics. Digging his nails into his skin as she caught the bouquet –
she would be no one’s bride
.

They were making it easy for him. There was one person in the party who was not enjoying herself, one person who would have a better time with him. Connie. His eyes scanned her body again and made the calculations; he was absolutely certain he had it right. Initially, she would have to be drugged, but then she would be happy.

She stood alone in the mist as the grown-ups disappeared down the hill, lingering behind to see if anyone missed her. They didn’t. Rubbing his hands together The Watcher grabbed his bag – he always carried his tools with him – ready to take her. He hated the idea that she would think she was unloved, unwanted.

He would take better care of her. Standing alone in the dark, she huddled into the stone doorway. The Watcher could sense her fear as he moved closer, readying himself to make a move. Clutching his bag of tools to his chest, he inched forward in the fog, anxious not to alert her, not to scare her into running.

Clenching his body tight, The Watcher savoured the thrill. He had anticipated this for so long. Everything was leading up to this moment.

Was that a sob?

His heart warmed at the sound of the lonely girl. He recognized it as a moment of happiness; she would think he was a hero. The Watcher could taste her fear, it was sweet to him. The unexpected noise on the cobbles made him stop and scuttle for cover by the side of a cannon. Peering over the top, he saw the bastard. For a few long seconds his heart stopped. Glasgow Joe scooped Connie up in his arms – regrettably he did not give her a row. The Watcher bit his tongue so hard that blood mixed with saliva, dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Joe put the frightened little girl down, clutching her to him. Did he know that evil was so close by?

Grasping his tool bag tighter to his chest, The Watcher turned. He didn’t look over his shoulder, walking away to live and win another day.