dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) (13 page)

Chapter 3

Tricia

“How’s Uni going, sweetheart? I’ve no idea how you fathom all that computer programming stuff.”

Tricia Stevenson wore a padded parka, hood pulled up over head, red hair straying from beneath refusing to be restrained. She tore a lump from her over-sized burger that she didn’t really feel like eating, chewing on an insult as much as the meat. She swallowed the food and the spiteful remark.

“Fine,” she said flatly.

Her father cricked his neck to the side a fraction, his discomfort provoking her.

“Fancy taking a walk along The Royal Mile,” he asked.

Glaring across the table at her dad, Tricia thought
fuck it
and forced acidic contempt into her tone.

“Sounds great, Dad. How about we get mum a Zimmer-frame, some extra-strong coffee and a can of Monster? Then we’ll be set.”

Marty, face down looking at his iPad, snorted in derision and appreciation of his sister’s put-down to their father.

Tricia watched her dad’s face flush for a second, enjoying his reaction. She raised her eyebrows, daring him to chide her. Jock closed his eyes firmly and took a moment to compose himself. Tricia enjoyed his discomfort and took a long pull on her double vodka, trying not to wince at the ethanol burn. An infrequent drinker, she’d only ordered it to piss him off.

Her dad opened his eyes, once again calm. He looked over at her mother, Isabelle. Forehead on her forearm, she’d been drinking, more or less, since they’d arrived in the city by train that morning. Tricia and her brother were used to negotiating and guiding their mother when she was inebriated, which was often. Jock… Dad, on the other hand, had little experience or patience with Isabelle, or with his children for that matter.

Jock looked back to her, a pleading look in his eyes. It was pathetic. He was supposed to be the parent.

“Look, Tricia, I need her sober and able to at least stand without falling over for this ceremony tonight,” he said.

Marty laughed again. Tricia held her stare, drilling her eyes into Jock’s.

“Aye, good for you, Jock,” she said, enjoying him trying to conceal his annoyance at her use of his given name. “How about I make a wee tabasco cocktail? You get a funnel and a length of tube and we’ll get in about her. She’ll be on her feet in two minutes.”

To his credit, Jock held his military composure though his right eye twitched a fraction, showing his stress.

He leaned in closer across the table and said quietly, “Let’s just get her up to our room in the hotel. She can sleep off the drink for the next few hours. Get her cleaned up and presentable by ten o’clock.”

Tricia shoved the glass of vodka across the table. It reached the table’s edge and disappeared over. Jock’s arm shot out. He caught the glass and slammed it hard onto the table top.

“You almost spilled your drink… love.”

Tricia clocked the look on her brother’s face, surprise and grudging admiration at the old man’s reflexes. Guessing that her own face wore the same expression, she forced a sneer.

“Nice catch, Jocky,” she laughed. “Aye, don’t you worry yourself. We’ll get her home and we’ll all be scrubbed up looking our best for your big ceremony. Okay?”

Her father stood. “Good,” he said. He left without another word.

Marty shifted his backside along the red leather bench of the booth they sat in.

“You gonnae eat that burger, Trish?” he asked.

Tricia watched her father leave. He didn’t look back once.
How does a man get to thirty-four years of age and be such a blind arsehole?
she thought.

“Na. Help yourself, blondie,” she said.

“Nice one, doll,” he grinned, scooping up the three-quarters of the burger she’d left uneaten. Stuffing her fries and onion rings inside the bun, Marty took a dino-sized bite and spat through a mouthful of food, “He’s a dick at times, eh?” He nodded at the door. “The old man.”

Tricia nodded, glancing over at their mum who hadn’t budged for an hour. “Aye. He is. C’mon, let’s see to her.”

The entire day had been ridiculous in its purpose and in its reality. Tricia, cloaked in her parka, held herself close, arms wrapped around her own midsection against the cutting wind slicing along The Royal Mile.

She sighed heavily, blowing a cloud of condensed breath out into the night. She looked to Marty, caught his eye and nodded over at their mother who stood at Jock’s side, as was her duty, and trying not to sway. She didn’t look like she felt the cold at all. A marvellous insulator, a half bottle of Smirnoff. Her father, seemingly oblivious to all but the need to at least appear unified and engaged, had placed an arm around Isabelle, who roughly shrugged it from her shoulders.

As a politician droned on about the importance of the night’s events, Tricia rolled her eyes, wondering how the hypocrites gathered had managed to marry their own political aspirations to the altruistic endeavour they’d attached their ambitions to. What had been done to the people of Mary King’s Close so many years ago had been the cruellest of abandonments. That these career politicians stood at this place delivering insincere apologies and regrets brought home to Tricia how different her father and she were, that he could be a part of it.

As the politician did his ceremonial opening, Tricia felt her father pull her close to his side. Marty suffered similar attention under Jock’s other arm. Stiffly, she accepted his embrace, listening to him whisper about new beginnings. Marty formed an open fist and made a rude gesture that made her laugh. Jock mistook it for acceptance of the moment.

Despite the years of neglect, her mother’s retreat and the general sense of abandonment and detachment the family felt because of and towards Jock, Tricia found herself melting into her father’s embrace. His strong arms, just for the moment, made the anger ebb. Just for the moment, she accepted her father’s love and fused herself to his side, guilelessly. She felt like a child again. She felt safe again… and loved… and wanted. Just for the moment.

And then the doors opened.

Chapter 4

Jenny

“Fiona, we’ve been over this. Nobody knows that we’re in Edinburgh. Even if they did, nobody cares.” Jenny lifted her bottle of Corona to her lips and pulled on a mouthful, watching her sister’s reaction over the end of the glass bottle.

“But what we did, Jenny–”

“Fuck what we did,” Jenny yelled, a little louder than she’d intended. A few older men in the World’s End bar looked around, but generally her voice had been lost amongst the din of the Hogmanay crowd. Jenny leaned in closer to her younger sister, speaking more quietly this time.

“Fuck him. You know what he tried to do. Never again, we agreed on that… after Dad.” Jenny shifted her eyes away from her sister’s at the mention of their father.

Fiona sagged a little in her seat. “Aye,” she said. “I know, Jenny. It’s just that I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

Jennifer wafted a back-handed swipe at the air between them.

“Och, balls to that. It was just a broken nose, he’ll live.”

“So why come here?” Fiona asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jenny smiled sardonically. “He’ll be pissed. Best to give Bellshill a miss for a few days, at least until our Peter comes back from the rigs. That bastard McConnachie won’t come near either of us with Peter at home.”

Fiona laughed, despite her caginess. “I don’t think McConnachie will come near you or me again anyway, sis.”

Jenny smiled bitterly.

“Aye, well. Best to let things settle for a bit. Never again… remember that, Fiona.”

Fiona’s eyes misted as memories of their abuse at their father’s hands stabbed at her. They’d escaped his house and his desires when they were in their early teens and had vowed to never be powerless again.

Jenny watched her sister fight back the demons of their childhood and take a long drink from her Jack Daniels. Placing the glass onto the table in front of them, Fiona cocked her head to the side. “Aye, but all McConnachie did was grab my arse cheek.”

Jenny’s face became stoic. “Aye, well, it was the wrong arse to be grabbing.”

They clinked glasses.

“Fair enough, love,” Fiona said. “Let’s make this our last. I’m tired.”

Jenny’s face screwed up. “We’re two minutes from the bells, love. You’ll manage.”

Fiona glanced at her watch. “Christ, is it that time already? Might as well see the course. Want another?” she asked, nodding at the dregs in Jenny’s bottle.

A brief nod.

Jenny watched her sister approach the bar, which was three-deep with punters trying to get a drink in to toast the New Year. By the time Fiona reached the oak bar, the bells were ringing and people had begun kissing and shaking hands. An old man with a rank-smelling whisky in his hand planted a forty-proof kiss on Jenny’s cheek as she mouthed to her sister, “Happy new year, darlin’.”

Fiona stuck her tongue out and mimed a vigorous snogging action, laughing at her sister’s new admirer.

Jenny shook her head then kissed the man warmly on the cheek, avoiding his pursed, hopeful lips. Wishing him a happy new year, she guided him to a group of ladies his own age at the piano.

As she passed the window a man rushed past outside, blood flowing freely from a cut on his arm. Alcohol made her doubt what she’d seen, but Jenny peered out into The Royal Mile anyway, trying to catch where the bleeding man had gone.

Three more people ran screaming past the window. Something made her neck prickle. This wasn’t just folk letting off steam. A second later a cacophony of screams reached the ears of everyone in the pub. Jenny’s eyes snapped to her sister, who had already dropped the drinks she’d been carrying and was pushing her way across the pub to Jenny.

Grabbing her sister’s arms roughly, Jenny pushed past a group of students near the entrance, emerging out onto The Royal Mile as they cursed at her from behind. As they shot out onto The Mile, Fiona was poleaxed by a middle-aged man who’d run straight at and through her from up the hill.

“Ya fuckin wanker!” Jenny yelled after him, but he was disappearing into the night, unaware or uncaring.

Yanking her sister back up onto her feet, Jenny stole a glance up the long, slow gradient towards St Giles’ Cathedral. People were screaming, fighting, running and generally panicking. Most were headed down The Royal Mile towards and past the sisters. Large groups fought each other up by the Cathedral.

“What the hell’s going on?” Fiona said, voice a whisper as she watched the violence begin to move their way.

“Let’s get back to our room,” Jenny said.

As they began to run along the street, downhill away from the epicentre of whatever was going on, a Ford Focus screeched along towards them, mounting the pavement with one of its wheels to avoid a fallen man in the road. The car bulleted straight towards them. The driver’s eyes were wide in horror as he came within a hair of killing the sisters.

Fiona pulled Jenny up, both sisters rising to resume their sprint towards their hostel.

“Could’ve sworn that was a priest driving,” Jenny puffed as they ran.

“Fucking worst priest ever if it was,” Fiona replied.