The witches chuck their fags away and push Hermione towards the photographer. One half-finished fag lies between two cobble stones. The end is still lit and smoke curls from the orange glow.
Loosen your clothing, then sit with your back against the wall.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
I'm about to bend down and pick it up, when someone arrives with a big fuck-off owl. Where the hell did they get that from?
Hermione looks terrified as the owl is placed on her shoulder. I watch its talons curl and clamp onto her. It would be so easy for those claws to pierce the skin; pierce the skin and carry her off like a lamb. Those witches need to be more careful. All it takes is one bad decision. Just one mistake and you're left wishing you had a reset button.
'Okay, sweetheart? That's great. Can I get a wee smile now? Brilliant.'
Andy from the
Evening News
starts clicking away. A few of the hen party try to get in the shot, and then folk from outside Dirty Dick's hold up their phones and take photos, beckon inside for their friends to come out and see this.
The owl rises up and flaps its wings; a gust of air blows across me and the feathers brush against my face.
'Jesus.'
The owl turns its head around, like that lassie out of
The Exorcist
. It stares right at me. Huge yellow eyes. Not blinking. Staring me out.
I get the feeling it knows something I don't.
I blink and break eye contact. Can still see its eyes flashing at me when I turn away, like I've been looking directly into a light bulb. The orbs follow me and I shut my eyes. When I open them again the owl and the photographer are gone. Off to find someone else who looks daft enough to make the paper.
I shiver. Someone walking over my grave.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.
Someone inside Dirty Dick's drops a glass, and a cheer goes up from the pub.
Are you going for a drink after work?
Aye, you?
Yeah.
I button up my denim jacket. The temperature's dropped since I got here. A group of lassies pass by, wearing hardly any clothes. How do they do it?
My glasses are smudged so I wipe them on my t-shirt. Everything's a blur without them on. It's all shapes and colours, nothing has a proper outline.
Without my glasses on, I can pretend the shadow next to me is him: Lewis, waiting with me.
You know, in the 'In Bloom' video?
One arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
The folk walking by get drunker and drunker the closer it gets to midnight.
'Harry dies!' some knob-end shouts.
His friends all laugh like he's just come out with a line to rival Billy Connolly. Like he's the first one to have thought of it. His hair looks like someone filled a watering can with bleach and sprinkled it over his head: Derek Riordan, eat your heart out.
Fuck, I need to calm down.
Start by breathing out. Then breathe in.
Maybe I should ask one of the witches for a fag? One finger, one thumb.
The queue seems to be moving, but we're not going forward, just huddling closer together. The witches are taking it in turns to hold a sleeping Hermione while the other one smokes. I could ask them for a fag. Just one. Hermione's wand is lying on the ground so I pick it up and tap it against my chest.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.
It hits off something inside my jacket pocket and I remember the MP3 player I've got shoved in there. I'm not sure why I've got it with me. It's not really mine and I don't know how to work it.
There's something about it though.
The One Dread Guy stopped Davie as he walked home from work.
Hey you, son, come here.
Davie had never heard the Guy speak before: softly spoken for such a grizzly man.
Aye, what is it? Davie replied, and dug about in his pocket for some loose change.
I have to give you something.
Eh?
Davie had never heard a homeless guy offer to give something away before. The One Dread Guy's life existed in six scabby rucksacks, but he wanted to give something away.
Come here, I've to give you him, Archie says I've got to.
Who's Archie?
Archie, my friend Archie.
Don't worry about it, eh?
The One Dread Guy pulled a pair of headphones off his head. They slid down the matted rectangle of hair hanging down his back like a paddle. His hair and shoulders were littered with flakes, a scrunched up bag of cheese and onion crisps.
Here, take it. The One Dread Guy held something in his hand.
His fingers were swollen and grubby, the knuckles all cracked and bruised. There was a rectangular scar on each palm, like he'd been burnt by something and the shape of it had melted onto his skin. He offered the MP3 player to Davie.
I don't want it, you keep it.
No, Archie told me.
The Guy took a step towards Davie. Davie held his breath against the stale, unwashed smell of him.
Yours now, the Guy said and pushed the MP3 player into Davie's chest. The Guy's breath was warm and sticky; it coated Davie's face with a layer of slime.
What is it? Davie asked.
You'll find out, the Guy replied.
Davie watched as the Guy swung rucksack after rucksack onto his back and shuffled away, muttering to himself.
Davie wiped the player on his jeans. It was covered in greasy fingerprints and looked broken. The screen was blank and there was a crack down one side.
Davie was about to leave the MP3 player lying on the pavement when something stopped him. A voice in his head.
You'll regret it if you leave it. You'll only come back for it later.
It felt valuable. Davie couldn't leave it in the same way he couldn't leave his wallet, his keys, his phone.
Not only that, he had a sudden urge to put the headphones on.
I take the player out of my pocket and turn it over and over in my hands. The headphones are jammed inside the player and won't come out. They've got hinges on them so they can fold up. The hinges are stiff and covered in rust. I slide them backwards and forwards. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
The player doesn't have any buttons on it: no volume control, no power switch, no Play button. It's weird.
Maybe the One Dread Guy just used it to keep his ears warm out on the street? I've been carrying it around with me ever since he gave me it. I don't know why.
There's just something about it.
I'm still looking at it when the countdown begins. It starts in front of me, but then dominoes back along the rest of the queue.
'10,
9
,
8
,
7
,
6
,
5
,
4
,
3
,
2
,
1!'
Everyone cheers as midnight strikes, and I hear a few watch and phone alarms going off. I'm an imposter. It shouldn't be me who's here. I don't deserve to be part of this. It's like I'm at a gig and the lead singer has just stopped singing in the middle of a song. He's held his microphone out so the crowd can sing for him, and I'm the only one there who doesn't know the words.
I just stand in silence, while everyone around me joins in the shared moment.
One arm, one leg, one nod of the head, keep moving, keep moving.
The countdown turns out to be a bit of an anti-climax, as the queue remains motionless and it's two in the morning before I finally make it to the till with Lewis's copy of the book. It's way too late to go and see him now. He'll have to wait.
A lassie hands me a helium balloon as I leave Waterstone's.
I head home up Lothian Road, a Jekyll and Hyde part of Edinburgh: office workers by day, sleazy clubbers by night. 'Saunas' and lap-dancing clubs squeeze out from where they've been hiding between the sandwich shops.
We only come out at night.
I'm Mario in a platform game now. I let old-school Gameboy tunes play in my head as I manoeuvre my feet home.
Dodge drunk man.
Leap pile of sick.
Duck seagull carrying chip.
Leap more sick.
Head-butt block and collect mushroom.
'Hey, can I have that balloon?' a drunken lassie grabs my arm as I walk past her.
I ignore her and continue walking.
'I asked you a question.'
She follows me along the pavement, then swats the balloon with her handbag. It hits off the side of my head and makes that deep, echoey noise that only helium balloons can make.
'Get your own.'
Keep moving, keep moving. One finger, one thumb.
'Please, it's my birthday,' she says as she stumbles against a shop window.
I stop and look at her as she slides down the glass.
'Aye, alright.' I give her the balloon and leave her sitting on the pavement with it as I continue on home.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg.
2
Davie struggled to unlock the front door. He just couldn't manage to line up key with keyhole.
Davie dropped the orange juice.
'PLEASE, PHOTO PLEASE.'
A Japanese couple step out in front of me and block the pavement. The guy holds out a digital camera, offering it to me.
Not more free electronic shit.
'Please, photo please,' he repeats.
The words sink in and I understand what he's asking me. My brain hasn't woken up yet. They're both smiling, already posing, he puts an arm around her. I focus on the buttons on her jacket. Big and red, the size of a two pound coin. I count them to get my brain working. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. She has seven buttons on her jacket.
It's half six in the fucking morning.
Half six.
I can barely see through my half open eyes; I'm looking out on the world through slits. I hate early shifts.
Princes Street is dead. Deserted. I hold up the camera. It looks pretty expensive. There's loads of buttons and switches and knobs. I can't work out what to press to take the photo.
I shrug my shoulders and the guy steps forward and points out the correct button. I nod.
'Okay then, say cheese.'
They both flash grins at me, he has perfect white teeth while the girl wears braces. She gives me a peace sign. The castle is in the background, a veil of morning haar shimmers around it. It looks superimposed, like they're in front of a blue screen.
I hand the camera back and the couple inspect my handiwork. She smiles and he gives me the thumbs up and nods his head.
'Thank you much, thank you much,' he says.
'Aye, no bother,' I reply and continue on my way.
The inside of my mouth tastes fuzzy and I rummage in my pockets hoping to find some chewing gum. Nothing doing though. I swirl saliva around in my mouth and spit, wipe my tongue across my teeth. I feel like I've been out drinking or something; something more sordid than standing in a book queue.
I stop walking, turn and look at the castle again. It does look pretty fucking impressive. The Japanese couple are now taking individual shots of each other with the castle behind them. I walk past it nearly every day, but I never notice it. The har is slowly rising and hangs just around the top of the battlements.
Lewis's story was pinned on the notice board in the kitchen.
The Day the Castle Disappeared.
He'd drawn a picture to go with it: a castle with grey clouds swirling around the turrets.
The final sentence was always at eye level when you walked past the notice board. It would stick in Davie's head for hours afterwards, an earworm.
Then it disappeared in the mist.
Then it disappeared in the mist.
Then it disappeared in the mist.
I begin walking again and have to dodge some woman reading the new
Harry Potter
. She doesn't even look up at me as I side-step out of her way, just keeps on walking, eyes focused on the page.
Stupid cow.
I'll need to get that book to Lewis. I'm making him fall behind everyone else.
'Alright?' I say to Louise and Derek, who are waiting outside the shop when I get there. I lean against the wall and shut my eyes, then Laura the manager arrives and begins to open up. Her key clicks in the glass doors and the alarm beeps. She holds a door open for us and we all troop inside. The lights take a while to fire up and I'm down the stairs and halfway across the basement floor before they kick in.
His face was illuminated when he opened the door. He took out the carton and unscrewed the lid.
The shop's quite creepy first thing in the morning, when the lights are off and there's no customers around.
Ghosts.
Everyone jokes about the returns room being haunted. Apart from Stewart in the cash room of course, he actually believes it is haunted.
I've felt a presence there, Stewart said to Davie.
Who do you think you are, fucking Darth Vader or something?
Honestly, I'm not kidding. The room went cold and I could sense it behind me. I tried to communicate with it.
How did you do that?
I just held my arms out, told it I was a friend, a believer.
Oh aye?
Davie looked at Stewart's fingernails, they were painted black. He didn't quite have a steady hand though and had smeared polish all around the tips of his fingers. Looked like he hadn't washed his hands in days. Maybe he hadn't? He'd
once told Davie he slept in a coffin. Davie wasn't sure if he meant in the house or in the garden.
I dump my bag and jacket in my locker. I'm just turning the key when I realise I've forgotten something. I unlock the locker again and rummage through my stuff. What have I forgotten? Come on brain, concentrate, concentrate. Name badge? Nah, still pinned to my t-shirt. I never take that off, even put it through the washing machine. Pen? No, I'll grab one from the staffroom. What is it?