Authors: Robin Pilcher
“Whit the hell’s up wi’ you?” the police constable exclaimed, bringing the car to a juddering halt.
“He’s jist gone down a cul-de-sac,” Heather cried out, her eyes wide with horror, “and he’s no’ got any airbags or seat belt!” She shut her eyes tight and covered her ears with her hands, anticipating the appalling sound of the impact.
The muffled explosion was so powerful that the police car shook, and for a second, it seemed to suck the air from inside it. Heather opened her eyes, immediately having to shield them with a hand against the blinding glare of light blazing in the sky, so powerful that it was as if night had turned to day. The craggy outline of the houses and buildings in Edinburgh stood out, solid and erect, unperturbed by the constant shower of colour that appeared to be raining down upon their roofs. Open-mouthed with shock and amazement, she turned and looked towards the narrow lane down which the BMW had disappeared, and in the brief seconds of flickering darkness between the star-bursts that lit up the street, she saw that all was quiet, all was safe.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” she cried out with relief as she undid her seat belt and threw open the door of the car. She got out and began to run as fast as her stocky little legs would take her down the road.
T.K. never lessened the power of the car as he drove at breakneck speed down the lane, his hands clutching hard at the wheel as he steered it through the narrow gap between the parked vehicles on either side of him. He had no knowledge of this part of the city and he had no idea where this was going to take him. A resounding bang made him jerk his body away towards the gear shift and he glanced at the dangling wing mirror, taking his eyes momentarily away from the direction in which he was travelling. And then suddenly, a dazzling flash of light fell upon the street, making him turn to see, in its glaring brilliance, the wall that was looming up in front of him at the end of the lane. He let out a scream of panic, bracing his arms against the steering wheel as he transferred his foot to the brake pedal and slammed it to the floor. The car screeched angrily at the sudden transference of command, its sophisticated anti-lock brake system keeping it to a straight path through the parked vehicles, and it came to a tyre-burning halt no more that three feet away from the end of the cul-de-sac.
T.K. sat shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the solid stone wall in front of him, catching his breath in great gulps of fear and relief, wondering what kind of extraordinary phenomenon had just occurred to save his life. And then it dawned on him that it could only be that someone didn’t want this to happen, someone who really cared for him was watching over him, and he bent forward, resting his head on the steering wheel, and began to cry once more. Another blaze of light shone out and he looked up, knowing now that it was a sign from Leonard, calling out to him. He opened the door and staggered out and leaned on the car roof, tears streaming down his face, as he stared up at the gigantic starburst that exploded high in the night sky, stretching its flaming tentacles up towards heaven and, as only he knew, carrying with it the spirit of the man he had come to admire and to love.
He raised up a hand. “See ya, Leonard,” he murmured. “See ya, mon.”
He turned and began to walk away from the car, his body now shaking both with grief and adrenalin, and then he saw the figure, wearing a luminous yellow vest, run down the lane towards him. The woman police constable slowed to a walk the moment she caught sight of him. T.K. focused his bleary vision on the uniform and, in that moment, he was hit by the forgotten reality of his situation. He looked around desperately, trying to find some way to escape.
“It’s a’ right, Thomas,” Heather called out. “It’s me, Constable Lennox. I know aboot Mr. Hartson, Thomas, I know aboot everything that’s happened.” She held out her arms to the side, only to show she had no means of restraint about her person. “Come on here, lad, ye’ll be a’ right.”
She saw him start to run towards her, and as he got nearer she saw the wild, seething anger in his eyes and she took a couple of steps back, bracing herself to stop him from pushing her off her feet in his attempt to make a getaway. She opened her mouth to yell out for support from her colleague, but her breath was forced from her body when T.K. flung himself into her arms, clutching tight to her as he sobbed inconsolably on her shoulder.
She stood there until she could no longer support the full, sad weight of his body against hers. “Come on, Thomas,” she said quietly, giving him a pat on the back. “Let’s get you away from here.”
And linking a steadying arm through his, Heather Lennox began walking him back up the lane.
Two miles away, in one of the west-facing bedrooms in the Balmoral Hotel, Gary and Rene Brownlow lay in bed in the darkness, propped up against soft down pillows and gazing out of the open window at the Fireworks Display as they sipped their glasses of champagne.
“I bet the kids are enjoying all this,” Rene said as she cuddled herself in against her husband’s naked body.
“Aye, I bet they are,” Gary replied, too mesmerized by what was going on outside even to look at his wife. “It was good of Matti to take them.”
Rene sniggered as she traced a finger down the centre of her husband’s chest. “What do kids of that age think when their parents say they’re going to bed at nine o’clock in the evening?”
“No idea,” Gary replied, taking a drink from his glass. He turned to her briefly. “Ye ’aven’t told them, ’ave ye?”
“Told them what?” Rene said with a smile.
“About, you know, the birds-and-bees stuff.”
“No, don’t worry. I ’aven’t said a thing.”
“Good,” Gary said with a nod and continued to look out of the window.
Rene let out a contented sigh. “America tomorrow.”
“Aye.”
“Are ye looking forward to it?”
“Bloody ’ell!” Gary exclaimed as a blinding incandescence of light filled the room like an atomic explosion. He threw back the duvet and ran over to stand at the window.
“Gary!” Rene screamed in hilarity. “Get away from there! Ye’re stark-bollock naked!”
“Don’t be stupid! No one’s remotely interested in seeing me tadger,” he said as a second explosion lit up the outline of his lean body. “They’re all looking up at the castle, any road.”
A sudden roar rose up from the crowd in the street and Gary pressed his hands against the windowpane to see if he could work out what had caused it. He looked back towards the castle and immediately saw the reason for the cry.
“My God, Rene!” He turned and beckoned urgently to his wife. “Come over ’ere quick, lass. Ye’ve got to see this.”
“I can see more than enough from ’ere,” Rene replied, leaning on an elbow as she studied with satisfaction her husband’s neat rounded buttocks.
“No, come quick! Now!”
Clambering out of bed, Rene grabbed a towel off a chair and wrapped it around her as she walked towards the window.
“Look up there on the battlements of the castle,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and guiding her line of sight with an outstretched hand.
Rene followed his direction, and beneath the giant palm-tree spread of shimmering light she saw the tiny figure standing high up on the castle wall like the cross of Saint Andrews, his legs apart and his arms raised towards the sky as if commanding the multicoloured tempest taking place in the firmament above to cease.
“What d’ye suppose ’e’s doing?” Rene asked.
“No idea. It’s a powerful sight, though.”
“It’s a bit creepy, in’t it?”
Gary shook his head. “No, I think it’s quite…well, biblical, like.”
Rene crossed her arms and looked disappointedly at her husband. “’Ere, I thought we were meant to be doing something during all this?”
Gary glanced round at her and gave his chin a thoughtful rub. “Aye, ye’re right, we were.” He flicked a thumb towards the window. “D’ye want me to go and ask them to do it over?”
“No, don’t bother.” She laughed, her attention suddenly caught by the largest starburst of all, exploding high above the city, illuminating the thousands of people who lined the length of Princes Street and showering its trailing beams down upon them. She put her hands up to her towel and let it fall to the ground. “But the show’s not over yet, you know.”
Gary smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “No, it’s not, is it!”
And, together, they ran across the room and dived onto the bed.
I
t was mid-November the following year, when another festival had come and gone, and already the ticket hall at Waverley Station was being decked out for Christmas. A large tinsel-covered tree brightened up the starkness of the seating area while paper streamers were jauntily looped along the full length of the glass-fronted ticket desk. Gavin Mackintosh took off his leather gloves and undid the buttons of his overcoat as he approached one of the two clerks manning the desk, the place being considerably warmer than outside, where a freezing mist hung over the city, settling its thick rimey blanket on the sparsely populated platforms of the station. He purchased a return ticket to London’s King’s Cross, only because it was better value than buying a single, but there was no doubt in his mind that the return leg would never be used. Slipping his credit card back into his wallet, he took out two twenty-pound notes before returning it to the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He turned to the young man who stood behind him carrying a large rucksack on his back, the straps cutting deep into the brown Timberland jacket he wore along with a woolly hat, pulled down over his ears to cover his shaven head.
“There you are, Thomas,” he said, handing the ticket to T.K. before glancing up at the departures monitor on the wall. “Your train is the ten-thirty from platform one, but it looks to be running about five minutes late.” He looked at the lad. “Once you’re on it, you don’t have to think about changing or anything like that. If you have any worries, just ask someone. Do you know what you’re doing when you get to London?”
“Aye,” T.K. replied, putting his hand in the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a well-thumbed letter and handing it to Gavin. “Mr. Springer’s written it a’ doon there.”
Gavin opened the letter and read quickly through it, the offer of a job at Springtime Productions, the plans made for T.K. at Christmas, and the directions he was to give the taxi driver on his arrival in London. Gavin refolded the letter and handed it back to him.
“I see you’re going down to Kingston for Christmas.” T.K. nodded. “Aye, ah’m spending it wi’ Grace.”
“Well, that’ll be good for you both. No doubt you’ll be looking forward to seeing this great award Leonard’s film received at this year’s Film Festival.”
“Ah’ve seen it, ’cos Grace sent me a photo of it. She’d written on the back, ‘This is yours as well.’”
Gavin smiled. “Nothing could be truer, T.K. Leonard couldn’t have made that film without you.” He reached out for T.K.’s hand and pressed the two twenty-pound notes into his palm. “This is just to wish you on your way.”
T.K. glanced down at his hand, opening it a fraction to see what was there. “Cheers, Mr. Mackintosh,” he said, without lifting his head.
“Best of luck with your future, Thomas,” Gavin said, giving the lad a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve served your time, so now you can just put all that behind you.” He laughed briefly. “And for goodness’ sakes, don’t go driving any cars unless they belong to you, is that understood?”
T.K. looked up with an embarrassed smirk on his face and glanced across at the woman police constable who stood next to them.
Gavin consulted his wristwatch. “Well, I must be getting back to the office,” he said, holding a hand out to T.K. “Keep in touch now.”
“Aye, ah will,” T.K. replied, shaking his hand.
When their goodbyes were finished, Heather Lennox gave T.K. a brief hug. “Cheerio, Thomas. Look after yersel’.”
“Aye, and thanks for pickin’ us up this mornin’.”
Heather smiled, raising a stern finger to him. “Well, you mak’ sure that’s the last time
you
ever get tae ride in a police car again, right?”
She gave a short wave of farewell and turned and walked with Gavin towards the doors of the ticket office, leaving T.K. with a broad grin on his face.
“Well, Constable Lennox,” Gavin said as he stood on the pavement doing up his overcoat, “it looks like things have turned out all right for that young man.”
Heather rubbed her hands together to stave off the morning chill. “Aye. He’s the lucky one.”
“Very true,” Gavin replied, “and consequently I doubt very much this will be the last time you and
I
will be meeting up.”
He left her with a smile and crossed over the taxi sweep and, setting a brisk pace, began making his way back up the ramp towards Princes Street.