The Edinburgh Dead (30 page)

“Course I have.” She dropped the second pendant into his outstretched hand. “Can we call you a believer yet, then?”

“Call me what you like,” Quire sniffed. “I stopped knowing what to believe a while back. I’m playing the game by the rules my enemies have set for the next wee while, that’s all.”

He held up his arm, rolling his wrist to set the rowan charm swinging.

Agnes pushed at the door. It shivered, and caught on the uneven ground, came free and scraped open. Cold air flowed gently over
them as they stared into a short, dingy passageway with a low roof and undulating, unpaved floor.

For an instant, at the touch of that air, a terrible, lurching dread ran through Quire. His hands trembled suddenly, and he was seized by the urge to flee. He steadied himself.

“You feel something?” Agnes asked.

“Aye.”

“Not without its protections, this place,” she said, but offered no further explanation.

She made to step across the threshold, but Quire barred her way with an outstretched arm.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

“Oh? Well, if it’ll make you happy.”

She sounded faintly amused. Quire found her lack of a caution a little discomfiting. He had not told her of the pistol he had tucked inside his jacket, and did not mean to. Most places he went now, he went armed.

It was colder in there than he had expected, like a cave. That shawl draped around Agnes’ head suddenly did not seem so redundant. The walls, when his fingertips brushed them, were damp to the touch. Hundreds of small webs were tucked into the edges of the ceiling. The floor had a disquieting hint of softness to it, the layers of dirt giving beneath his feet. Not a cave, not quite; a tomb. Quire felt himself to be disturbing a place that had been asleep for a long time.

He advanced a few paces, accompanied in every step by that awful dread; that moaning fear within him, pleading with him to turn about and run. He could feel sweat upon his brow.

Agnes lingered, just inside the doorway. He turned towards her, wondering for a moment whether she was overcome by the same gnawing unease that assailed him.

“See?” she asked, gesturing at the crumbling wall of the passage.

He looked where she pointed. Just barely, he could make out a thin line of some brownish, earthy material, running directly up the wall.

“All the way round,” Agnes said, swinging her arm up and over.

Now that Quire’s eye was tuned to it, he could see clear enough that the line did indeed traverse the ceiling, descend the opposite wall of the passage and run back across the floor to join with its own tail.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A warding. Grave soil, I’d guess. It’s why you’re feeling set to piss yourself, and why you can’t stop thinking what a fine idea it’d be to get yourself out of here and never come back. Like as not, if it wasn’t for that wee twig at your wrist, you’d have run off already.”

“Visitors aren’t welcome, then,” Quire murmured.

“So it seems.”

Quire pushed his way into a side room, through another stiff and resistant door. There were floorboards, almost lost beneath the drifts of soggy dust. They grumbled beneath him, yielding with murmurs of exhaustion. Dark smears were all over the walls, where water had come through to discolour the plaster and spread stains of mould. Patches of that plaster had fallen away, from walls and ceiling alike, littering the floor like plates of bark shed from a tree.

Quire’s breath sounded loud to him. He stifled it, making himself calm. The air he drew carefully in tasted sour and stale, as if nothing had stirred it for years. There was a fire grate, rusted away and almost collapsed in on itself; a dull red and black skeleton of gnawed bones. Piles of crumbling wood that might once have been furniture, but it was impossible to say of what kind in the gloom.

“I heard there was an old soldier rented it, a long while back,” Agnes said behind him, and her voice was so sudden that Quire started and gasped, and then put his hand to his brow to compose himself. He felt the subtle weight of the rowan charm against his sleeve.

“So beat down he could find nowhere else for him and his wife to end their days,” Agnes went on. “First one to dare the place in a hundred years, and the last. Didn’t get past the first night, way the tale’s told.”

“What happened?” Quire whispered.

“Woke in their bed to a visitation. There’s different things I’ve heard. Some said they saw a calf, or a cat; familiars of the Devil, come seeking their dead master. Some said they saw Weir himself, standing right there watching them while they slept.” She sniffed. “Don’t much credit it myself.”

Another room. Another musty silence. Quire shifted some of the detritus about with the toe of his boot. Each time he disturbed it, he smelled putrefaction, and the piss and dung of rats. In this chamber, there were roof beams stretched across the ceiling. They sagged. The vast weight of the tenement above, the lives being lived in it, bore down upon that small dark place.

“What did he do?” Quire asked. “Weir, I mean. To get himself burned.”

“I’d not think anyone could tell you that,” Agnes replied. “I ken what he was accused of: unnatural and perverse congress, with his sister and with beasts of the field. The corruption of those about him. The invocation of Satanic powers.”

“Did he have children?”

“Not that I ever heard.”

“Blegg can’t be a descendant of his, then.”

Muted light was seeping through another doorway. Quire went towards it, and looked through into a last room. There was a small window, caked with filth, in the far wall, but a door had been propped against it, blocking out most of the light. He eased it aside and scraped some of the dirt from the glass. The window let out into some boxed-in little square of flagstones, to which no doors, no passageways, gave access; a forgotten fragment of ground, engulfed by the city.

Quire straightened, looked at the grime now clinging to his fingertips. He rubbed them thoughtfully on the leg of his trousers.

“Someone’s been here,” Agnes said.

Quire turned to look at her.

“There’s footprints.”

Now that there was more light reaching in, he could see them.
Not a legible trail, but the rough impression of boots here and there on the grubby floor.

“Place reeks of darkness,” Agnes said. “Evil spends long enough in one spot, it can never be right again.”

She was only now starting to sound as uneasy as Quire had felt all along. He put his hand to his side, just tracing the shape of the pistol through his jacket. It was no great comfort. The oppressive atmosphere of Weir’s old house was not something that could be dispelled by a gun. Nor was the overwhelming sense of being an intruder, undesired and uninvited.

There were sudden footfalls, muffled but distinct, above their heads. Quire tensed, and found himself reaching for the pistol despite himself. He froze, and Agnes did too, both of them standing there with their heads back, staring at the ceiling. The footsteps moved from one side of the room to the other, dwindling as they went, slipping away into silence.

Quire puffed his cheeks out and let his hands hang loose.

“Place’ll never be clean,” Agnes murmured. “Not unless it’s torn down. Burned.”

“Who would come here?” said Quire, shaking his head.

He found it difficult to imagine anyone voluntarily lingering for more than a few moments in a place so unsettling, so polluted. Even the most destitute, the most desperate, could find better hovels than this to doss down in.

“No one,” Agnes agreed with his unspoken thoughts. “No one but the one who set that ward upon the door, eh? One who didn’t find it quite as foul a place as us ordinary folk do. One who liked it, even. Might be, if you’ve got the art to use it, there’s strength to be had here. It’d take a heart as black as the place itself for that, though.”

Quire walked slowly around the room, running a hand along the wall, prodding the corpse of a rat with his foot. There was a small pile of rags and rubble, with the broken spars of a shattered chair projecting from it. As he turned, his trouser leg caught upon the jagged end of one of those fragments of wood.

Irritated, he bent down to unhitch the material. As it came free,
he saw, still caught there on the splintered stub of wood, something that made him kneel, and lean close. He did not want to touch it, for the fear and trepidation still ran strong in him, but he did not need to.

“Dog hairs,” he said quietly.

“Dog hairs?” Agnes repeated.

“There’s been dogs in here, and not so very long ago, most likely. One of them snagged themselves here, just as I did. It’s Ruthven, then. Maybe this is his idea of a kennel, for keeping his hounds when they’re not out on the farm. When they’ve got work to do in town, like Carlyle. Or me.”

“Carlyle?”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s get ourselves out of here. This place is too much for me, rowan charm or no.”

“You’ll not be getting an argument from me,” Agnes said, and led the way back, moving carefully through the short chain of rooms towards the passageway.

As Quire followed her, he was distracted by a dull, frayed cloth tacked up to one of the walls. It hung there like a limp tapestry, its dismal form of a piece with the decrepitude of the house. An oddity. A purposeless elaboration. He tugged gently at it and it came away easily, bits of the wall itself crumbling out as the little nails slipped free.

And Quire found himself staring into a face. The skin of a human face, nailed to the wall; hanging there, soft and horrible, without the structure of bone or muscle to give it shape. Eyelids, nose, cheeks, lips all sagging, a glove puppet taken from the hand it once covered and hung there like a gruesome trophy. For a moment, just a moment, he thought it a piece of worked calf hide, or vellum, formed by some craft he could not imagine into the mockery of a human visage; but he knew it was not. He knew it was precisely what it appeared to be. A man’s face, peeled from his skull.

Quire felt cold horror locking his limbs. He opened his mouth to speak, and no words came. He could not take his gaze from the baggy, ragged pouches of the eye holes. Scraps of the ears clung to
the edges of the dreadful mask, a few stray strands of dark hair where it had been torn—or roughly cut—from the scalp.

“Look,” he managed to murmur.

There were little downy feathers tied to its edges with threads. There was a vile, slack weight to the way it hung from the nails.

Quire heard a hiss from Agnes.

“Get out,” she rasped.

But it was too late. The face moved. A slight, convulsive tremor as if some unseen muscles pulled at it. A curl put into those lifeless lips, a tightening of the skin around the voids where the eyes should have been. The fringing feathers shivered. Quire could not breathe. He was pinned by the empty stare, could feel its cold caress upon him. It was, he thought for a fleeting instant, Davey Muir, staring into him from that void; but that sense was at once lost. Someone—something—else regarded him through the flesh.

“Get out, get out,” Agnes cried, pushing past him, reaching for that foul semblance of a man.

Quire took a faltering step or two backwards, his legs weak, almost buckling. Agnes tore the face from the wall, and inside Quire’s head, deep within his ears and his mind he thought he heard a rasping wail of loathing.

The face sloughed through Agnes’ fingers, its skin liquefying into a stinking dark discharge. Melting and falling from her grasp to the floor in gobbets of corrupted matter. She shook her hand, spilling drops of softened skin. With her other hand, she pushed Quire firmly in the centre of his chest.

“Get out, son,” she said more quietly than before, but still fraught. “We’re seen.”

They went quickly, stumbling over the rubble of the years, cracking shoulders against the door frames in their haste, blundering in the now suffocating gloom of the place. Pursued, Quire felt, by something terrible at his back, wanting him, reaching for him.

Out into the passageway, rushing for the dismal light of the doorway and the courtyard beyond it, that had seemed so grimly miserable at first but now looked like salvation and sanctuary.
Staggering as he veered, Agnes on his heels, into the vaulted tunnel beneath the brooding mass of the tenements, and running through it, footsteps echoing, and into the West Bow.

Bright light burst upon them as they emerged on to the street, dizzy with relief. The sun was dazzling, disorienting. Quire breathed deep, a man starved of air, coming up from dark waters. It tasted sweet, after the stale must of Weir’s house; it tasted of life, not death. Only then did his morbid terror begin to recede.

A squall of children went past, chasing a rolling hoop down the street, laughing and shrieking. A woman bargaining with a street vendor turned to look after them and smiled. Shopkeepers gathering water in pails from the wellhead down at the foot of the West Bow, where it opened out on to the Grassmarket, paused to watch the happy gang spill past them. Quire trembled. He felt himself suspended between two worlds—the radiant bustle of the city, and the black pit of decay behind him—and did not know which was real.

“What was that?” he asked Agnes.

The witch of Leith had her hands on her knees. She was bent over, panting, looking for a moment as if she might empty her stomach out on to the cobblestones. But she mastered herself, and stood straight once more. She wiped her hands on her skirts.