The Fanatic (21 page)

Her question was superfluous. It wasn’t a bad-sized room, but the more she looked at it, the more folded in on itself it seemed. The ceiling was low, and on either side of the window the coombs sloped down, making it even lower. Also, the place was more full of furniture and other objects than she’d first thought. Especially books. There seemed to be piles and cases of books everywhere, not just under the window.

‘I was on the tour,’ she said. ‘Just to see what it was like. I thought you were very good. Realistic. No, that’s daft, not realistic. You had the desired effect. Gave folk a fright, a thrill. Did you know that?’ She was nervous, talking too fast and too much.

He shook his head. ‘Aye, well. I don’t hang around long enough tae see, but … I guessed. Frae the screams and that.’

‘It must drive the local residents crazy,’ she said. ‘Every night. I mean, if there are any local residents round where you do your stuff.’

‘Sometimes we go a different route. So as no tae disturb them.’

‘That’s good.’ She was surprised, marked a wee plus for Hugh Hardie. ‘That’s considerate.’

‘Aye.’

‘So,’ she said. ‘How come you’ve not been staying the course? You’re good at it. Hugh’s impressed – has he told you? But he says you don’t always stick around. To the end like.’

The faint smile vanished off his face. ‘Is that why ye’re here? Her master’s voice or somethin?’

‘He doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t even know where you stay.’

‘No unless he’s done whit you’ve done. Followed us hame like? That’s whit ye did, eh?’

‘Couldn’t stop myself,’ she said. ‘You went one way, the tour went the other. I had to make a choice.’ She wouldn’t say that Hugh had been on the tour too. That he’d thought Carlin was wonderful at the first encounter. He’d not be thinking that now.

They’d been following Gerry along the Cowgate, in among the other folk, and Jackie, who’d been half-watching for something to happen, thought she saw a figure that might have been Carlin cowering away in the shadow of the bridge. She took a chance. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh, I’m just shattered, I’m going to leave it here. I’ll go up to Chambers Street and get a taxi.’ He tried to protest – ‘Oh, come on, are you sure?’ – but she started to walk away, and he had to turn and catch up with the party. ‘I’ll phone you!’ he called. She crossed the street, as if heading for Chambers Street, but then when Hugh had stopped looking she doubled back in the direction they’d just come from. A little wave of excitement ran through her: up ahead, going at a pace that made his cloak fly out behind him, was Carlin.

Now Carlin was staring at her, a kind of dull cold anger. It occurred to her that nobody knew she was there, she’d come alone, uninvited. This room was homely enough but through in the wee kitchen there could be human heads and other body parts pickling in preserving jars; saws, axes, black bin bags, buckets to catch the blood, all the paraphernalia of a bad dream.

‘A choice,’ he said. ‘You niver made a choice. No the night onywey. Ye’d awready decided, hadn’t ye?’

She sighed. ‘Aye, all right. I was on the tour before. I met Hugh for a drink earlier. He said you’d not being doing things right. You know, fulfilling the terms of the contract. But I don’t suppose there is a contract as such, is there?’

‘There isna a piece of paper if that’s whit ye mean.’

‘Well, Hugh’s kinda like that, I imagine. He’d rather deal in cash and keep no records. I guess what he meant was you’re not sticking to the spirit of the agreement.’

‘That cuts baith weys. Whit exactly was he girnin aboot? Forget it, I dinna want tae ken. D’ye want a cup o tea?’

She thought he must be joking. But he indicated the armchair, saying, ‘I’ll boil the kettle.’

She took off her coat and laid it on the bed. She glanced along the bookshelves below the window. A lot of Everyman classics and worn-looking Penguins, some of them the old orange-jacketed ones; she picked a couple out and saw the pencilled prices of secondhand shops on the first pages. There were guide-books to various European countries, a few years out of date: Germany, Holland, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, Italy. Carlin had been in other places, it seemed, or at any rate liked to think about being in them.

She sat down in the chair and saw herself in the blank screen of the television. She couldn’t imagine Carlin watching TV. Reading books, yes, but what would he watch? Sitcoms? Game shows? Old movies? Ah, maybe that was it. He was a movie buff. The video-player: there was probably a stack of classic movies somewhere. Or a stack of porno flicks. Come on, Jackie, she told herself, grow out of it. You’re both adults now, whatever you thought of him when you were a student.

She noticed there was a video box lying on the floor beside the television table, half covered by a newspaper. She reached for it. It was empty: the tape was in the VCR.

A picture of a brick wall, with a coat or cape discarded in the wet at its foot. On the back of the box the haunted, trapped figure of Peter Lorre stared out at her. It was Fritz Lang’s film
M.
She’d seen it herself years ago. She remembered bits of it: a little girl’s innocence, and its destruction.

Carlin came back in with a tray: a teapot, two mugs, a carton of milk. ‘I’ve nae sugar,’ he said.

‘That’s okay. I didn’t know you could get this on video.’

He put the tray on the table beside her. ‘You can get maist things on video these days. Ye have tae look aroon but.’

‘This is good,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Aye.’

He poured out the tea. ‘Whit d’ye think the M stands for?’

She’d thought it was obvious. ‘Murderer,’ she said. ‘That’s what the blind guy, the balloon-seller, chalks on his back – I mind that bit.’

‘No,’ said Carlin. ‘The blind guy recognises him frae the tune he’s whistlin. It’s yin o the beggars that marks him wi
the chalk. It’s 1931, right; the heart o the Depression. The polis have been eftir this killer for years but they’re useless, so the underworld decides tae hunt him doon. Mind the mob boss Schränker – “the best man between Berlin and Frisco” – he says he needs these invisible people, folk that can go anywhere, tae track the killer. And somebody else says, there’s nae folk like that. Well, there is, a haill army o beggars.’ He paused. ‘Why d’ye think the beggar writes M on his coat?’

Jackie had never heard him say so much, nor sound so animated. ‘Well, you’ve obviously watched it more recently than me,’ she said. ‘The M is to show he’s the murderer.’

‘Tae show he’s the murderer. Aye, right enough.’

‘What else?’

He took one of the mugs and waited again for a moment, as if he couldn’t make up his mind.

‘I think it stands for a lot o things. A lot o things that begin wi M.’

‘Such as.’

‘Well, I’ve been watchin it lately, and it makes me think o anither guy on the run, in the shadows. Here in Edinburgh. A guy called James Mitchel.’

‘I don’t recognise the name,’ Jackie said. ‘Recently?’

‘Na, a long time ago. The Peter Lorre character reminds me o him.’

‘Was he a child-murderer then?’

‘Na, he was mair intae bishops. But he’s like him somehow.’

She said, ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen it.’

‘I watch it aw the time,’ he said. He laughed and sat on the bed, moving her coat aside. ‘Surprised I huvna worn it oot.’

He leant forward and picked up the remote control. Flicked on the TV but with the volume off, and started the tape. There was a shot of Lorre with his hands pulling down his cheeks in a mirror. There was a subtitle, part of a longer sentence:
a certain indolence, even lethargy.
Carlin fast-forwarded it a bit, his glance shifting between the screen and Jackie while he sipped at his tea. She felt self-conscious. Had he really meant what he’d just said, that he watched this all the time, or was he just playing with her?

‘So what’s happening?’ she said.

He nodded at the screen and hit the ‘play’ button.
Somebody was analysing the murderer’s handwriting. The subtitle read:
I’m sure that except when he has his fits he’s just a harmless-looking fellow who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
It reminded Jackie of something, something from another film about a different killing. Carlin fast-forwarded again, frowning.

‘On the tour, I meant,’ she said.

‘Whit d’ye mean, whit’s happening?’

‘Why did you plunk it?’

‘Oh. Dinna ken. Somethin’s gettin tae me.’

‘Like what?’

‘Research. I’m researchin somethin and it’s havin an effect.’

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. After a minute she tried again.

‘What effect?’

He clicked the remote control. The film played at normal speed. There was a big old building of some kind, dilapidated. A disused distillery. Two ragged men were taking a struggling man up some stairs, then down some others. They had his jacket pulled up inside out over his head, blindfolding him.

‘This is the trial scene. D’ye mind this?’

‘What is it that’s bothering you out there?’ she said. But he hunched forward and began to watch.

‘The crims hold an illegal court,’ he said. ‘Awbody’s there. Look at this guy in the leather coat. That’s Schränker. In a couple of years, when the Nazis come tae power, ye jist ken this guy’s gaun tae be an officer in the Gestapo.’

The subtitle said.
We want to render you harmless. You’ll only be harmless when you’re dead.

‘Talk to me, Andrew,’ said Jackie.

‘Power shifts,’ he said. ‘First it’s one gang, then it’s anither. It’s the same everywhere. When things are in turmoil people need a scapegoat. They need someone tae blame. An M.’

‘I feel,’ Jackie began. ‘I wish … I wish I could help.’

‘Help?’

‘What is it … what is it you’re looking for?’

‘Drink yer tea,’ he said.

She watched as the scene of Lorre’s confession before the kangaroo court unfolded. The lines and shots came back to her just before they happened, pathetic, horrific. It was eerie watching the film in silence, with just the English captions
appearing. She knew the mob gathered in the old distillery was baying for the killer’s blood, but she could not hear them. All she saw were their mouths, and Lorre’s mouth, his huge frightened eyes.

Then Lorre began to scream. In silence. He was screaming and pleading. He couldn’t help what he did. What did they know? What right had they to speak? They were criminals. Maybe they were even proud of their safe-breaking, burglary, card-sharping. But they needn’t do any of those things. He, on the other hand, couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t control what was inside him. A dreadful power drove him through the streets, following him silently. It was him, pursuing himself. It was impossible to escape. He had to go the way it chased him. He had to run through endless streets. Ghosts pursued him too. Ghosts of mothers, ghosts of children. They were always there. They would never leave him.

From time to time Jackie glanced over at Carlin. He was motionless, his attention fixed on the screen. She was drawn back to Lorre’s despair and self-loathing. The crowd considered him less than a man, a mad dog that should be put down. Mothers were screaming for him to be given to them. But they had appointed him a defence lawyer from among their own number. The defence was that he was not responsible for his actions. He should be treated by doctors, not executioners. He should be in an asylum.

Schränker was dismissive. The man had condemned himself by his own words. What if he escaped? Or was released? Then if his compulsion returned there would be another manhunt, then the asylum, then release, on and on till doomsday.

The film finished on the face of a mother, a plea to take better care of the children. THE END came up abruptly, brutally, when Jackie had expected more. No credits followed. Carlin rewound the tape.

He picked her coat off the bed and handed it to her. ‘I’m tired,’ he said.

He obviously wasn’t going to tell her anything. She couldn’t argue.

She put the coat on. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ she said.

‘Are ye seein him then?’ said Carlin.

‘Who?’

‘Hardie.’

‘Hugh?’ She laughed. ‘No, I’m not seeing him. I’m not seeing anyone.’

‘I meant, soon. Are you going to be seeing him soon. At some point?’ He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a foreigner.

‘Oh, I see.’ She was embarrassed. ‘Aye, maybe. I suppose so.’

‘Gaun tae tell him ye were here? Where I stey?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

He stuck up his thumb half-heartedly. ‘I’d appreciate that.’ He seemed totally drained. It became clear that she was going to have to see herself out.

He sat down again, then lay back on the bed, eyes closed. She watched him there for a few seconds. She didn’t feel angry at him. She felt sad. Then she left.

Mitchel said, ‘Why are ye here?’

‘Tae see you,’ said Lauder.

He felt slightly sick from the crossing. It was only a short trip from North Berwick, a couple of miles at most, but the sea was choppy and Lauder hated being in boats. He still minded the journey from Dover to France when he was a student: he and a fellow passenger had fought over a bucket all night, filling it with their combined vomitings, and with every retch and boak the other man had groaned for God’s mercy as if he was on the point of expiring, which had only made Lauder feel worse.

Mitchel shook his head. ‘That’s no guid enough, John Lauder. Yer guidfaither’s Ramsay, the Provost o Edinburgh. Ye’re no here tae ease ma sufferin.’

‘He
was
Lord Provost,’ Lauder said. Sir Andrew had written a recommendation, which the captain of the garrison had read with disdain before grudgingly allowing Lauder access to his prize prisoner. Now, left alone with him, Lauder found Mitchel equally suspicious of his family connections.

‘He’s a Privy Cooncillor and aw. Is it by him that ye come here? They dinna let folk see me.’

‘He had a word for me, I confess. But I’m no here on his behaw nor onybody’s but ma ain.’

Mitchel did not look convinced. His eyes were unblinking in the half-light.

The cell stank of dampness and squalor, and every draught of wind brought with it eye-watering wafts from the guano of thousands of seabirds. It was now the height of the solans’ nesting season. It sounded like all the witches that had ever been were gathered together there in bird disguise.

Lauder tried to take shallow breaths. I would like tae hear somethin frae ye,’ he said.

Mitchel laughed scornfully.

‘Aye, awbody would like that. The Privy Cooncil would like me tae confess tae a crime so they can hing me. Is that whit ye would hear, Maister Lauder? Are ye come as a lawyer tae bargain wi me?’

‘No. It’s naethin o that kind. Naethin tae dae wi yer case at aw.’

‘Then why else would I speak wi a lawyer?’

‘I would like tae find oot … tae hear aboot somebody.’ Lauder cleared his throat. ‘I would like tae hear aboot Major Weir.’

Mitchel’s brow furrowed. ‘Whit’s tae tell? The man was burnt for his crimes seiven year syne.’

‘Ye kent him.’

‘Aye. Sae did yer guidfaither. Sae did aw Edinburgh. Ye’ll hae seen him aboot yersel nae doot.’

‘I didna ken him tae speak tae, as you did,’ said Lauder.

‘Whit’s this tae be, guilt by association? If ye gang doon that road, ye’ll find some kenspeckle bodies claucht up in the net. It’s ten year or mair since I spak wi Weir.’

‘No as lang as that, James,’ said Lauder carefully.

There was a long silence. Finally, Mitchel said, ‘Whit dae ye mean?’

‘Ye saw him in the Tolbooth, afore his execution. I ken ye did.’

‘I wasna even in Scotland. I was a
rebel
, if ye mind, wi a price on ma heid for the attack on Sharp and Honyman.’

‘Ye were in Scotland. Ye cam tae him in prison. I ken it.’

‘Whit maks ye think that? Did ye see him in prison yersel? Did he tell ye?’

I did see him. The mornin o his death. But it wasna him that tellt me. He was ayont speakin by then. It was his sister, Jean. She said ye’d been in tae see him, in secret.’

‘Haivers,’ said Mitchel. ‘
Weir
was ayont speakin, ye say? Jean was awa daft lang afore then. If she tellt ye I was there, she was haein a fit. How would I get intae the Tolbooth o Edinburgh in secret? Dae ye think a man wantit for a capital crime against a Croun servant would o his ain volition enter that place tae collogue wi a convicted felon in his cell? I’d as weill hae pit ma heid in a noose.’

‘Jean wasna as daft as some folk think,’ said Lauder. I believe she tellt the truth.’

Mitchel was silent. He lay back on his bed and stared at the roof. The movement, in the gloomy atmosphere of the cell, instantly provoked a memory in Lauder’s mind. He was transported back seven years, to the visit he had made on Major Weir. Just fifteen months married, with a four-month-old son, he had been in the company of his wife’s father, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh.

Wt my goodfather Sir Andrew I was at the Tolbooth Monday 11th day of April 1670, to see the monster Major Weir. We ware admitted in the fornoon, a cold day wt winter’s grip not yet lowst, but the sun was shyning, which made the prison house yet mair mirk and grim when we ware within. The provest had seen him when first he confest. Believing him insane he got his ain doctors to him, but they said his faculties ware lucid and thereafter witnesses ware found that seemd to prove his crymes. I wished to see this phenomenon of wickednes, and went wt the provest and divers others, ministers &c. The crymes of his flesh ware revolting, but it was his spirituall backslyding and consorting wt the Devil (though this was not in the indytment but only drawen from his sister’s testimonies) that fascinated the ministers mair. As Sir Andrew said its seldom you get a chance to look depravitie full in the face. But there was mockerie in his tone which I perceived was directed at the godlie amang us, for they ware some of them of Weir’s inclinatioun, in religion at least. See the Devil ance and ye’ll not misken him next tyme, says Sir Andrew, bowing at them wt a false respect, which I doubt did not fool them for an instant.

For a monster Weir was a sorry object, auld and slumpt on his bed agaynst the wall, much changed from the muckle figure of controversie I mynd as a bairn. There was no fire left in his eyn. The ministers presst him to acknowlege his sin and pray for God’s mercy, but he only shook his head and moand. When by progging and shaking him as if he ware a carnival brute that would not do its tricks, they finally rowsed him to sit, he stared at them blearily with a dead look and said, Wherefor do ye trouble me wt your cruelty? They said wee do not trouble ye, Thomas, it is your soull that troubles ye. Pray with us for your soull.

He answered, What for should I pray wt ye? I care not for your prayers and I doe not hear them.

One said. Sir, I will pray for ye in spite of yr teeth and the deevil yr master too.

He said to him, Doe it at your perill.

They said, Even now, Thomas, in the day of your death, seek out the mercy of God.

He lauched and said, God, where is God? I see him not. They ware affronted and asked, Think ye there is a God? He said I know not. Then one said o man, the argument that moves me to think there is a God is thy self. For what else moved thee to informe the world of thy wicked life? He said, Then pray to him if ye will, I’ll not pray wt you. All the prayers that men and angels can offer will not make a better man of me. Pray that to yr God.

They conjured him as ane brother even now to repent and ask God for his mercy.

Repent, he says, repent, whats to repent? Will repentence alter one jot of his law? Will repentence weigh in the scayles of justice? Think ye that the grovelings of one human ant will alter the plan and purpos of Gods universe? What papisticall trash is this? Get back to your bible
, brothers,
says he, before ye try to sell me ane indulgence.

Then when they said again, Thomas Weir we beseek ye he says. Trouble me no more wt your beseeking. My sentence is sealed on earth as it is in heaven. I am hardend within like a stone
, brother. If I
could win God’s pardon and all the glory of Heaven wt a single wish – that I had not sinned as I have sinned, yet I could not prevail wt my self to make that wish.

Then when they said he does not ken what he is saying, and asked him did his heart not shrink at thoucht of God’s eternal ire he interrupted them impatientlie, Tell me no more, torment me no more. You are not in my place and your soull is not in my soull’s place. Gin ye ware, ye would see the waste and delusion of your exhortatiouns, for there is no thing within me but blacknes and darknes, brimstone and burning to the bottom of hell. Now let me alone, ye have deaved me ouer long, I’ll hear no more.

He fell in a kind of stupor and though they spake at him some tyme more, there was no rousing him. Bailie Oliphant
that was there began to leave the room, saying, I have had my fill of beseeking, the man is to die and we should leave him to redd up his soull gin he wish. Soe led by Patrik Vanse the keeper of the prison we went back out into the licht.

The provest said to the companie, There goeth corruptioun incarnat. I am glad he’s to burn outwith the citie’s walls. I would na like to see his foul ashes settle on the heads of the good burgesses.

But, said the bailie, some will take a dander furth to the Gallowlee to see him consumed.

They had better wear ther hats then, said Sir Andrew, and clapt his wig wt much ostentatioun. Pollution the like of that will be a task to clean from the hair. Then to the ministers, that ware still rid and peching from their exertiouns wt the Beast, he said, Do ye think a man that was sa sure of his ain electioun as he can be sa mistaken? Is there nae possibility of him winning to heaven despite of all his wickednes? They ware very crosse at this, which was aimed at their ain holinesse, and raged at him to suggest a man can transgress God’s law sae foully and yet be of the elect. It was a heresy, an antinomian heresy, and an English ane forby. Weir, they said, would be brunt on earth by four of the clock that efternoon and by five he would be burning in hell. My lord was not perturbed by them, but congratulated them on ther impressive certainty. I’ll not be at the Gallowlee my self, he says, but mynd and do not forget your hats.

From his bed Mitchel asked, ‘Whit did Jean say tae ye? When did ye speak wi her?’

‘Eftir her brither was burnt. I gaed back tae the Tolbooth alane, the next mornin. She was tae hing that day. I felt unhappy aboot her death – I felt she was mair victim o his crimes than conspirator in them.’

‘She was a witch or else she was made mad by Satan,’ Mitchel said flatly.

‘The jurors had rejectit the chairge o sorcery against her. If she was mad was it the madness that had made her lie wi her brither, or the incest that made her mad? If the former, she shouldna burn.’

‘And if she was a witch?’

‘If she was a witch … I felt pity for her. I was only twenty-three – I was grieved for her.’

‘She’d hae easy led you intae soukin sand then. Pity is their weapon.’

Lauder did not respond. He could almost feel Mitchel struggling to resist asking the next question.

‘Whit did she say – aboot me?’

‘As muckle as John Vanse, the keeper’s son – as muckle and mair, and less. Atween the pair o them I worked it oot. That twa days precedin, on the Sabbath, a young man that cried himsel Alexander Weir, the Major’s son, had come tae the Tolbooth. That he begged John Vanse, that had chairge o the place that day, if he had ony compassion for yin that fund himsel wi sae miserable a creature for a faither, tae let him see him afore he was sent tae Hell. That John Vanse alloued him in and he sat wi his faither for an oor. And Vanse cam tae Jean and said he was there, and she speired at him tae hae her nephew Sandy stop and gie her his blessin afore he pairtit, and he cam by her cell and looked in but wouldna stop, and she kent it wasna Sandy but anither man aboot the same age. It was him that had sailed awa tae Holland eftir Pentland. James Mitchel.’

Mitchel did not speak. Lauder strained even to hear his breathing. After a minute he said, ‘She didna misken ye, did she?’

Mitchel sat up. ‘Ye are an advocate, sir. Ye hae a cousin John Eleis?’

‘Aye.’

‘I hear he pleads for aw kinds – witches, rebels, thieves, murderers. Am I richt?’

‘He defends ony person he is cawed tae defend.’

‘I hear he is amang the best o yer breed. Him and Sir George Lockhart. They are thorns in the flesh o the Privy Cooncil.’

‘They only dae their duty as advocates. But ye’re richt, they are baith excellent lawyers.’

I want them for ma case, Maister Lauder.’

‘Yer case is done, Maister Mitchel. Whit for dae ye think ye’re cast on this Rock these last months? Whit for did they crush yer leg in the boot? They canna prove onythin against ye.’

‘They will try, though. Sharp wants me deid. And when ma case comes again, I want thae twa men as ma coonsel. Dae this for me, siccar me their services, and I’ll tell ye aboot Major Weir.’

‘I canna mak such a pledge. An advocate canna jist pick and choose, nor can a panel wi nae siller elect his ain coonsel.’

‘But,’ said Mitchel, ‘choice willna be in it on this occasion. When they bring me back – which they will, hae nae doot – nae lawyer in his senses will dare plead on ma behaw – it’s an offence in itsel tae argue for a traitor. I ken ma law and ma rights – I will demand a defence. The Privy Cooncil will hae tae appoint me lawyers. Sir George and Maister John can let the Cooncil ken they’ll compear for me if alloued and commanded by His Majesty’s government. Sir George is Dean o the Faculty, is he no? Naebody else will contest him for the honour.’

‘Ye ken yer law, indeed,’ said Lauder.

‘I hae plenty time tae think on it,’ said Mitchel dryly. ‘But ye must instruct yer cousin anent this maitter – it maunna be left tae chance. It’ll be a kittle enough business, athoot findin masel in the hauns o Prestoun or some such kiss-ma-erse.’

‘Prestoun? John Prestoun o Haltree?’

‘Aye, him. Mention o Weir pit me in mind o him.’

It was Prestoun, the hunter of witches, who had been appointed a temporary judge for commission to try the Weirs, none of the bench being available. Lauder recalled that Prestoun had been disappointed that he had had to throw out the evidence of sorcery against Jean Weir.

‘He’s ower pernicketie tae pit up a fecht for a scuggie fellow like masel,’ Mitchel said. ‘Ma case will be won on principles, no ten-year-auld evidence, and Sir George and John Eleis are the best for statin a principle.’

‘And if it’s lost, in spite o them?’

‘Then the testimony o ma bluid will hae mair weicht and credit. A man like me disna win tae God like a lawyer, sir, wi wishin and wordspeakin, but by the skailin o his bluid. There’s nae safter place tae lie than on the altar for Christ.’