The Exiled by William Meikle Page B

and went out into the night.
    A crow cawed somewhere above them, but it was too dark to see it.

 
     
     
    15
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Grainger had his dander up.
    They’d started walking, aiming for Haymarket and planning to catch a cab to Alan’s flat in Leith, but had only made it as far as Bert’s Bar in William Street—the lure of a beer after what they’d just been through proved too strong to ignore.
    They were halfway down their first pint before either voiced their concerns, and Alan got in first.
    “This is all getting pretty fucking strange, big brother,” he said.
    Grainger had to agree.
    “It’s like something out of one of Granny Smith’s old stories.”
    “Exactly—and remember how they used to scare us shitless? Well I’m feeling a bit like that now.”
    At that moment Alan looked younger than his years, and more vulnerable than Grainger had seen him for a decade and more.
    “I’m in this for Simpson and the wee lassies,” Grainger said. “But you don’t have to be—”
    “That is an awful thing for you to say to me,” Alan replied. “And you don’t get rid of me that easily. I know this is something I’ll never be able to tell anybody—but I’m in it for you. I’ve got your back. But I don’t have a clue as to where we go from here.”
    Grainger knocked back what was left of his beer and ordered two more before replying.
    “I’ve been thinking about that. We need to get back to the Galloway farm—I’ve got a hunch the answer lies there.”
    “What about Ferguson’s story about Loch Leven?”
    “That’s our backup option—if the farm’s a bust, we’ll head for where you crossed over and try there. But before we do—we need a plan of action once we get over there. How are we going to get past the bird? I don’t think either of us is up to abducting and killing kids.”
    Alan still looked worried.
    “There’s more to this than meets the eye, John. Why did the two of us cross over even before we got to the farm? It’s as if we were targeted in some way.”
    Grainger remembered what the big man said to him back in the cathedral the first time.
    “There’s something I was told,” he said. “The big man said, ‘You don’t see, do you? He said you might not see—that it might be too early.’”
    “And you think this he is the one we’re really after?”
    “It’s a theory—somewhere to start. I’m going to need you to hit the books again.”
    Alan nodded.
    “Not tonight though. Let’s leave it alone for a couple of hours. Let’s have a drink.”
    “Best idea you’ve had in ages. It’s your round.”
    * * *
    It was after midnight by the time they got back to Alan’s flat—Alan had insisted that Grainger stay in his spare room for a while.
    “The press won’t bother you here, and I can keep an eye on you—make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
    Like getting half-cut after a magical ritual that saw us transported to…
    He cut the thought off and concentrated on getting his trousers off without falling over—no mean feat with the beers in him and a bad arm to contend with. Finally he fell into bed—the trousers were off but he had no energy left to tackle shirt, socks or underpants.
    He lay on top of the covers and drifted in and out of troubled sleep, the pain in his shoulder ensuring that rest was something that would be happening some other time.
    His phone buzzed on the bedside table at four o’ clock in the morning.
    There’s never any good news at four in the morning.
    He thought of ignoring it, but curiosity got the better of him. He picked it up and checked who was calling—it was his old number back in the squad office.
    “Grainger here,” he said as he took the call.
    “It’s Jim,” the voice said. “Jim the temp.”
    “I know who you are, son. What’s going on?”
    “That’s what the super wants to ask you. Were you in a lockup near Mitchell Street earlier?”
    Grainger knew better than to answer that kind of