The Ossians Read online

  The Ossians

  By the same author

  Tombstoning

  The Ossians

  DOUG JOHNSTONE

  VIKING

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Published in 2008

  1

  Copyright © Doug Johnstone, 2008

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ‘Ally’s Tartan Army’ Words and Music by Billy King © 1978. Reproduced by permission of

  EMI Music Publishing Co. Ltd, London WC2H 0QY

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright

  reserved above, no part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,

  or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior

  written permission of both the copyright owner and

  the above publisher of this book

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90185–5

  For Trish, for everything,

  The happiest lot on earth is to be born a Scotsman. You must pay for it in many ways, as for all other advantages on earth. You have to learn the Paraphrases and the Shorter Catechism; you generally take to drink; your youth, as far as I can find out, is a time of louder war against society, of more outcry and tears and turmoil, than if you had been born, for instance, in England. But somehow life is warmer and closer; the hearth burns more redly; the lights of home shine softer on the rainy street; the very names, endeared in verse and music, cling nearer around our hearts.

  Robert Louis Stevenson, The Silverado Squatters

  It’s shite being Scottish.

  Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting.

  1

  Edinburgh

  ‘I know that we’ve been drinking

  But I’ve had a great idea

  Let’s drown this land tomorrow

  Let’s wash it all away’

  The Ossians, ‘St Andrew’s Day’

  ‘Connor, I don’t know why I let you drag me to the stupidest places.’

  Connor watched Kate peer over the edge of the stonework, pulling her heavy coat tight against the biting wind. A tousle of black hair whipped across her sharp, pale face, a couple of strands catching in her mouth which she pulled at, briefly irritated. She looked tall despite leaning into the wind, her slim frame lost in the dark folds of her coat.

  Behind her, the regimented north of the city sloped down towards the water where oil tankers made their way serenely up and down the firth. A small shaft of light pierced the claustrophobic cover of cloud, reaching down to Fife, like something from a biblical epic. Strange, thought Connor, surely God has better things to do with his time than make Fife look good.

  Two hundred feet below, buses chugged down Princes Street, the strain of their engines merging with bagpipe wails, rackety drills and dull, throbbing hammer sounds. The pavement was a crush of shoppers.

  Connor examined the graffiti on the crumbling black gargoyle next to him. Japanese, Icelandic, Italian, Spanish – it seemed like every nationality except his own had climbed the monument to leave a mark.

  He looked down. Workmen bustled about in the gardens below, raising tents, assembling metal frames and spreading flooring, preparing the city’s Christmas fairground for its onslaught of spangle and glitz. It wasn’t even December, yet Edinburgh had festive fever.

  ‘Because you’re my sister and you love me,’ he said, waving his half-full bottle of gin and tonic airily. He took another swig.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Kate, brushing more hair away from her face. ‘Explain this one to me again?’ She swept her hand around the view. Spots of rain began to fall.

  ‘Don’t go into a huff. I just thought I’d create a vibe or something. Bring a bit of momentousness into our lives. What with the record release, the launch party, the tour and everything.’ He paused to take another hit from the bottle. ‘Is “momentousness” a word?’

  ‘How drunk are you?’ said Kate. ‘We’re not on until ten tonight.’

  ‘Just soak up the view,’ said Connor, ignoring her question. He started to walk round the cramped third tier of the monument and Kate followed grudgingly.

  Southwest lay the castle on its hunk of volcanic rock, then the distant solitude of the Pentland Hills. As they turned east, the big plug of Arthur’s Seat then the fake Greek columns of Calton Hill came into view. A plane glinted briefly as it banked high above, heading west.

  He looked at the leaflet he’d been handed.

  ‘Guess how many steps we just came up.’

  Kate frowned. ‘I don’t know. Too many.’

  ‘Two hundred and eighty-seven to be precise. Says here it’s the largest monument to a writer in the world. And the architect drowned in a canal before it was finished. Think he was steaming?’

  ‘Not everyone drinks like you.’

  Connor looked at the giant Ferris wheel erected twenty feet away for Christmas revellers.

  ‘Look at this thing,’ he said, waving his bottle at the wheel. ‘What a fucking joke.’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ said Kate. ‘It’s just a big wheel. A bit of fun, you know?’

  ‘This monument is higher, has better views and is a hundred and fifty years old, plus you get a bit of exercise climbing it. That’s just a piece of modern, flashy tat.’

  ‘So what?’ said Kate. ‘And since when did you give a shit about getting any exercise?’

  Connor was silent. He felt another headache creeping up on him and gulped down two large mouthfuls. Not enough gin in the mix.

  ‘Modern life is rubbish,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Great,’ said Kate, sweeping his chaotic fringe away from his face to expose tired green eyes and a pallid, taut frown. ‘Now you’re quoting Blur. You must be drunk.’

  The familiar malty smell of the breweries swirled around them. Down below, Edinburgh had an air of anticipation as the city prepared for the festive season. Connor saw the shaft of light over Fife disappear, plunging the north into gloom.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, heading for the stairs. ‘There’s something else I want to show you.’

  They emerged minutes later from the dark, dizzying spiral of the Scott Monument’s stairway, blinking in the fading light, Connor two steps ahead. He turned left, pointing with the bottle.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Kate sighed.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  When he acted the fizzy little kid with innocent, puppy-dog eyes, it somehow forced her into the grumpy, funless older-sister role. She never felt dou
r or dowdy with anyone else, just him. Although only half an hour separated their entries into the world she’d always thought of Connor as years younger, and often wished he would grow up. She sometimes wished she hadn’t grown up quite so much.

  They walked through the German Christmas market, a collection of stalls selling overpriced crap, Connor goading the stall owners and waving his bottle recklessly about.

  Kate wondered whether things would’ve been different if Connor had been first out the womb. But that wasn’t his style. Let his big sister go first, let her take all the responsibility, let her get all the pressure, and then he could play the runt-of-the-litter role. Did that nasty big sister starve you of oxygen in the womb, did she? Aw, diddums.

  Connor stopped at a stall selling dreamcatchers and other new-age junk and began hassling the owner.

  ‘Can we just go where we’re going, then meet the others?’ said Kate. ‘I need a drink.’

  Connor offered up his gin and tonic, now barely a fifth full.

  ‘A proper drink, in a pub.’

  ‘I get the message,’ said Connor, heading for the exit. ‘We’re about to visit an invaluable part of our country’s heritage, something with particular relevance to today. And’ – he made a shushing motion with finger to lips and his voice dropped to a whisper – ‘no fucker knows anything about it.’

  Kate shook her head as the rain thickened, then followed her brother down the darkening street.

  Connor pushed open the heavy oak doors and tiptoed in, cartoon style. They were inside St Mary’s Cathedral at the top of Leith Walk. The distant grumble of traffic was the only sound apart from their clacking footsteps across the cold marble floor.

  The church was dark except for strips of weak daylight from the high windows. Two prim-looking girls were lighting candles and praying at a small shrine near the main altar. The high, vaulted roof made every sound resonate, and the girls looked round at the sound of Kate’s and Connor’s footsteps before turning back to their prayers.

  Connor led Kate past the confessional booths to an empty bench beside another small shrine. As they sat down, a grey-haired, middleaged man in jeans and a jumper came out a side room carrying a stepladder and cloth. He set the ladder in front of the first booth, climbed up and began dusting the top.

  Connor and Kate watched him for a moment then turned back to the shrine. In the alcove was a small altar. An arrangement of thistles in a vase stood on the altar beside a modest wooden statue of a man carrying a cross. Below that, set into the marble, were two spotlit glass display cases. In the middle of each was a small object like a pebble, flanked by two six-inch golden angels.

  ‘Know what we’re looking at?’ Connor said in a hushed voice.

  ‘You know I don’t. Let me guess – the Holy Grail? Two rocks?’

  ‘These are the actual remains of St Andrew. Or at least some of them. A bit of shoulder, I think, and something else. Maybe a toe.’

  ‘Really? Just sitting here?’ Kate was irritated she hadn’t hidden her surprise. She looked around the cathedral. ‘Shouldn’t there be security or something? Or tourists, for that matter?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said Connor, animated. ‘Typical of Scotland, isn’t it? Our patron saint’s relics, on our patron saint’s day, in the capital city of the country, and there’s no fucker here. No one even knows about it. There’s hardly any song and dance today, just a half-arsed celebration at best. OK, we’re not all Catholics, but still. Look at what Guinness did for St Patrick’s Day. That bogtrotting alkies’ piss-up is known all over the world, and St Patrick was just a fifth-century ex-Roman with a thing for snakes. St Andrew was one of Jesus’ best mates. And what are we known for? Sean Connery and Billy Connolly. Tartan and golf. Whoopee.’

  ‘Bogtrotting alkies,’ said Kate, smiling. ‘What does that make us? Heather-munching, haggis-chasing smackheads?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Connor picked up a leaflet from a pile next to them and examined it. He let out a laugh, making the praying girls raise their heads and frown.

  ‘Sorry,’ he stage-whispered. He looked at Kate and prodded the leaflet. ‘It says here that St Andrew is the patron saint of singers and sore throats. How cool is that? My very own patron saint. What else’ – he ran his finger down the leaflet, reciting in a singsong voice – ‘the patron saint of Russia, fishmongers, spinsters and gout. A strange bunch, eh? Here’s another one – the patron saint of women who want to get pregnant.’

  ‘How about the patron saint of irritating arsehole brothers? Is he that?’

  ‘Now, now.’ Connor folded the leaflet into his pocket and put his hand on her arm. ‘That’s no way to talk to one of the rising stars of the country’s thriving indie rock scene, is it?’

  Kate playfully punched her brother on the arm. ‘I wish you’d never seen that review. Shows what journalists know.’

  ‘Hey, don’t forget you’re the sultry, Amazonian bassist, cooler than an iceberg and hotter than hell, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Exactly my point.’

  The man had finished cleaning the booths and was folding down the ladder.

  ‘I see you’re examining the relics,’ he said in a soft Edinburgh accent. ‘And what do you make of them?’

  ‘Are they really bits of St Andrew?’ said Kate.

  ‘We believe so.’

  ‘We, as in…?’ said Connor.

  ‘As in the Catholic Church,’ said the man. ‘I’m the priest here, Father William.’

  ‘I’m Connor and this is my lovely sister, Kate. Care for a drink, Father?’ Connor offered the bottle to the priest, who shook his head.

  ‘And what brings you to see these old bones?’ he asked.

  ‘Him,’ said Kate, pointing at Connor.

  ‘I thought it would be good to see them,’ said Connor. ‘Today and everything. I thought there would have been more interest on St Andrew’s Day.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said the priest, ‘but we’re happy enough to look after them whatever their wider appeal.’

  ‘So you consider them a Catholic treasure rather than a national treasure, do you?’ Connor took a last swig from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Father William eyed him thoughtfully.

  ‘Both, son,’ he said slowly. ‘I take it you’re not of the faith?’

  ‘No, but I am of the nation.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Kate.

  ‘Fuck knows.’ Connor turned to the priest. ‘Sorry. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Father William. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it. No rest for the wicked and all that.’ He gave Connor a measured look. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said, picking up the stepladder and heading off.

  ‘Almost a U2 quote,’ said Kate. ‘Scary. What next, someone quoting Abba at us? The winner takes it all?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Abba, Kate.’

  Connor put on a comedy pout for her benefit. Kate looked at him closely for a second.

  ‘Connor, why do you always assume that you’re right and everybody else is wrong?’

  ‘Because I’m an egocentric, introspective, self-absorbed, narrow minded bigot?’ he said cheerfully, getting up sharply and heading down the aisle. ‘At least, that’s what my therapist says.’

  ‘You don’t have a therapist,’ said Kate, turning away from the bones. ‘You could do with one, though.’

  ‘Pub!’ shouted Connor, making the praying girls jump. ‘Sorry!’he cried, then opened the doors and was outside.

  When Kate caught up he was standing on the church steps, looking at the building’s Gothic façade. The roar of traffic on the Greenside roundabout filled their ears. The last rays of weak sunlight had disappeared and the cars had their headlights and windscreen wipers on.

  Kate turned to follow Connor’s gaze. Hanging from the front of the cathedral was a large banner with the words:

  ACT JUSTLY

  LOVE TENDERLY

  WALK HUMBLY.r />
  ‘Good advice,’ shouted Connor over the noise. ‘I’ll need to nick it for a song.’ He got the leaflet and a pen out his pocket and scribbled for a moment.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s quite definitely time for a drink. Let’s meet the others.’

  The Barony was dead. Two Australian girls in matching black polo necks, bar aprons and neat ponytails stood at the end of the bar, arranging cutlery into paper napkins. The coal fire at the back was nearly out, and the scatter of wooden tables around the L-shaped room contained some studiously casual twentysomething and thirtysomething slackers, too old to be young, too young to be old.

  Hannah was walking to the bar as Connor and Kate came in, her small frame revealed in a tight T-shirt, suede skirt and boots, her bobbed red hair pulled away from her face on one side by a kirby grip. She was two years older than them, but her petite body and sweetly relaxed features made her look a good deal younger.

  ‘Hiya, babe,’ said Connor, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You getting them in?’

  ‘Looks like it. What you after?’

  ‘Gin and tonic? Stretch to a double?’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Hannah turned to Kate. ‘The usual?’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘Danny’s round the corner,’ said Hannah, and Connor sauntered off. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asked Kate.

  ‘Don’t ask. He’s in one of those moods. Plus he’s half-cut already.’

  Hannah pressed her lips into a line and paid for the drinks.

  At the table Danny was swigging the last of his pint. The glass seemed lost in the unruly growth of his dark beard. He was wearing a zip-up hoody, tatty black combats and a pair of beat-up Golas, and he smiled as he spotted Connor.

  ‘Hey, big man,’ said Connor, slapping him on the back. ‘How’s it going?’