me.
There was a shimmer in the distance as buses chugged down the street leaving behind a maroon plume of pollution. I stopped at the coffee shop to collect my flat white.
“Aye, it’s a right scorcher,” said the young barista, grabbing a cup without needing to ask what I wanted.
This was all he ever said during the six-week heatwave, this warm meteorological welcome, but it became part of our routine and I appreciated it. I was visible and did still exist even when, at times, I felt as though I could evaporate in a quick shimmer and no one would have a clue where I had gone. That I had been.
Silence hit the streets in the heat. This is when loneliness hit me hard. At times like this, I found that the city itself with its great architecture became a solid, reliable companion. I had an imposing castle always in sight and had read up on its secrets; battles, pirates and prisoners trapped in dungeons. Bloody wars. The castle was one of the first places we visited when we moved here and I remember standing with Harrison under the glinting colours from a magnificent stained-glass window in the War Memorial; the horseman, Faithful and True , from the Bible’s book of Revelation.
As we stood, Harrison took my hand. In a second, I could feel our reconnection in the serene surroundings. It was a sign , I said. Yes, I’m still someone who believes in signs. We were going to be okay.
Jim was first at his desk, pouring over proofs and cromalins, black indelible marker in hand.
He handed me a coffee without looking up. We had a routine going on which didn’t involve conversation for the first 15 minutes. This morning, however, I surprised him by stopping at his desk. “I went out last night.”
He stopped scribbling, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. A low whistle followed. “You went out ? After dark? The vampires didn’t get you?”
“I’m still here.”
“Good for you. Dead-husbands convention?”
“That will be the one.”
He knew more than anyone that I had turned down every invitation, press launch and public appearance since the accident. He stepped up to the mark; covered for me discreetly without pushing me out. I owed my job to him. There was ambition in him but, fortunately for me, not in journalism but music.
“I met the girls who… well, one of them is the designer I told you about. She will replace the Elvis spread.”
“Seriously?”
“New-labels-to-watch piece. Get two other names.”
“Done.”
He turned back to his work and I hesitated.
Jim raised his head, not missing a beat. I had a sudden urge to tell him about being followed home last night but stopped short. There followed a quick-fire neurological debate back and forth in the brain: talk about it, keep it a secret, talk about it. I could see the scenario: revelations, explanation and consequences.
“What’s up, Boss?”
“I think I was followed home last night.”
“For real?”
“Maybe not so much followed as watched, if that makes sense.” Instead of looking directly at him I focused on his T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a beef burger in bun, cheese melting.
“What happened?”
“I went home, nothing happened.”
“You okay?” First flicker of concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Jim quickly made light of it, sensing I didn’t want to make a fuss. “Edinburgh’s underworld strikes again.”
“Lucky me.”
“The Watcher–wouldn’t worry; harmless ghost who just, well, watches, people.”
The name stuck–seemed wholly appropriate. Harmless? We’d soon see about that.
Jim relished Edinburgh’s rich history of hauntings and poltergeists; liked to tease me. I’ve heard it all: Mary King’s Close, where its plague victims were walled up and left to die. “Otherwise known as the street of sorrows,” Jim whispered. He also regaled me with stories about witches and malicious poltergeists who could leave you with bruises and burns. Perversely, I liked this about him. He
There was a shimmer in the distance as buses chugged down the street leaving behind a maroon plume of pollution. I stopped at the coffee shop to collect my flat white.
“Aye, it’s a right scorcher,” said the young barista, grabbing a cup without needing to ask what I wanted.
This was all he ever said during the six-week heatwave, this warm meteorological welcome, but it became part of our routine and I appreciated it. I was visible and did still exist even when, at times, I felt as though I could evaporate in a quick shimmer and no one would have a clue where I had gone. That I had been.
Silence hit the streets in the heat. This is when loneliness hit me hard. At times like this, I found that the city itself with its great architecture became a solid, reliable companion. I had an imposing castle always in sight and had read up on its secrets; battles, pirates and prisoners trapped in dungeons. Bloody wars. The castle was one of the first places we visited when we moved here and I remember standing with Harrison under the glinting colours from a magnificent stained-glass window in the War Memorial; the horseman, Faithful and True , from the Bible’s book of Revelation.
As we stood, Harrison took my hand. In a second, I could feel our reconnection in the serene surroundings. It was a sign , I said. Yes, I’m still someone who believes in signs. We were going to be okay.
Jim was first at his desk, pouring over proofs and cromalins, black indelible marker in hand.
He handed me a coffee without looking up. We had a routine going on which didn’t involve conversation for the first 15 minutes. This morning, however, I surprised him by stopping at his desk. “I went out last night.”
He stopped scribbling, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. A low whistle followed. “You went out ? After dark? The vampires didn’t get you?”
“I’m still here.”
“Good for you. Dead-husbands convention?”
“That will be the one.”
He knew more than anyone that I had turned down every invitation, press launch and public appearance since the accident. He stepped up to the mark; covered for me discreetly without pushing me out. I owed my job to him. There was ambition in him but, fortunately for me, not in journalism but music.
“I met the girls who… well, one of them is the designer I told you about. She will replace the Elvis spread.”
“Seriously?”
“New-labels-to-watch piece. Get two other names.”
“Done.”
He turned back to his work and I hesitated.
Jim raised his head, not missing a beat. I had a sudden urge to tell him about being followed home last night but stopped short. There followed a quick-fire neurological debate back and forth in the brain: talk about it, keep it a secret, talk about it. I could see the scenario: revelations, explanation and consequences.
“What’s up, Boss?”
“I think I was followed home last night.”
“For real?”
“Maybe not so much followed as watched, if that makes sense.” Instead of looking directly at him I focused on his T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a beef burger in bun, cheese melting.
“What happened?”
“I went home, nothing happened.”
“You okay?” First flicker of concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Jim quickly made light of it, sensing I didn’t want to make a fuss. “Edinburgh’s underworld strikes again.”
“Lucky me.”
“The Watcher–wouldn’t worry; harmless ghost who just, well, watches, people.”
The name stuck–seemed wholly appropriate. Harmless? We’d soon see about that.
Jim relished Edinburgh’s rich history of hauntings and poltergeists; liked to tease me. I’ve heard it all: Mary King’s Close, where its plague victims were walled up and left to die. “Otherwise known as the street of sorrows,” Jim whispered. He also regaled me with stories about witches and malicious poltergeists who could leave you with bruises and burns. Perversely, I liked this about him. He
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