The Fanatic Read online

  But there was no answer. She found she was holding her own hands together. She found that John was John Vanse. He had changed himself again. His father was there too, Patrick, the keeper of the prison. And the minister that had promised to be with her. Oh, she was pleased to see the minister. She wanted him there on the scaffold with her, so she could look at him, despise him and keep the fear hid away.

  ‘It’s time noo, Jean,’ said John Vanse.

  ‘It’s no time yet, surely,’ she said.

  ‘Ye hae been sleepin,’ he said gently. And they began to make her ready.

  ‘Oh, whit a shamefu life I hae led,’ said Jean to the minister. ‘Hae I no, sir, led a shamefu life?’

  ‘Indeed, Jean, ye are a sinner ayont sinners,’ he said.

  She loved the cleverness with which she said next, ‘Then, sir, I am resolved, I will dee wi aw the shame I can.’

  ‘That is good policy,’ said the minister. ‘For in your shame lies your only hope of Christ’s mercy.’ And he said it so sincerely that she had to laugh again, freezing his face in a second.

  Then they took her from the Tolbooth in her auld grey dress, a guard of soldiers around her and a drummer at the head, and they beat her slowly up the street and down the West Bow to the crowds waiting for her in the Grassmarket. And Jean walked unsteadily among the soldiers, and made slow progress, and some of the people lining the route jeered at her in a half-hearted way, but most of them stood and watched her go by, daft Jean that had lain with her brother all those years, that had conjured up spells and sold herself to Satan. She looked so frail and normal, you would never have guessed the evil she had done. They would go home that night with the sight of her still before them, and the uneasy sense that something was wrong, that they wished they hadn’t seen her at all.

  Till she got to the scaffold where the executioner waited, and she went up onto it with the minister behind her. And there she showed herself in her true light, the limmer. For she railed at the folk for greeting and wailing at her, when they would not greet for a broken Covenant, and then as she said it she laughed uproariously, so it was evident to the angry crowd that she mocked them for being there. And then she threw off her mutch, and shook her hair free, and started to pull at her clothes, throwing open her bodice and untying her skirts, while the men around her looked on in confusion and realised that this was what she had meant back in the cell. They tried to stop her, the shame of her, and had to carry her half-undressed to the ladder, and put the rope about her neck as they hauled her up, till halfway from the top she struggled free and stuck her head through two of the rungs, so they could not budge her. Then the hangman was forced to strike her on the face, to get her back through, while she screamed and spat like a cat at him. And he got her loose, but there was no way he could fit the cloth over her face, for she would not be still, so he pushed her off the ladder with her clothes hanging off her, her head uncovered and red and cut from the blows, and with no one waiting below to pull her down and end her suffering. So she kicked and sprang there for a while, till at last her body came to rest. And the crowd dispersed, and all of them there took a spattering of Jean’s shame home on their heads.

  Edinburgh, 1 May 1997

  ‘Right, that’s me away,’ said Carlin. ‘Aff tae that mythical place ye think disna exist.’

  ‘Eh? Where’s that?’

  ‘The library. Mind, I was hallucinatin, you said. Like aw thae ither dreams I’ve been haein. Weill, that’s where I’m gaun. A few loose ends tae tie up.’

  ‘Oh. Ye’re no still on aboot that auld covenanter shite, are ye? Christ. I hoped ye’d grown oot o that by noo.’

  ‘So if it’s shite, indulge me a little. There’s nae hairm in it. It’s jist diggin up buried stuff. And eftir aw, you were happy enough buyin in aw that shite I tellt you.’

  ‘Whit shite? Whit are ye on aboot?’

  ‘Aw that stuff aboot the doctor and the doctor’s wife and the doctor’s wee lassie. Ye fuckin loved it.’

  ‘Whit? Are you tellin me, are you sayin that didna happen? Have you been fuckin lyin tae me? I thought that was wan thing we didna dae tae each ither. We might dissemble a wee bit, we might haud stuff back, we might change the subject – but we dinna fuckin lie.’

  ‘I’m no sayin it didna happen. Like I said, there’s nae proof either wey. It’s ma word against theirs and an awfy lot o time’s gane by since then. Water through the lade and aw that. Whit I like is the fact ye swallied aw the guff aboot why. Why I’m like I am, why I’m no like awbody else. I gied ye that haill story and ye accepted it – “Ah, that explains things, ah weill, it’s no surprisin ye’re fucked up.” Eh? You, the arch fuckin cynic, that’s kent me frae God kens how lang, and ye bought the doctor’s faimly as an explanation for ma problems. I tell ye, ye’re no the fuckin mirror ye used tae be.’

  ‘Well, if it wasna that, whit the fuck was it? Why are ye such a weird bastart?’

  ‘D’ye still no see? There is nae explanation. I’m jist who I am. Because I don’t conform, because I’m no normal, because I dinna fit in, folk start lookin for reasons. They want reasons why ye’re different, odd, queer, weird, mad, whitiver. D’ye iver hear aboot folk lookin tae find oot why somebody’s normal? Coorse ye dinna. But as soon as ye step oot o line, oh-ho, wait a minute, that’s no on, there’s got tae be a fuckin explanation for that. So ye start lookin yersel, save awbody else the bother. Ye’re a loner, ye dae yer ain thing, ye dinna hae a telephone let alane ten numbers on the BT freens and fuckin faimly scheme, Christ mebbe it’s aw buildin up in there, it’s gaun tae burst oot o ye wan day and ye’ll be anither Thomas Hamilton, anither Dennis Nilsen. When ye get doon tae it, that’s whit normal people find disturbin aboot weirdos. They see aw these nasty possibilities and they go, there but for the grace of God go I, or some such self-righteous keech. Which is a less honest wey o sayin, mebbe that’s me oot there, I jist canna admit tae it.’

  ‘Och, is this no a wee bit … eh … self-indulgent? A wee bit like graftin yer ain hang-ups ontae the rest o the world? Is that no a possibility, Mr sad and lonely Carlin?’

  ‘Aye, mebbe. Only I don’t feel sad right noo. I feel angry. And as for lonely, weill, if ye ask me, loneliness is the human condition. Aw through history humans have been torn between fear o bein alane and fear o ither humans. But aw fear o bein alane is, is fear o oorsels. Which, auld pal, brings me tae somethin else. Somethin I feel I huv tae resolve. And I’m sorry tae say, this is gaun tae hurt you mair than it hurts me.’

  ‘Hih! Pit that doon! Whit the fuck d’ye think ye’re daein?’

  Carlin walked from his flat to the library. It was like floating. All his limbs seemed loose, weightless, without strength. He told himself to take it slowly, walk as if he was in no hurry to get anywhere. The way an old man might walk in the evening of his days. That thought came into his head and it made him smile. Even his smile felt slow. He understood that he had been very sick.

  It was a cool but dry afternoon. Edinburgh was trying to shrug off winter finally. The skyline was fresh, the grass in the Meadows green and thickening. There were not too many people about. There were posters in the windows of some of the flats, wee cardboard placards tied to the lamp-posts. It took Carlin a minute to remember that it was election day. Even so things seemed very quiet. A car with a tannoy system on its roof was turning up Marchmont Road, asking for votes, he didn’t make out for which party. Everything seemed settled, there seemed a great lack of urgency in the air.

  He passed the usual landmarks as if there was no rush. But in his head there was: he was anxious to get to the library and speak to MacDonald. He also wanted to finish the Secret Book. He’d read more than three-quarters of it, he knew from it and from the other books he’d looked at what happened to Mitchel, and he’d flicked forward to see what Lauder had to say about that. But he wanted to get right to the end.

  His legs were beginning to ache when he reached the building on George IV Bridge. He went down the flights of stairs that le
d to the Scottish department, wondering how he was going to manage back up. At the desk was a young woman he did not recognise.

  ‘I’ve got a book on reserve. Could I get it, please?’

  ‘Aye, sure,’ said the librarian. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Carlin. A. Carlin.’

  There were some shelves with a few items on them just behind the counter. She checked through them. ‘Carlin, did you say?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I don’t see anything here. What was the book?’

  ‘It was mair like a manuscript. Ane Secret Book. By John Lauder.’

  She looked again. ‘Sorry, no, nothing here. You’re sure it was being held on reserve?’

  ‘Aye, but I’ve been ill. I’ve no been in for mair than a week. But I spoke tae yer man MacDonald and he said it would be kept for me.’

  The librarian’s face brightened. ‘Ah, well, we don’t usually hold items for more than six days. Probably a misunderstanding. It’ll be back on the stacks. Let me just check it for you.’

  She started tapping the keys of her computer. Carlin coughed.

  ‘I don’t think it’ll come up on that. I kinna got the impression it was a one-off, a rarity.’

  ‘Oh.’ She waited for the computer to confirm what he had said. ‘Is it an old item? It’s maybe in the card catalogue. We can try that. I just need a reference number so I can fetch it for you.’

  The card catalogue was a set of wooden cabinets in the middle of the room. The drawers of these were full of index cards. The drawers had wee metallic handles on them that your index finger fitted snugly under. Pulling them out and pushing them closed again was like playing in the morgue of a dolls’ hospital. But there was nothing under Lauder, nothing under Secret or, predictably, Book.

  Carlin minded something. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wastin yer time. Mr MacDonald had found it for me. I think he said it came frae the Edinburgh Room.’

  The librarian smiled. He had the feeling that he had said something wrong, but that she didn’t consider it important enough to correct him. ‘That’ll be it,’ she said. ‘It’ll have gone back up there. Do you know where that is?’ She pointed to the floor above. There was a tall, bald man leaning over the rail, looking down on them. Carlin nodded.

  ‘Ask one of my colleagues,’ said the librarian. ‘They’ll find it for you.’

  All the staff looked different, and young. Carlin didn’t recognise any of them. It was as if he had aged much more than the week he’d been away.

  In the Edinburgh Room he had to go through the same process, this time with a man. Lauder’s book was not held on reserve for him, nor could they find any mention of it in any of the catalogues, though they checked under both Lauder and Fountainhall.

  ‘This is very strange,’ said the librarian. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t one of his other books?’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure.’ Carlin tried not to get irritated. It wasn’t the guy’s fault. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘is Mr MacDonald around? He kens where it’s kept. It was him that got it oot in the first place.’

  ‘MacDonald? I don’t think I know a Mr MacDonald. Does he work here?’

  ‘Only aboot forty years.’

  ‘Well, I’m quite new. I don’t know everybody.’

  ‘Ye must know him. He’ll be a senior librarian or somethin. Red hair and glasses.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Disna ring a bell. Wait till I check.’

  He disappeared through a door behind the desks where a few members of the public were poring over back-issues of newspapers and magazines. Carlin turned and looked over the rail. Below him was the room he had just been in, with more rows of desks and people reading and writing at them. He saw the bald man who had been leaning on the rail a few minutes ago, more or less where he was now, searching through a drawer of the card catalogue. He didn’t remember passing him on the stairs.

  He thought, this is getting out of hand. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

  The librarian returned with another, older man. They were like plainclothes polis, or the last two chocolates in a box, a soft one and a hard one. ‘This is the gentleman,’ the first one was saying, as they approached Carlin.

  ‘You’re looking for Mr MacDonald?’ said the second librarian.

  ‘Aye. Is he no in?’

  ‘We don’t have a Mr MacDonald.’

  Carlin laughed. ‘Ye had yin last week.’

  ‘Not in this library. We do have a branch at McDonald Road.’

  ‘I ken which library I was in. I’m tellin ye, he had his name on a badge.’

  ‘That’s odd, you see, because most of the staff don’t wear name-badges. For their security.’

  ‘How d’ye mean?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. There are some odd people about who might misuse such information. It’s up to the staff if they volunteer their names. They don’t have to display them on badges.’

  ‘Well, he did.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s no librarian that I know of called MacDonald.’

  ‘So how are we gaun tae find this book?’

  ‘What book?’

  Carlin described it. He wrote down the title, as much of it as he could remember, and explained what MacDonald had said about it.

  ‘I really need tae see it again. Jist for an hour or two. I’ve still got a chunk of it left tae read.’

  ‘I don’t know how we can help,’ said the younger librarian. ‘I’ve checked all the catalogues, and nothing’s coming up. Maybe if you could leave me your phone number …’

  ‘I’m no on the phone.’

  ‘Well, then, your address.’

  ‘Could I no go in there and hae a look for it. I’d recognise it.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.’

  ‘Then you find it for me. Or get MacDonald tae find it.’

  ‘I’ve already explained to you, there is no Mr MacDonald here. It doesn’t look as though this book, or manuscript or whatever it is, exists either.’

  ‘D’ye think I’m makin aw this up? Of course it exists.’

  ‘Do you remember what day you first requested it? We could go through the request slips and, when we find the one you would have had to fill out, check it for a reference.’

  ‘The thing is, I didna request it. MacDonald found it for me.’

  ‘He should have filled out a slip.’

  ‘I’ve nae idea if he did or no.’

  The second librarian tutted. ‘That’s how things get lost.’

  ‘He was jist daein me a favour. I was readin up some stuff aboot Major Weir, and he remembered there was somethin aboot him in this document.’

  ‘Major Weir?’ the second librarian repeated.

  ‘Witchcraft and that kind of thing,’ said his colleague.

  There was a moment when Carlin saw the two of them swap glances. They’d been studiously avoiding each other’s eye, but when it happened he saw it. He knew then they thought he was bonkers.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Another voice, from one of the desks next to where they were standing.

  They all turned. A tiny woman was sitting there, bent over a bound volume of newspapers. She was so old she looked as though she herself was made of paper. She was wearing a fawn-coloured coat and had a woollen hat pulled down over her hair and ears. She stared up at them angrily.

  ‘I cannot help,’ she said, ‘overhearing your conversation.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ said the second librarian. ‘We’re trying to sort out a problem. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ the woman said testily. She had a brittle, almost aristocratic accent. Her voice shook like a reed. ‘That’s not what I mean at all. I don’t like to interfere, but you see this man is quite right, there is a Mr MacDonald in this library.’

  Carlin thanked her silently. They waited for her to continue.

  ‘Just as he said, he has red hair and glasses. I’ve seen him in here myself.�
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  ‘Oh,’ said the second librarian. He frowned, as if that would make the old woman go away or be struck dumb.

  ‘We canna baith be wrang,’ Carlin said.

  I notice these things, you see,’ the woman said. ‘My eyesight’s still very good.’

  ‘There ye go,’ Carlin said.

  ‘He wears a kilt,’ the woman said.

  They all stared at her.

  ‘A kilt?’ the librarian echoed.

  ‘Yes, you know, a kilt. Of the MacDonald tartan. That’s why I knew his name was MacDonald. My name is MacDonald too, you see.’

  I see,’ said the second librarian. ‘Well, thank you very much for that information.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the woman said. She looked thoughtful. ‘Unless, of course …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he might not be a MacDonald at all. How silly of me. Just because of his tartan …’

  The librarians, in a joint manoeuvre, ushered Carlin away from her a little, out of earshot.

  ‘Was your Mr MacDonald wearing a kilt?’ the second librarian asked.

  Carlin shook his head. The librarian shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s really very little more we can do.’

  ‘You’re tellin me you can’t track this book doon. This book that I was in here readin for two days.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Carlin held the man’s stare for as long as he could. As soon as he went out of the door they’d be shaking their heads at each other. Smirking. He could already hear the conversations during coffee-breaks: the weird-looking guy; the madwoman; the vanishing clansman. He sighed and went back down to the Scottish library.

  He had a note-pad with him, which he hadn’t yet used during his researches. He hadn’t felt the need: things stayed in his head once he had read them. He tore off a sheet and wrote his address at the top.

  Dear Mr MacDonald,

  It is essential I speak to you. I am the man that you helped concerning Major Weir. Nobody else can find the Lauder manuscript, Ane Secret Book. Your colleagues here do not seem to know you but you know what I’m talking about. If you receive this please contact me.