‘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 dour 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.