James Robertson - The Fanatic

At the top of Anderson’s Close he paused, raising his arm ominously.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must warn you before we enter the next stage of our journey, that you are about to learn of one of the wickedest and foulest personages who ever stalked the streets of Auld Reikie. And I must warn you too, that some say he still roams the wynds and closes hereabouts. I refer to the so-called Wizard of the West Bow, the notorious Major Thomas Weir.’

He brought the party down into the narrow close, and invited them to gather in around him. There wasn’t much room. The man from the office party took the opportunity to put his arms around the shoulders of two of his colleagues. Jackie moved away from them down the slope, just behind the guide.

‘In the late 1600s,’ the guide said, ‘this part of Edinburgh was packed with dwellings. Some of the buildings here were the skyscrapers of their day, rising ten, eleven or even more storeys. Sanitation was at a minimum and disease was rife. Beware! If you hear the cry Gardy-loo! , it means somebody is about to throw the contents of a chamberpot or bucket out of a window. Mind where you step – this close was once called the Stinking Close and it still has a certain je ne sais quoi about it. None of you are afraid of rats, I hope? You won’t be too upset if we disturb any as we continue on our way?’

There was a scuffling sound at the foot of the wall next to Jackie, and something shot across the close and hit her shoe. She let out a short scream and jumped. The thing skeltered on and collided with the unattached office-girl, who also screamed and threw herself into her friends. The Japanese visitors yelped and grabbed at one another. The rat careered off the wall, flipped over and then disappeared on its back round the corner.

The guide gave them only a few seconds to recover. Everybody was suddenly laughing and gasping with relief as he ushered them on round the dog-leg. ‘Was it us?’ he was saying breathlessly. ‘Was it us or something else that disturbed it?’ Jackie found herself being pushed forward. Ahead of her she saw him, Major Weir, filling the close like a wind, moving silently and smoothly away. At the Cowgatehead end he turned, and for a moment was illuminated from behind, white-faced, with a long staff swaying beside him. Then he was gone.

The office man was speechless. Everybody else was gibbering away in their own language. The guide let them get the excitement out of their systems before filling them in on whose ghost it was they had just seen.

It was very effective, Jackie conceded that. She only half-took in what the guide was saying, but realised that, in terms of the tour experience, his words were not too important anyway. They were history babble. The effect was everything. And Carlin had played his part well. He had looked threatening, ghostly, ancient, yes, all these things. But something else … she couldn’t figure it.

‘If you go down Leith Walk,’ the guide concluded, ‘very nice down at the waterfront these days – nice wine-bars, bistros et cetera – well, if you go down Leith Walk you pass the spot where Major Weir was burnt to death. It’s no longer there, of course, but it was just beside where the Lothian Transport bus depot now is. So we can conclude that the place of public execution has become the place of public transportation.’

The office man laughed. ‘Well, there you go,’ he said. ‘I never knew that.’

The group made its way along the Cowgate. Jackie kept looking for the cloaked figure. She knew from Hugh Hardie that Carlin was supposed to appear again. A few people, in twos and threes, were strolling in each direction. None of them was like a ghost.

‘Would ye say I was depressed?’

‘Dae ye want ma opinion?’

‘Aye. Ye were that guid on weirdness. Would ye say I’m showin any o the symptoms o depression?’

‘Don’t get fuckin smart wi me, son. How would I ken? You’re the one that was gaun tae be a doctor.’

‘No that kinna doctor. Look, I’m no lookin for a cure. I jist would like yer views on the subject.’

‘Tell us yer symptoms then.’

‘It’s like there’s a fire in the small o ma back. I start sweatin aw ower ma body. I canna work up enthusiasm for onythin. I’ve got a shitey wee job and I canna even finish the shift. I feel physically run doon aw the time. Seik. Knackert.’

‘There’s a lot of flu aboot.’

‘And I keep gaun intae dwams. Real stuff disna feel real and the dwammy stuff does. Does that sound like the behaviour of an emotionally balanced person?’

‘Na, but we ken ye’re no that. We ken ye’re a fucked up, awol, fairychummin moonlowper. In yer ain terms yer behaviour is entirely normal. Dodgy terms of coorse, but we’ll jouk an let that jaw gang by. Mebbe there’s nuthin much wrang wi ye. Ye jist canna face the tedium o everyday life. Ye’re bored by it because everythin seems pointless and cruel. So yer mind switches aff and yer body follows. How am I daein?’

‘No bad. But it’s no so much like ma mind switches aff, mair like it switches on. It’s like the past isna past, it’s right there happenin in front o me. Tae me.’

‘The past? Yer ain past?’

‘Ither folk’s past. Frae way back, fuckin yonks. I’m supposed tae be playin Weir’s ghost but it feels mair solid than that. Real.’

‘Let’s talk aboot yer ain past.’

‘Na, let’s no. This is mair important.’

‘That’s a matter o opinion.’

‘It’s important that I’m seein aw these auld images. But they’re no mine.’

‘Ye’re tellin me ye’re dreamin stuff frae somebody else’s life?’

‘No dreamin exactly. I could unnerstaun that. I’ve been daein aw this readin so it wouldna surprise me if that was comin intae ma heid, when I was asleep ken. But this is different. It’s like I’ve got a front row seat at the pictures.’

‘So, if it’s botherin ye that much, ye ken whit tae dae. Naebody’s forcin ye tae stey. Staun up an walk oot the bluidy picture-hoose.’

‘Aye.’

‘Weill?’

‘I canna.’

Mr MacDonald beamed at him. ‘I have something for you,’ he said.

‘Guid,’ said Carlin. ‘Cause I feel like I need somethin. A way in. It’s like I’m no close enough.’

‘Do you really want to get close to Major Weir?’ said MacDonald.

‘It’s no a question o wantin. You ken whit I mean. Aw these ministers were gaun intae him in prison, tryin tae get him tae repent, but they werena gettin close at all. Was there naebody else? Was he totally friendless? Somebody must have gone tae see him.’

MacDonald was holding a manilla folder. They moved out of the way of the other readers and librarians.

‘You would think so,’ said MacDonald. ‘It’s not often you get the chance to view the incarnation of pure evil. But maybe that was the trouble. He was too dangerous. His former Covenanting comrades couldn’t put enough distance between him and them, once his crimes were made known. And the nature of the crimes – he was dangerous in a much deeper sense than just political. His sister was accused of witchcraft but claimed that the real sorcerer was him, not her. People took that very seriously in 1670 – they believed in the immortality of the soul, that life on earth was just a prelude, an overture to eternity. Major Weir was up to his oxters in stuff that would send you straight to Hell.

‘The only folk that wanted to visit him in prison were his enemies – Royalists going to gloat at the fallen Presbyterian, or Presbyterian ministers going to look on the face of Satan. And then, he was convicted on a Saturday and executed on the Monday. He was probably in the Tolbooth for less than a week before the trial, while they prepared the evidence against him, so there wasn’t a lot of time for sympathetic visitors.’