| |
In The Mile of Coffee, a café on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the television on the wall was usually silent and subtitled. Today, Darren, Martin’s boss, had switched it to a higher volume while the patrons listened. Martin caught snippets of the news in between orders of flat whites, lattés, and cappuccinos. At first, customers sat in partial disinterest at the activity of the stock market. It had fallen three days ago, and the slide continued. Now, by late afternoon, every person in the cafe watched intently as scenes of unrest in London filled the screen. The City, where the world’s banks headquarters were situated, was awash with a boisterous crowd. Riot police were gathering. News from other major cities broadcast glass-smashed store fronts and looters running off with televisions and other goods.
“What’s going on?” Davy, a young guy who worked as a waiter, frowned up at the screen. “Why are people going crazy?”
“People were hit hard last time,” Darren answered. “It’s fallen quicker than 2008. And still going. People are afraid they’ll lose their pension funds and savings.”
“People are a bit panicky. I had to step out onto the road to get past a crowd at an ATM on my way to work this morning.” Martin made another skinny latté at the espresso machine for the cute girl in the booth near the front window. “Most of them didn’t get anything cos it was already empty.”
“What was?” Davy’s wide eyes darted back to Martin; hands poised in the middle of stacking clean dishes.
“The ATM.”
“Most of the smaller banks have closed.” Darren turned back to the news reports. “And two of the Big Five. Two of my pals’ banks have requested they pay up a fair percentage of what’s owed on their business mortgages. Banks are nervous. People just need to calm down. If they panic, it’ll be a disaster.” Darren took a deep breath.
“You’re okay, aren’t you Darren?” Davy turned his frown to their boss, looking like an alarmed hedgehog with his short-cropped hair stuck up with gel.
Darren cocked his head. “Aye. So far.”
***
MARTIN CLOSED THE DOOR of The Mile of Coffee after finishing his shift, zipping up his jacket and lighting a cigarette. At least with his father’s wealth, this sudden drop in the market wouldn’t affect him. Further up the Royal Mile, Edinburgh Castle sat rain washed. He turned and headed down the Mile, walking past shop fronts of buildings that were centuries old. Rain made the sandstone a dirty-yellow and the greystone even greyer. He passed entrances to wynds and vennels. Breezes funnelled through them, blowing his exhaled cigarette smoke into his long fringe. The malty smell of beer wafted out as he walked by taverns. Bagpipe music and jaunty Scottish Ceilidh tunes blared out of the souvenir shops. Tours advertised on placards promised history and ghosts, while snippets of English in various accents, Asian languages, and an abundance of European tongues surrounded him.
Ahead, at the far end of the Royal Mile near Holyrood, a crowd gathered, spilling onto the street at the side of the Scottish Parliament building, the modern deal that looked so out of place opposite the seventeenth-century architecture of Holyrood Palace. The angry voices of the crowd rose up along The Mile.
Martin hunched into his jacket; his designer trousers were wet at the cuffs already. He needed some cash, so he headed left down North Bridge to Princess Street.
He’d been a fool about Caitlin. At his father’s birthday party, Martin had caught part of a conversation between Caitlin and Great Aunt Meredith. Caitlin had said when she met the right man, Aunt Meredith would be the first to know. So, if he was the right man, she’d met him already, right?
Wrong.
Man, that was so creepy. What was he thinking? Caitlin was his first cousin, for heaven’s sake!
Martin mentally shook himself.
The rumbling of trains continued underneath him as he walked the bridge over Waverly Station. The sound of smashing glass came toward him, its sharpness snapping him out of his self-reproach. Ahead, a mob clambered into broken shop windows and emerged with armfuls of goods.
Martin stopped in his tracks. He could get to an ATM nearer his flat in Newington. Stubbing his cigarette butt under his shoe, he turned and made his way to the bus stop. His phone vibrated crazily in his jacket pocket. He took it out and glanced at the screen. It was his father.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go to the estate.” Instead of its usual cheeriness, his father’s voice was haggard.
“Wasn’t planning to. What’s up?”
“We were attacked. The place ransacked—”
“Wait. Slow down, Dad!”
“Caitlin’s missing. They took her—”
“Who did? What happened?” Thudding began in Martin’s chest.
“Bloody rent-a-mob! Hooligans riding on the back of this trouble and looking for fun came and trashed the place. I got your mother out. I couldn’t...” His voice broke.
“Dad?” Martin’s heart rocked in his chest.
Ragged breathing came through the phone. “When they’d gone, I went back. I left your mother in the summer house by the loch. I couldn’t find her. Her horse was gone.”
“Who? Caitlin?”
“Aye. She’s staying with us for the summer, remember? She may have got on Bonnie, her mare, and got away but...”
“But what?” The thumping now hit his temples.
“There’s no sign of her or the guy we hired for the summer...and Andy’s dead.”
“What?” Ice hit his chest now. Poor Andy the groundsman wasn’t a young man. And those bastards had got him. What would they do to Caitlin?
“I’m coming down, Dad.”
“No! Don’t! It’s not safe. We’re not there.”
“What did the police say?”
“They told us not to go back and they’ll look for Caitlin. But...they’re overloaded. Have you seen what’s going on?”
Behind Martin, the noise of the approaching crowd grew louder.
“Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll phone you when I get to my flat. I can’t believe they took Caitlin. Shit! We’ve got to find her.”
“We will, son. Keep safe.”
Martin turned and strode up the incline to the Royal Mile and crossed to his bus stop. His mind spun with possible plans. He’d ignore his dad and drive down anyway. Or catch the train.
He must get to his parents.