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Authors: Doug Johnstone
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the curve of road stretching down and round past the Standard offices, Dynamic Earth and the parliament. Police officers were congregating at various stages on the slope, milling about, swapping jokes and banter.
Billy stared at the police ROAD CLOSED sign. Cars approached the roundabout next to him, slowed as they took in the sign, then circled and headed back the way they had come.
He’d only passed out for a few seconds. Same as in the toilets. What was happening to him? He came round on the floor with Rose over him, her hefty cleavage in his line of sight, thick perfume filling his nose.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, before she’d had a chance to speak.
He tried to pick himself up as calmly as possible, managed to get to a chair, fingers tight on the blue plastic.
‘Must’ve had a dodgy pint last night,’ he said.
Rose stared at him, compassion in her eyes. ‘Go home and get some rest. Call me when you feel better.’
He hadn’t gone home. He needed fresh air, time and space to think.
He turned now and walked across the grass, away from the road, uphill then left to the bottom of a path. The start of the Radical Road. No name anywhere, just a red and white triangular sign warning of falling rocks. No tarmac, just gravel. Not a road at all. How had it got its name?
He started up the slope, his legs unsteady, feeling the stones in the path through the soles of his trainers. The sun was hammering down from a cloudless sky. What the hell was with this weather? He took his jacket off and pushed his sleeves up, felt sweat under his arms. The stink of gorse blossom everywhere. He imagined the pollen clogging his nose and throat. His tongue felt sticky. A few bees meandered in and out of bushes to his left. It was too early in the day for midges, thank God.
He passed another sign, a battered, metallic Historic Scotland plaque stuck to a boulder. ‘DANGER. Please Beware of Falling Rocks’. The path became grassy underfoot, ochre sandstone cliffs rising to his right, a steep yellow slope falling away on the other side. It didn’t take long before he was high up, more than a hundred feet, looking down at the police activity below.
Behind him the cliffs loomed, and in front the fall was equally dramatic. He stopped and looked around. He could see for miles, from the Pentlands to the Forth bridges and Fife. The light diffused to a vague haze in the distance, but the foreground was painfully sharp in the morning light. He could see down Rankeillor Street from here. He thought he spotted the Micra parked in the road, a smudge of red. He could see the police station, the newspaper office, the Holyrood. In the other direction, The Crags pub and Adele’s house. His whole world enclosed in a small turn of the head. And of course down below, the small cluster of trees on Queen’s Drive. There were no police there yet, they were all still standing around on the grass, waiting for instructions, sipping coffee from cardboard cups. He wondered if he would ever escape from this world. If he deserved to.
He reached out and touched a flower on the nearest gorse bush. He picked it, crushed the petals in his fingers and brought them to his nose. A smell like honey. He reached back out and grabbed a thorny branch in his fist. The thorns dug deep. His hand reacted instinctively to pull away but he forced it to remain, gripping tighter until the individual pinpricks of pain smeared into one, his whole hand on fire. He squeezed his fist in a slow pulse, feeling the thorns respond, digging deeper into his flesh. Eventually he pulled his hand away. More blood. More pain. Like the barbed wire. Like the nettle stings. All infusing into one.
He leaned over the edge. Long way down, almost a sheer slope, smothered in thick spiky bushes all the way. An easy way to die. You would get ripped to shreds on the way down. He leaned further out. His head throbbed and his mouth sweated. He forced himself to stand still, his eyes losing focus as he
Billy stared at the police ROAD CLOSED sign. Cars approached the roundabout next to him, slowed as they took in the sign, then circled and headed back the way they had come.
He’d only passed out for a few seconds. Same as in the toilets. What was happening to him? He came round on the floor with Rose over him, her hefty cleavage in his line of sight, thick perfume filling his nose.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, before she’d had a chance to speak.
He tried to pick himself up as calmly as possible, managed to get to a chair, fingers tight on the blue plastic.
‘Must’ve had a dodgy pint last night,’ he said.
Rose stared at him, compassion in her eyes. ‘Go home and get some rest. Call me when you feel better.’
He hadn’t gone home. He needed fresh air, time and space to think.
He turned now and walked across the grass, away from the road, uphill then left to the bottom of a path. The start of the Radical Road. No name anywhere, just a red and white triangular sign warning of falling rocks. No tarmac, just gravel. Not a road at all. How had it got its name?
He started up the slope, his legs unsteady, feeling the stones in the path through the soles of his trainers. The sun was hammering down from a cloudless sky. What the hell was with this weather? He took his jacket off and pushed his sleeves up, felt sweat under his arms. The stink of gorse blossom everywhere. He imagined the pollen clogging his nose and throat. His tongue felt sticky. A few bees meandered in and out of bushes to his left. It was too early in the day for midges, thank God.
He passed another sign, a battered, metallic Historic Scotland plaque stuck to a boulder. ‘DANGER. Please Beware of Falling Rocks’. The path became grassy underfoot, ochre sandstone cliffs rising to his right, a steep yellow slope falling away on the other side. It didn’t take long before he was high up, more than a hundred feet, looking down at the police activity below.
Behind him the cliffs loomed, and in front the fall was equally dramatic. He stopped and looked around. He could see for miles, from the Pentlands to the Forth bridges and Fife. The light diffused to a vague haze in the distance, but the foreground was painfully sharp in the morning light. He could see down Rankeillor Street from here. He thought he spotted the Micra parked in the road, a smudge of red. He could see the police station, the newspaper office, the Holyrood. In the other direction, The Crags pub and Adele’s house. His whole world enclosed in a small turn of the head. And of course down below, the small cluster of trees on Queen’s Drive. There were no police there yet, they were all still standing around on the grass, waiting for instructions, sipping coffee from cardboard cups. He wondered if he would ever escape from this world. If he deserved to.
He reached out and touched a flower on the nearest gorse bush. He picked it, crushed the petals in his fingers and brought them to his nose. A smell like honey. He reached back out and grabbed a thorny branch in his fist. The thorns dug deep. His hand reacted instinctively to pull away but he forced it to remain, gripping tighter until the individual pinpricks of pain smeared into one, his whole hand on fire. He squeezed his fist in a slow pulse, feeling the thorns respond, digging deeper into his flesh. Eventually he pulled his hand away. More blood. More pain. Like the barbed wire. Like the nettle stings. All infusing into one.
He leaned over the edge. Long way down, almost a sheer slope, smothered in thick spiky bushes all the way. An easy way to die. You would get ripped to shreds on the way down. He leaned further out. His head throbbed and his mouth sweated. He forced himself to stand still, his eyes losing focus as he
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