The Babylon Rite. Tom Knox

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      6

       The Hinnie Tavern, Edinburgh Old Town

      The Hinnie was one of those Edinburgh pubs that seemed to contain a slightly rancid, off-putting darkness, in the heart of the Old Town, under the louring stone bulwarks of the castle, down a tiny medieval wynd so obscured and sooted by history that only the initiated knew those ancient, uninviting steps led down to an equally ancient, uninviting pub.

      Glum drinkers stared into glasses of The Famous Grouse. Old men ignored each other at the bar, drinking pints of 80 Shilling. Another young man gazed aggressively at Adam, with the stare of an antlered male stag on a hillside in the rutting season: fuck you.

      Adam raised his glass and toasted him, staring right back, making the boy visibly seethe. Come on then, Adam thought, I am descended from some of the worst English criminals in the history of transportation. My grandfather killed dingoes with his bare hands. You think you’re harder than me?

      Adam felt guilty about his temper, but he also had a pleasing confidence in his physical capabilities, which sometimes came in handy. He recalled the day they beat up the Lebanese boys in Cronulla, gave them a hiding for nearly gang-raping his sister’s friend when the police wouldn’t do anything. Too racially sensitive, mate.

      His father, of course, was – or at least had been in his prime – exactly the same. A bit of a drinker, a bit of a bruiser. Almost liked a fight; he and Adam used to wrestle and box when Adam was a lad. So the propensity must’ve come from Dad.

      Don’t let anyone push you around, son, unless they have a gun. Then go get a gun. That was what his dad used to say. Dad was a real larrikin, a true Aussie, albeit descended from centuries of English cutpurses and highwaymen. Mum had been very different.

      ‘Hello?’

      Startled from his thoughts, he looked up – to see a young woman, standing directly opposite, extending a delicate white hand.

      Nina McLintock.

      She didn’t look anything like he had expected; she had remarkable pale skin, and lush dark hair. She was also petite and slim and wearing dark clothes and a white shirt or blouse: she looked like a figure in a monochrome photo. The only thing that told him this was sandy-haired Archie McLintock’s daughter was the eyes, they were the same intelligent grey-green. The sad eyes he had seen in Rosslyn Chapel.

      ‘Recognize you from the paper. I’m sorry I’m so late.’

      He lifted hands as if to say no worries.

      She hastily explained, ‘We’ve got this Facebook page. For my dad. Seeking info. Look. Ach. Sorry. Do you mind if I get a drink first?’

      She was obviously a local: the barman, who had stared at Adam as if he was a large and ugly centipede, smiled at her shouted request and brought her drinks over. An action almost unheard of in a British pub.

      Nina smiled, introspectively. There was true sadness there, which made her look quite beautiful – and a little haunting, Adam thought.

      ‘This is your local?’

      She nodded and shot down her Scotch in one gulp. Then she turned to her glass of Tennants, which seemed a bit too big for her very small hands, but she managed to down a quarter of it anyway. Then she said, ‘I’ve got a flat down the road, in the Grassmarket. I like it here, the fact it’s so rough. The fights can be fun. You know in Scottish we have five hundred words for fight: a stramash. A fash. A brulzie. All different.’

      He gazed at her pint glass.

      ‘Yes. And I’m a recovering teetotaller.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I tried to be sober. But my God, the boredom. Like Byron said, Man, being reasonable, must get drunk. I like Byron. You?’

      ‘Uh …’

      ‘Sorry I talk too much. Drink too much and talk too much. Too quickly.’ She set her pint down. ‘Sorry …’ And for a moment the vivacious energy seemed to leave her.