The Furies: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

at the moment.
    Robert came round to my flat that evening with a pile of play texts. He looked less harassed now than he had done in the afternoon.
    ‘You smell nice,’ I told him, as he kissed me on both cheeks.
    ‘New cologne,’ he said, happily. ‘Jeff chose it. Now, how are you settling in?’
    He bustled past me in the narrow hallway, his shoes tapping on the pine flooring that peeped through the bright, moth-bitten rugs.
    ‘I’m fine, thanks. It’s a lovely building. Thanks for sorting it out for me.’
    Robert had arranged everything about my move to Edinburgh except the train ticket. The flat I was renting belonged to an actor friend of his, currently touring South Asia with a physical-theatre production of Crime and Punishment – described by Robert, who had been to the press night, as ‘both of the above’.
    New Skinner’s Close was one of those tiny secret pockets that lurk in Edinburgh’s Old Town, completely hidden unless you were looking for it. You could get into it through a narrow, cobbled passage off Blackfriars Street, one of those small, steep roads that cut down the hill between the Royal Mile and the dingy bars and student haunts of the Cowgate, beneath the huge South Bridge in the Old Town. Every weekend you could hear weary clubbers shriek with horror as they sheltered from the weather while they argued about where to go next and then discovered they had swapped the rain for some unidentifiable liquid that was now dripping down on them from the bridges above. They would stay at the youth hostel opposite the entrance to New Skinner’s Close, which announced its presence with a sign in the shape of a hat-wearing red cow. You could hear music pulsing through the windows at night. The rest of Blackfriars Street catered to older visitors: Highland tours could be booked a few doors up. Otherwise it was all small cafés, and shops which sold felted knitwear and silver jewellery.
    You could also reach the little close from the other side, through a tiny archway which stood almost hidden between sandwich shops on the Royal Mile. Even though the street was a tourist trap, drawing visitors up to the Castle or down to Holyrood, it wasn’t busy in the winter. It was lined with shops which sold cashmere, tweed, tartan, small furry toys of the Loch Ness monster, and dozens of kinds of malt whisky, all waiting for visitors to arrive later in the year. And hiding behind them was New Skinner’s Close.
    Whichever direction you came from, you wound down to a cobbled courtyard, with this tiny, turreted building in the middle, surrounded by washing lines and potted plants. No-one was mad enough to try drying their washing in Edinburgh in January, so the lines stood empty but for some sturdy clothes pegs. Only a few small heathers were surviving the winter in their terracotta planters, some of which had cracked open from the cold, spilling soil onto the frozen paving stones. My flat was on the second floor, and to reach it I had to climb a spiral staircase carved from old, grey Scottish stone. I was only a few missed haircuts from being Rapunzel.
    It was a one-bedroom flat with a living room that opened out into a small kitchen. The bedroom was opposite the front door and looked out over another little courtyard at the back of the building. The tiny bathroom was decorated with a jaunty nautical theme: blue tiles round the bath, fish on the shower curtain, a few shells from the beach in a glass dish on a shelf. I guessed they’d come from Portobello, a couple of miles away to the east. I used to go there in the summer when I was a student, and I’d had a collection of seashells too.
    The living room was a little bare. Robert’s friend had left minimal furnishings: a TV, a digital radio, a gate-leg table at which I ate porridge every morning, and a small desk. I’d brought only what I could carry from London: one bag of clothes, a laptop and almost nothing else.
    ‘Christ, Alex,’ Robert said as he walked