Seacliff

Chapter eleven: Greyfriars Kirkyard

2019

The final stop of Aidan's morning tour was Greyfriars Kirkyard, the cemetery where J.K. Rowling would go hunting for character names – most famously Thomas Riddell, who'd become the all-time 'favourite' Tom Riddle.

"But that's another tour entirely," Aidan told his group. "A Harry Potter-themed tour, which you have to buy tickets for, so I can't give away too much."

He led his flock up a small, grassy slope, between crooked old trees and blackened gravestones.

"If you have some time to hang around 'after hours,' as it were, I can tell you a few things off the clock. But between you and me only."

He adjusted his glasses out of habit and scanned his audience. It was usually the younger tourists, teenagers or twenty-somethings, who were very eager to learn wizarding world secrets. Not too many of those today.

"Greyfriars Kirkyard," he resumed, "is known even better for the heart-warming tale of Greyfriars Bobby, the dog that guarded its master's grave for fourteen years."

Aidan told them the traditional version of the story – Bobby, a Skye Terrier belonging to the night watchman John Gray, took to sitting on his owner's grave after he died in 1858 and was buried at Greyfriars. In 1867, Bobby's licence was paid for by the city's Lord Provost – so that he wouldn't be rounded up and killed – and he spent the rest of his life looked after by the community.

"Bobby was buried at Greyfriars, too, of course," Aidan concluded and began to move along, "you'll see his grave just before the gate as we head for the exit, I'll point it out to you. Visitors leave him sticks, to fetch in the afterlife."

They walked down the footpath between headstones and stopped by a reddish block of granite that appeared twenty-first-century new. It was marked 'John Gray, master of Greyfriars Bobby' and had a handful of fresh-looking white roses propped against it.

Seeing as how they were in a graveyard, Aidan picked out a story about an enterprising murderous madame to wrap up his tour. It detailed how she would watch over the working girls in her care while they accosted gentlemen sauntering around Arthur's Seat.

Hiding in the bushes, the madame would draw up a bill, based on the services performed, which on one occasion, the gentlemen refused to pay. The women killed them, but the madame got found out and sentenced to death.

"Instead of a last drink," Aidan continued in an emphatic tone, "the madame chose to have a last orange, which she took a juicy bite out of, before she threw it out to her lover in the crowd, and they thus shared a last kiss."

"Aww," the audience cooed in unison... before realising they were swooning over a cold-blooded killer, and laughter broke out instead.

"And that should bring us just about..."

Aidan glanced at his wristwatch and held up a finger for silence. After a few seconds, a boom echoed in the distance.

"The one o'clock gun, there you go. I hope you've all had fun, despite the weather. If you did, please make sure you tell all of your friends about it and leave us a review on TripAdvisor..."

That tingle again, stronger now. Aidan barrelled through his closing speech, handing out business cards and collecting his tips. He pointed the way to Tom Riddle's grave, and the tingle faded as the crowd cleared.

A single person remained, a young woman who stood by a tall, overgrown tomb in a worse state of disrepair than the others. The tingle resurfaced and he walked up to her.

"Excuse me..."

She took one step to the side, but didn't turn around. The tingle intensified. He read the plaque attached to the outer wall of the ruined vault barely holding on to its bricks.

It had miraculously endured the passage of time to testify that eminent Edinburgh resident, Dr James Robert Mortimer, had been interred there along with his wife, Saoirse Máiréad, and that their war-hero son, Aidan Alexander, had perished at Dunkirk in 1940.

"Can I help you?" Aidan tried again. "You were on my tour just now, weren't you?"

The woman smiled and her profile alone made his skin prickle. Her long, dark hair, plaited in twin braids. The line of her jaw, the shape of her nose, the way her cheek dimpled with her smile... She looked so much like someone he used to know a lifetime ago.

"Yes," she confirmed, facing him, then frowned. "What's wrong?"

Aidan snapped his mouth shut and struggled not to gawk. Her strong New York accent made him see things in her brown eyes that weren't there.

"N-nothing... you just... Sorry!" A strained chuckle. "You reminded me of someone, just now."

"Someone you never thought you'd see again?"

He released a slow, pent-up sigh. "Exactly. Sorry about that – anything I can do to help? I thought you... seemed a little lost."

"No, actually." She stole another glimpse at the plaque on the tomb. "I think I'm right where I need to be. Your name is Aidan, too, isn't it? Like our fallen war hero here."

"Uh, yes, Aidan Munro, nice to meet you."

He held out his hand and when they touched, the tingle exploded throughout his entire body.

"I'm Saoirse, like Mrs Mortimer over there. Saoirse Kelly."