“She’s great,” Siobhan agreed. Even to her own ears, the sentiment sounded hollow. “So how did you two meet?”

Bain froze for a moment. “A club,” he said, recovering.

“Never took you for a dancer, Eric.” Siobhan glanced in his direction.

“Molly’s a great dancer.”

“She’s got the body for it…” Relief washed over her as her own cell sounded. She hoped to hell it would offer the excuse to be anywhere but here. It was her parents’ number.

“Hello?”

At first she mistook the noise on the line for static, then she realized: yells and catcalls and whistles. Same noises she’d just been hearing on the report from Princes Street.

“Mum?” she said. “Dad?”

And now a voice, her father’s. “Siobhan? Can you hear me?”

“Dad? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“Your mum…”

“What? Dad, put her on, will you?”

“Your mum’s…”

“Has something-”

“She was bleeding…ambulance…”

“Dad, you’re breaking up! Where are you exactly?”

“Kiosk…gardens.”

The line went dead. She looked at its small rectangular screen. Connection lost.

“Connection lost,” she echoed.

“What’s going on?” Bain asked.

“My mum and dad…that’s where they are.” She nodded toward the TV. “Can you give me a lift?”

“Where?”

“There.” She stabbed a finger at the screen.

“There?”

“There.”

9

They didn’t get any farther than George Street. Siobhan got out of the car and told Bain not to forget the Jensens. He was telling her to be careful as she slammed shut the door.

There were protesters here, too, spilling down Frederick Street. Staff watched in fascinated horror from behind the doors and windows of their shops. Bystanders pressed themselves to walls in the hope of blending in. There was debris underfoot. The protesters were being pushed back down into Princes Street. Nobody tried to stop Siobhan crossing the police line in that direction. Easy enough to get in; getting out was the problem.

There was only one kiosk she knew of-just down from the Scott Monument. The gates to the gardens had been closed, so she made for the fence. The skirmishes had moved from the street into the gardens themselves. Trash flew through the air, along with stones and other missiles. A hand grabbed at her jacket.

“No, you don’t.”

She turned to face a policeman. Just above his visor were the letters XS. For a brief moment she read it as excess-just perfect. She had her ID ready.

“I’m CID,” she yelled.

“Then you must be crazy.” He released his grip.

“It has been said,” she told him, clambering over the spikes. Looking around, she saw that the rioters had been reinforced by what looked like local hooligans: any excuse for a fight. Wasn’t every day they could lash out at the cops and have a good chance of getting away with it. They were disguising their identities with scarves around their mouths, jackets zipped all the way to the chin. At least these days they all wore sneakers rather than Doc Martens boots.

The kiosk: it sold ice cream and cold drinks. Shards of glass lay strewn around it, and it was closed. She circled it in a crouch: no sign of her father. Spots of blood on the ground, and she followed them with her eyes. They stopped short of the gates. Circled the kiosk again. Banged on the serving hatch. Tried again. Heard a muffled voice from inside.

“Siobhan?”

“Dad? You in there?”

The door to the side was yanked open. Her father was standing inside, and next to him the kiosk’s terrified owner.

“Where’s Mum?” Siobhan asked, voice shaking.

“They took her in the ambulance. I couldn’t…they wouldn’t let me past the cordon.”

Siobhan couldn’t remember ever seeing her father in tears, but he was crying now. Crying, and obviously in shock.

“We need to get you out.”

“Not me,” his companion said with a shake of her head. “I’m guarding the fort. But I saw what happened…bloody police. She was only standing there.”

“It was one of their sticks,” Siobhan’s father added. “Right across her head.”

“Blood was gushing out…”

Siobhan silenced the woman with a look. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Frances…Frances Neagley.”

“Well, Frances Neagley, my advice is to get out.” Then, to her shivering father: “Come on, let’s get going.”

“What?”

“We need to go see Mum.”

“But what about…?”

“It’ll be all right. Now come on.” She tugged at his arm, felt she would have hauled him out of there bodily if need be. Frances Neagley closed the door on them and locked it.

Another divot flew past. Siobhan knew that tomorrow, this being Edinburgh, the major complaint would be of destruction to the famed flower beds. The gates had been forced open by the demonstrators from Frederick Street. A man dressed as a Pictish warrior was being dragged by his arms behind the police lines. Directly in front of the cordon, a young mother was calmly changing the diaper on her pink-clad baby. A placard was being waved: NO GODS, NO MASTERS. The letters X and S…the baby in pink…the message on the placard…they all seemed incredibly vivid to her, snapshots bright with a significance she couldn’t quite determine.

There’s a pattern here, some meaning of sorts…

Something to ask Dad later…

Fifteen years ago, he’d tried explaining semiotics to her, supposedly helping with a school essay, but just getting her more confused. Then, in class, she’d called it semenotics, and her teacher laughed out loud.

Siobhan sought out faces she might know. She saw none. But one officer’s vest bore the words POLICE MEDIC. She pulled her father toward him, ID held open in front of her.

“CID,” she explained. “This man’s wife’s been taken to hospital. I need to get him there.”

The officer nodded and guided them through the police line.

“Which hospital?” the medic asked.

“What’s your guess?”

He looked at her. “Dunno,” he admitted. “I’m down here from Aberdeen.”

“Western General’s closest,” Siobhan said. “Any transport available?”

He pointed up Frederick Street. “The road that crosses at the top.”

“ George Street?”

He shook his head. “Next one.”

“ Queen Street?” She watched him nod. “Thanks,” she said. “You better get back there.”

“Suppose so,” he said, with no real enthusiasm. “Some of them are going in a bit strong…Not our lot-the ones from the Met.”

Siobhan turned to face her father. “Any chance you can ID him?”

“Who?”

“The one who hit Mum.”

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

She made a small, angry sound and led him up the hill toward Queen Street.

There was a line of parked patrol cars. Unbelievably, there was also traffic: all the cars and trucks diverted from the main drag, crawling past as if it were just another day, another commute. Siobhan explained to one police driver what she wanted. He seemed relieved at the thought of being elsewhere. She got into the back with her dad.

“Blues and twos,” she ordered the driver. Cue flashing lights and siren. They pulled past the line of traffic and got going.

“Is this the right way?” the driver shouted.

“Where are you from?”

“ Peterborough.”

“Straight ahead, I’ll tell you when to turn.” She squeezed her father’s hand. “You’re not hurt?”

He shook his head, fixed her with his eyes. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re amazing.” Teddy Clarke gave a tired smile. “Way you acted back there, taking control…”

“Not just a pretty face, eh?”

“I never realized…” There were tears in his eyes again. He bit his bottom lip, blinked them back. She gave his hand a tighter squeeze.

“I never really appreciated,” he said, “how good you might be at this.”

“Just be thankful I’m not in uniform, or it might’ve been me wielding one of those batons.”