The Gemini Age: Book One

[15-1] Noble Illusions - Part One

    "They're late. I knew we shouldn't have brought these petty thugs into our plan, Byron."

    "Give 'em a minute, will ye? They'll be 'ere, keep yer 'air on, Phil."

    "A lack of punctuality works to our benefit, Philemon. It's organic. We don't want this to appear too organised, now, do we?"

    "I...I suppose not. I do wish they'd hurry up, though! I despise waiting."

    Locke's dress shoes crunched through the collage of browning leaves strewn beside the stone boundary. An ancient oak rested by the entrance to the kirkyard, its roots reaching out through the immaculate grass lawns to nestle among the first rows of polished gravestones. Its branches fanned out so that, when adorned with a full complement of verdant leaves, the tree laid a cloak of cool peace over the front wing of Greyfriars Kirk. Even without the shade, such a peace reigned in the air now, disturbed only by the leaves crumpling under Locke's pacing. His goldenrod tie clashed with the funereal look of his dark suit.

    Flicking the end of his cigarette, Trigger sniffed and gestured beyond the iron spike fencing that ran along the top of the stone walls. "Ye could learn a thing or two from 'im, Phil."

    "Firstly, it's Lord Locke to you. And secondly, what the devil are you on about?" Locke's eyes followed the crooked line of Trigger's pointer finger to a distinct granite statue rising from the pavement outside the kirkyard entrance. A small dog sat perched on an elevated round platform, its face calm yet confident. "What on earth could I have to learn from a statue of a dead dog?"

    "Greyfriars Bobby knew all about patience. Let 'is loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all, right? That includes yerself, Lord."

    Bobby's eyes seemed to follow Locke wherever he paced, and the feeling forced Locke to stop himself and hide his body behind the entrance pillar. "It's a Skye Terrier, not an apostle. Nothing but folklore babble made to entertain base fellows like you."

    Trigger's eyes widened, and his cigarette tumbled to disappear on the stone below his boot. "A Skye Terrier, eh? Shame givin' yer sprog that name didn't make 'er any nicer, boss."

    "Her mother picked it," Byron said, glancing through the thinning branches of the oak over Locke's head. Though it was bright and warm enough, not a shred of blue penetrated the dull blanket of cloud knitted across the sky. "Shelley and I married on the Isle, and she always wanted to use the name. The moment we found out we were having a daughter, the decision was out of my hands."

    Leaves crunched under Locke's feet again as he felt safe, or curious, enough to emerge. "It wasn't entirely out of your hands, Byron. After all, someone must sign the certificate, and, well, your wife didn't survive the birth, so –"

    "So that's it, Philemon. Leave it alone."

    "Right. Of course. My apologies."

    Time trickled between the cobbles. A few pedestrians floated between the three men, each one passing their eyes over them with fleeting anxiety before continuing into the main kirkyard. Wind plucked at the wilting petals of days-old flowers lolling in rain-filled vases, even the lightest of breezes whistling through the rigid rows of headstones. Another cigarette appeared in Trigger's hand when he removed it from his pocket, though his lighter stayed cool as he rolled the bundle between his fingers.

    After a stretched minute, Bobby's gaze disappeared behind a pair of imposing black vans that coasted to a halt outside the kirkyard. The thick back doors of the nearest van swung open simultaneously to release Roma, her face shining with sweat. "Where's that so-called genius? Don't you know how to put climate control in your cars? I'm roasting!"