Seacliff

Part One

Strong, sensible, and fit,

They’re out to show their grit,

And tackle jobs with energy and knack.

No longer caged and penned up,

They’re going to keep their end up

Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

War Girls – Jessie Pope

Chapter 1: The tour guide

2019

It was a sunny morning in late September, uncharacteristically warm for that time of year in Edinburgh.

“Ice cream weather,” Aidan told the group of tourists huddled around him.

The observation had been prompted by an ice cream truck just behind him as they approached Edinburgh Castle. Visitors and locals alike crawled about in the mild sunshine, and a small line had formed, eager for a frozen treat.

“This is where they hold the Military Tattoo, isn’t it?” one of the tourists asked.

“Indeed, it is!” Aidan replied cheerfully and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “As you can see,” he pointed with his umbrella to the stacked-up metal frames lining one end of the castle esplanade, “they’re still taking down the seats.”

Those of his flock who weren’t taking selfies with the castle looming above the ice cream truck turned to look at the seats being dismantled. Most of his audience still had their scarves and jackets on, whereas Aidan had long discarded his jumper and stood now only in kilt and T-shirt.

A quick glance at his wristwatch confirmed the photo-op break was over. Time to shepherd his group along. As they passed the ice cream truck on the way to the castle entrance, a splinter of pain made his heart flutter. He had to pause and catch his breath.

He recovered fast, pretending to do a headcount, but the stab of reminiscence festered in the back of his mind and darkened his vision. Aidan rubbed with shivering fingers at his eyes under the glasses. A hundred years of memories took their toll on a halfling brain, and his brain had become his most valued asset this century.

Snippets of his childhood flooding to the surface usually meant one thing, and one thing only – it’d been too long since he’d taken to sea. If he wanted to stay sane, he’d have to go for a swim between tours today.

It was just as well. He was feeling too hot in this sun already.

Aidan ushered his flock onto the castle grounds and fought to think about Edinburgh’s history, rather than his own. It was only too bad that the two were so closely intertwined. A couple more hours. If he could only pull through the next couple of hours.

The empty train terminated at North Berwick. Aidan hopped off onto the platform, chucked his lunch waste into a big bin, and headed for the car park. His cab was waiting there.

“Mr Munro, welcome back!”

Of course the driver recognised him. This was such a small town, Aidan had to call ahead for a cab every time he made the journey – and he made it often. How long before he had to disappear again?

“Seacliff Beach, right?”

“Right.” Aidan slid into the backseat. “Thank you.”

“Always my pleasure, sir.”

Aidan winced at the honorific, even though it meant his generous tips did the trick. The drivers took the money, asked no questions. Never so much that it raised suspicions, but enough to make it worth their while.

“Here we are, sir. Hope you enjoy your visit. Should I pick you up at the usual time?”

“Yes, please.” Aidan handed him a double-digit banknote. “Thank you. I’ll see you later.”

His heart pounded in his chest as soon as he stepped out on the side of the road. The door slammed shut, and the cab U-turned back towards the town. Aidan waited until it became a black speck on the horizon.

Then, like an arrow loosed from a bow, he dashed across the field, into the woodland, through the trees on the well-known path. He emerged breathless on the coast and stripped on the grass. The Selkie Stone alone in the middle of the sea stood testament to his nudity, its lighthouse now defunct.

Suddenly, a strange stillness overcame him. A peculiar kind of quiet, that imbued his senses. Everything washed over him much more keenly now – the salty wind whipping at his body, the wet sand swallowing his feet. The waves crashing against his legs as he waded into the cold arms of the North Sea.

Once waist-deep, he ducked underwater.