The Exiled by William Meikle

natural gas, no machinery of any kind beyond the simplest of water mills. What few houses exist are made from mud and straw—the only stonework is to be found in the ancient buildings that dot the landscape, but the means of construction of tall turrets and high arches have long since been forgotten.”
    Grainger closed the book and sat back, eyes closed. Just the mention of stonework and high arches brought it all back again. He switched on the television. Even tone-deaf teenagers trying to sing was preferable to what was going on in his head.
    * * *
    He made it past breakfast the next morning before he was tempted to look at the book again. There was a middle section containing photographs so he started with that, but it was just a pictorial representation of Ferguson’s obsession. Some showed police officers and politicians at Masonic meetings—Grainger recognized some of them, and knew others personally. Other pictures were of well-known figures from the past—Isaac Newton, Doctor Dee, Mary Queen of Scots and Sir Walter Scott among others, all rolled up together to be implicated in Ferguson’s grand bullshit theory. Grainger almost threw the book away in disgust, but he had nothing better to do so kept going, skipping towards the back of the slim volume, looking for any conclusions that might come out of the madness.

 
     
     
    12
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Alan found Ferguson where John said he would be—standing outside the store on Princes Street, haranguing passersby in a loud, cultured voice that was at odds with his scruffy, downtrodden appearance.
    The old man wore a tattered tweed overcoat, badly frayed and patched with a variety of materials, covering an even older tweed suit. His beard—salt-and-pepper gray—hung down in a wispy curtain across his chest and only accentuated the complete baldness on the head above. His nose and cheeks were scribbled with the telltale burst vessels of a heavy drinker, and when he smiled, he showed a mouth containing only a handful of pale brown teeth. He stood beside a sandwich board he had leaned against the wall. A message written in chalk was scrawled across it.
    “Don’t let the Masons steal your children!”
    His voice once again belied his appearance—the clipped, cultured tones speaking of an educated man, now slipped down a peg or three.
    “Lend me five pounds and I will tell you a secret,” Ferguson said as Alan approached him.
    “Let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you one,” Alan replied. “I’ve read your book.”
    Five minutes later they were in the Kenilworth in Rose Street.
    The barman raised an eyebrow when he saw Ferguson.
    “Any shouting and you’re both barred,” he said. Ferguson nodded sheepishly, unable to take his eyes from the glass as the beer was poured. When Alan handed it to him, he emptied half the glass at once, as if afraid it might be taken away as quickly as it had come.
    Alan led the old man to a table in the corner.
    “They don’t mind me here,” Ferguson said, too loud in the quiet bar. “They get a better class of clientele than those other bars near the station.”
    Alan took the book from his jacket pocket. Ferguson lit up in a huge smile.
    “Shall I sign it for you? Please? No one has ever asked me before.”
    The old man’s sudden joy was so infectious that Alan found himself laughing as he handed over the book and a pen. Ferguson signed the inside front page with a flourish and handed the pen back. He held on to the book and looked Alan in the eye.
    “You’ve read all of it?”
    “The first half so far,” Alan replied. “It’s fascinating and—”
    He got no further.
    “Bloody Masons,” Ferguson said, his voice rising with each word. “They’ve been stealing children and getting away with it for centuries. And will anybody listen? Will they fuck? If I had my way…”
    The barman coughed theatrically and nodded towards the door. Ferguson went silent quickly, lifted his beer and finished it fast in