The Exiled by William Meikle Page A

case the threat was carried out. He waited until the barman turned his back, then patted the book, as if it were a cherished pet.
    “It’s all in here, my boy. All of it. And they know I know. If I disappear suddenly, you’ll tell the police who did it, won’t you?” As quickly as he had smiled seconds earlier, the old man cried, heavy tears that left clear grooves through the dirt on his cheeks. “Lend me five pounds and I will tell you a secret,” he whispered.
    Alan got two more beers in, feeling almost ashamed at the eagerness Ferguson showed when he got back to the table.
    “There’s more, my lad,” the old man said. “I could not put everything I know in the book—that would have been dangerous—much too risky. The stories I could tell you…”
    “Actually, I’m more interested in the black swan itself,” Alan said.
    Ferguson’s mouth flapped open and shut and he went from tearful to terrified in an instant.
    “Do not say that name,” he said in a whisper. “Not even in jest.”
    Alan leaned forward and tapped the book cover.
    “I’ve seen it,” he said quietly. “In its natural habitat, I believe, along the cliffs below the high turrets.”
    Ferguson lifted his beer with both hands, but still it shook so violently that he spilled dribbles of it down his beard as he gulped it down.
    “We cannot talk here,” the old man finally replied in a conspiratorial whisper. “It would get back to them in minutes and we would both be fucked. Come on—it will cost you a bottle of single malt, but I think you will find it is worth it.”
    * * *
    They got to Ferguson’s flat in Dundas Street by going the long way round. Firstly Ferguson made his way to an off-license and Alan came out thirty pounds lighter. The Scotch went into the voluminous pockets of the old man’s coat and Alan, carrying the folded sandwich board, followed behind as they traversed backward and forward through the alleyways and closes running between Rose Street, George Street and Queen Street. By the time they reached the bottom end of the hill where the old man lived they’d walked more than twice as far as they needed to and the sandwich board felt three times as heavy as it had when they set off.
    “Can’t be too careful,” Ferguson said as he pushed open a door and motioned Alan through to a dimly lit flat beyond. “They’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”
    The old man’s flat proved to be as unkempt as his appearance. Books and magazines lay piled around, interspersed with overflowing ashtrays, fast-food cartons, open beer cans and empty whisky bottles.
    “Excuse the mess, it’s the maid’s day off,” Ferguson said, and cackled. He cleared two chairs by simply throwing the papers off onto the floor, took two whisky glasses down from his mantelpiece, and motioned for Alan to sit as he opened the Scotch.
    “This might take some time, so it will be best to get cozy,” he said.
    Alan took a glass of Scotch—Ferguson had poured two fingers for Alan, four for himself. He took out the book, opened it at the end of Part One and read.
    “‘I know what the Black Swan is, and why the secret has to remain hidden.’” That’s what you said. Is that true?”
    “Aye,” Ferguson replied, downing half the Scotch in his glass. “Every word. But first you need to know something about the Masons. It started back in the days after Bannockburn. The Templars wanted to be paid for helping the Bruce and…”
    Alan sat dutifully through a rant that lasted almost fifteen minutes before his patience snapped.
    “Look, Mr. Ferguson, I don’t care about the bloody Masons. I need to know about the Swan, and what it’s got to do with these missing lassies.”
    Ferguson finished his Scotch and poured himself another—he didn’t offer Alan any.
    “There is only one thing you need to know,” the old man finally said “And when you do, it will all become clear. The Cobbe does not take children—they’re given to it.”
    * * *
    Alan