Free dEaDINBURGH by Mark Wilson Page B

onwards. Bracha hadn’t slept in that time either; if he had, Joey would have found him by now. Travelling along the main routes, through Corstorphine and Haymarket, he’d made no attempt to hide his trail. It was plain arrogance on his part. Nothing else would explain his carelessness in taking such an obvious route or in leaving so many signs of his passing. He clearly thought that Joey wasn’t a threat.
    Reaching the inner fence-line at the junction of Lothian Road and Princes Street, Joey ignored the urge to push on and follow Bracha into the city-centre. Every cell in him screamed at him to go after Bracha, not just for Jock but to warn the women in The Gardens. They didn’t exactly need his protection, nor would they welcome him from what he’d learned of them, but forewarning of a threat benefited anyone whether they welcomed it or not.
    Finally he ignored the urge to pursue, to kill Bracha, and listened to the voice of Jock that had nagged him for to be safe , make the smart choice; no heroics . He returned to the small, fenced-off garden he’d spotted back at Coates Crescent. Sleep was a must, as was food if he was to be fresh enough to face the madman.
    Edinburgh was littered with these gardens, surrounded by fences and often locked gates. They were assigned to residents or individuals who lived in the nearby townhouses. Jock and he had used these types of gardens often, finding that they were perfect for allowing them to relax. They could be confident that one of The Ringed wouldn’t stumble across them in their sleep. They’d only had to worry about the living in these camps and they had plenty of improvised first-warning devices they’d designed for that task.
    Jock. Grief slapped him hard across the face as he realised that he’d be setting up his first camp alone.
    Deciding to do Jock proud, he stretched some light nylon rope between the boughs of two trees, draped a camouflaged tarp over it and pegged the edges into the soft mud with the metal spikes he had in his rucksack. He’d considered taking some of Jock’s supplies – he had many items that they’d chosen not to duplicate – but had pushed the notion aside, opting to find new ones on the road rather than disrespect Jock by raking though his rucksack. Jock would have called him an eejit for his decision.
    Spreading his second, smaller tarp on the ground, Joey busied himself with building a small fire. He could take the risk of The Ringed seeing the glow, as the fencing would halt their attempts to reach it. Dinner was a few leftover scraps of rabbit meat and some tomatoes he’d taken from a greenhouse in Corstorphine on his journey. Tomorrow, he’d pick up Bracha’s trail.

Chapter 8
     
    Alys
     
    Alys had slept well and had finished packing her own things and Steph’s, when a flash of movement outside the window caught her attention. Raising her eyes, expecting to see her cousin running around, she stiffened as she caught sight of a tall, oddly-dressed man standing a hundred yards or so from the girl playfully swinging a metal pole around.
    Dropping her things and performing a quick check of her weapons in transit, she sprinted along the short corridor to the school’s main doors. Halting for a single second to compose herself, she pushed the door open slowly in order to not startle the man. Alys kept her face relaxed.
    “You must be Alys,” the man said cheerfully and very politely. He had closed the distance between himself and Steph, who predictably had walked straight towards the stranger, curious about his unusual outfit.
    Alys nodded.
    “Stephanie, come here,” she said.
    “But Mr Bracha was about to tell me a story.”
    “Now,” Alys said flatly.
    Sighing loudly and making a big show of rolling her eyes and tutting, she stomped back to her cousin.  
    “Inside, and lock the door,” Alys told her huffing cousin, watching the petulant youngster slam the door after her, but keeping her peripheral vision trained on