Free Chaos Clock by Gill Arbuthnott Page B

tricks on Gordon Syme after that singular occasion, and yet he found himself increasingly unsettled.
    The few times he’d walked down that way after dark the weather had been clear, and it had been obvious that the valley below the castle held only railway tracks, grass and trees. Yet he found himself on edge, listening for the muffled splash of oars and gruff voices, and felt shameful relief if he found himself walking past the gardens with others.
    So it was that on Tuesday night, when he left to walk home after a drink with the others – just like the last time, he thought – he was pleased when he realised that the person who’d fallen into step beside him as he walked along George IV Bridge was someone he recognised, and who also recognised him.
    “Mr Syme, isn’t it?” said the man. It was the old gent with the sketchbook who often sat in the Main Hall.
    “That’s right – Gordon. I recognise you from the museum, don’t I?”
    “Yes. John Flowerdew.” He held out his hand to shake Gordon’s own. “I should have introduced myself long before now. Would you mind if I walked with you? I think we’re both going the same way.”
    “Not at all. The company’s welcome.”
    “It’s a fine night for walking.”
    “Beautiful. I often think the town looks its best on a clear night.”
    “I believe you’re right. Night covers the ugly details rather well for the most part, and the skyline gets to speak for itself.”
    They walked on in silence until they had crossed the road at Deacon Brodie’s pub, which was raucous already, although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock.
    As they started down the hill, the old man said, “Strange isn’t it, how the mist gathers in the valley like that? You’d hardly believe the main railway line was down there.”
    Gordon felt his heart give a thud as he looked towards the gardens. The mist rolled across them in coiling white clouds.
    “It must have been quite a sight in the old days,” John Flowerdew went on, “before they drained the Nor Loch. I believe they held frost fairs on it in the fifteenth century when it used to freeze solid. Now that is something I would like to have seen.”
    As he spoke they continued to walk steadily down the hill beside the misty gardens. Gordon’s mouth was dry.
Don’t be ridiculous
, he told himself.
It’s just mist. There are still the gardens under it. Don’t be stupid. Just look
.
    He forced himself to turn his head to the left and concentrate sight and hearing on what might lie beneath the mist.
    A train whistle made him jump, and at that moment a veil of mist blew aside and he saw not water, but the familiar outlines of trees and grass.
    He realised he’d been holding his breath and let it out, cursing himself inwardly for being so stupid. How had he come to be so afraid of something that wasn’t even there?
    John Flowerdew didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss with his behaviour and was talking on serenely about frost fairs.
    They crossed Princes Street and walked up to the top of the next hill.
    “Our ways part here, I think. I’ve enjoyed the company. Thank you,” said the old man.
    “I’m sure I’ll see you at the museum soon,” Gordon replied.
    “Oh yes, very soon indeed.” Mr Flowerdew cleared his throat. “There are very few people to whom I would say this, but you are, perhaps, someone who would understand.”
    Gordon waited to see what was coming.
    “Sometimes at night, in the mist, when I go past the Gardens, I am sure the Nor Loch has returned. I see it and hear it. I hear men in boats on it – I even smell it. I don’t know how to explain it, but it happens.”
    Gordon felt as though someone had flung icy water into his face.
    “Anyway, I mustn’t keep you any longer with a foolish old man’s fancies, Mr Syme. Goodnight to you.”
    Gordon mumbled some sort of goodnight and stood rooted, watching the old man make his steady way along George Street.
    What was happening to him? Was he going mad?How