Free The Eidolon by Libby McGugan

It slices between the buildings, dazzling brightness through the shadowy gaps. The cool, crisp air is just what’s needed after the muggy train trip, and after years of working in an underground lab, I relish any time outside. Fresh air reminds me of what’s real, what’s tangible. Fresh air and Danny Mitchell. It makes me smile thinking about him. No doubt still bumming about in Tibet.
    The road leads up from the station into the village, where the post office and bakery doors are bolted shut to mark the day of rest. Lining the street on one side are low terraced houses with small doors and even smaller windows set in thick stone walls, some whitewashed, some coloured, some grey. They look like they’re huddling from the biting wind themselves. Opposite is the small museum which sits in carefully tended grounds and next to that, the kirk, built four hundred years ago, with its imposing spire and modest cemetery, now the resting place for some very old people. I’ve seen headstones in that graveyard which have been there even longer than the church, with their symbols of the sun and the moon faded, but still discernible, echoes of a forgotten age.
    I cross the street towards the orange glow spilling from the lamps in the deep window sills of the Stone Circle pub. A familiar wave of chatter and a beery waft greets me as I approach. I glance at my watch. Time for a quick pint. Just one. The heavy oak door groans as I push it open, the chatter swells and my face tingles in the blanket of warm air. Tam, the proprietor of the Stone Circle, a rotund individual with red cheeks just visible over his large greying beard, nods to me with as much expression as he applies to everything, which isn’t much.
    “Robert,” Tam says in his usual cursory manner of greeting.
    “Tam,” I reply in kind. I don’t take this personally; Tam addresses all of his customers with equal indifference. Behind the bar, Tam continues to dry a glass with a cloth, inspecting it every so often against the dim lights that hang from the ceiling. An open fire crackles under the large stone mantle, spitting and hissing. Four hill walkers, in muddy boots and waterproof clothes, huddle around a small table, recounting tales of their various experiences of the harsh Scottish wilderness and unpredictable weather. Sitting on a stool and leaning over the dark wooden bar is Angus, the retired postman. Angus drinks unashamedly now that he has little else to occupy his time. His son, Alasdair, has followed in his father’s footsteps and delivers the letters and parcels to the people of Kildowan, but he has seen what drink can do to a man and so he doesn’t touch the stuff himself. Angus hugs his pint glass, frowning as he tries to focus on it.
    “Hello, Angus,” I say as I reach the bar. “A pint of bitter, please, Tam.”
    Angus sways a little as he looks up and his bushy eyebrows try hard to meet his hair as he registers his surprise. He claps me affectionately on the shoulder, but struggles to say anything coherent by way of conversation. I haven’t had a pint since I got back. Plenty of whisky, but no beer. Nectar. Worth three days of butter tea for this one moment.
    “Would that be Robert Strong?” I turn towards the voice.
    “It would, Casimir. Good to see you.” I join him at the table by the fire. Michael Casimir gets to his feet and I clasp the hand he holds out towards me. He’s thinner than the last time I saw him, almost a year ago now, his bones more pronounced in his wiry frame, but his grip’s just as strong.
    “And how is it these days at the cutting edge of science?” asks Casimir, his green eyes twinkling. His voice is steady but weaker than it used to be. God, he’s aged. A ripple of something in me, regret flickering. He won’t be around forever. He’s more stooped than before, the little hair he has left whiter and wispier, and deep lines now etch his square face, which, despite this, still shines with the strength of his