I go past the boundary wall. Odd symbols and rubbish and broken tools line it. Some of the children run by me barefoot. They must have soles like leather! Up along Elm Row. Finally – the very fancy new North British Hotel appears. I turn onto North Bridge and wind skelps me in the pus. I can see Edinburgh Castle away to the right: wisps ay steam from Waverley Station below: Arthur’s Seat and the crags to the left – a flash of blue further even than waves. It’s good to know the sea is nearby. It’s important – in any city – to know the escape routes at all times. Da used to bring me here once a year. He’d sell offal, or trade, then leave me to wait in a tavern whilst he went off with a woman. I stop in the middle of the Tron. Behind me there is the Royal Mile, to the left is the Southside and on the right North Bridge. I stand in the middle. Streets crossed below me. Tenements of all heights stand as sentinels on either side. They inspect everyone who passes below. The High Street is cobbled and it slopes up. There’s wooden doors and small blown-glass windows or fancier sash panes with wooden shutters. A motor car turns right onto Cockburn Street. The spunk-hawker stacks his tinder. Between the well-dressed and moneyed there are glimpses of the hungry and hunted. A big church has a beggar sat on its steps with his ratty wee dug. A young man smiles. He wants to defile me. An urge to let him. Right here in the street. Who can save me? My father is the devil! Our kind are not holy. I must perfectly hide the sharp tip of my horns. Woodsmoke spirals out of tenement chimneys. The reek permeates everything. Pretty rooftops are tiled like dragon skin. Just as I am about to step forward a black mass flows onto North Bridge. Along the High Street news signs declare: WORLD MISSIONARY CONFERENCE. One thousand two hundred men of God flock toward me. They stride in tens, twenties, hundreds. I knew God would have a message fir me, but I did not know he would be so direct.

I spit.

Saliva – still tinged pink.

I look at it there on the cobbles, just a tinge of blood – only seen by me.

Everywhere there are black suits and motion.