What I must do is sew my real eyes shut and look out with a pretty blue set painted on.

This is it – No. 10 Luckenbooth Close!

Go down four stairs as a smell of ammonia climbs up my nose.

These tenements are so high!

Laundry creates strange shapes in between me and the sky.

The air is dank down here and much older than on the street. This place is closer to the castle than I thought it would be. Looking up I can see nine floors, built from huge slabs of stone. The steps are scrubbed clean. I pause with my hand on a freshly painted wooden door like it is a lover’s chest.

It’s heavy to push open.

The stairwell smells of lemons.

Wall tiles are a dark green, my mother’s favourite colour. An ornate balustrade and a huge glass cupola all the way at the top like the church manse library where I hid from my father. Turn onto a landing. 1F1. Raise my hand. Before I can rap lacquered wood – the door swings open. A woman almost as wide as the doorframe – she’s clearly angry.

– Yer late!

– I’m sorry.

– Ye dinnae look sorry.

I don’t attempt contrition. It’s not in my array of convincing facial expressions. I try out impassive. Honest isn’t something I carry off. Neither is concerned. My mother always said I did a good line in unreadable and impassive. I arrange my features into something to appropriate those attributes. The woman snorts. Turns around. I follow her into the apartment. High ceilings with ornate cornices, polished wooden floors, long red Persian rugs. There is a smell of tobacco and woodsmoke and brandy.

– They’re waiting. I’ll show you around quickly before I go. Don’t go down to the basement – ever!

– I won’t.

– It’s locked anyway but you better not.

– I promise.

– Are yer boots clean?

– Aye.

– Say, yes – in here and talk slowly – don’t use Scottish in front of them.

– I won’t.

– He can understand it but he doesnae like it. Mr Udnam is a Minister of Culture, a man of letters!

– I was told.

– If you do one thing wrong – they will hang ye by the morning.

She leans in toward me with manky breath. Grey hairs strain to escape a shiny pink skull – even the woman’s follicles don’t want to be near her.

– Speak only when you’re spoken to.

– Yes.

– Are ye sure those boots are clean? If there’s shite on yer boots clean them downstairs. This flat takes up nearly the entire first floor. Below here you’ve got the entrance way and underneath that you have the basement cellars. You don’t want to go into the cellars – you’ll no get back out. There’s catacombs down there, you know that?

– Aye.

Follow her down a hallway with polished wooden furniture. Lash-less eyes. Dry, cracked, dimpled hands.