Connie stared from High Street through the tunnelled entrance into Advocate’s Close, believed to have come into existence in 1544. Edinburgh would have been a hub of crude trade and brutal human suffering. Doctors causing more harm than good, although she was living proof that some of them hadn’t changed all that much. The monied classes would have controlled everything, from the courts to the military. Education would have been a gift exclusively for men. She’d have been nothing more than a chattel.

Opposite St Giles’ Cathedral, and nestled between a cigar shop and a tourist goods emporium, the entrance to Advocate’s Close sat beneath a crushing five floors of offices and residences. She entered.

The narrow alleyway, in spite of the life in the surrounding buildings, was as quiet as the grave. The view across the city from the steps within the close was spectacular, yet the paving flags reeked of stubborn urine, and the natural timeless beauty was marred by a pool of vomit. Footsteps echoed behind her. Stopped. Retreated. Connie continued.

Light came and went in pools of safety. The alley would have seemed like a haven, offering substantial respite from the biting winds. There were few windows overlooking the thin path through. Safety was an elusive concept. Here, the homeless could escape public harassment and passing police cars. They could erect their temporary accommodations against solid walls and find a little peace. Those who walked past were familiar with the city. No one could accidentally take such a passageway, save for the very drunk seeing an after-hours outdoor restroom. Or those looking for trouble.

Part way down, the alleyway steps restricted the view back up to the High Street. Connie stopped, putting her back to the wall, imagining what it must be like to have your whole world wrapped in plastic bags, with only the money you’d begged that day to feed you, and no more than a sleeping bag to keep you warm at night.

Footsteps again, heavy and slow. Sound could be intimidating. Her heartbeat matched the left–right, left–right of the beat, and she realised it was impossible to know for sure if she was being approached from High Street above, or from the pathway below. The noise echoed slyly off the bricks above, bearing false witness.

Reaching into her pocket for her rape alarm, Connie realised she’d changed jackets and failed to take her usual precautions. Careless. She considered calling out, then felt foolish, then resented both the idea of shouting for help, and the fact that she was embarrassed to do so. No threat had been issued, yet the hairs on her arms were bristling.

The figure of a man appeared at the top of the steps above her. Hood up. Tall. Shadow concealing his face. In her imagination he was holding a twenty-pound note that would flutter to the ground when she rebuffed him. He stopped still and watched her.