A Nurse to Tame the Playboy. Maggie Kingsley

people.’

      Eli’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hard, and bitter, and she glanced across at him curiously, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were scanning the graveyard, and then he nodded.

      ‘There she is,’ he said.

      Following the direction of his gaze, Brontë saw a slim form flitting amongst the tombstones.

      ‘How do we get in?’ she asked. ‘Do we have to climb over the railings, or…?’

      ‘I know another way in.’

      He did, and Brontë very soon wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t just the way the church seemed so much bigger and more ominous in the dark, nor the way the tombstones leant towards her like grasping, clutching fingers. It wasn’t even the mort-safe coverings which had been installed over some of the graves by her Edinburgh forebears to prevent grave-robbers. It was the smell.

      Sharp, acrid, and overpowering, it didn’t matter how much she tried to hold her breath she couldn’t escape the smell of unwashed bodies, and stale alcohol. It’s just a smell, she told herself. Smells can’t harm you, they can’t hurt you, but, unbidden and unwanted, she felt her heart beginning to beat faster, could feel the all too familiar wave of panic rising within her, and she wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

      ‘Must be well below zero tonight,’ Eli observed, clearly misunderstanding her gesture.

      She nodded.

      ‘How many…’ She swallowed hard. ‘How many people sleep here every night?’

      ‘It depends,’ Eli replied. ‘Sometimes ten—sometimes twenty.’

      ‘How do they survive?’ she exclaimed. ‘How can they keep alive on nights like this? I would have thought—’ She came to a sudden halt. Something warm, wet, and slimy was seeping through her left boot, encircling her toes, and she let out a small yelp. ‘Oh, yuck! What have I just stood in?’

      ‘Do you really want me to tell you?’ Eli asked, and she shook her head quickly.

      She didn’t, especially as she already had a very strong suspicion what it was.

      ‘Take my advice—’

      ‘Buy some boots from Harper & Stolins in Cockburn Street,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, you said.’

      ‘Yes, but this time listen,’ he declared. ‘We don’t refuse to wear the regulation boots because we’re picky. We don’t wear them because they’re rubbish, so get yourself a decent pair.’

      She would, she thought, as she flexed her wet toes and grimaced. She would go to the shop at the end of this shift, but not until she’d had a very long, and very hot, shower.

      ‘Okay, wait here,’ Eli ordered. ‘Peg and her friends…they know me, but you’re a stranger, so it’s best if I explain who you are.’

      He was gone before she could argue, could tell him she didn’t want to wait in this place on her own. Figures were emerging from behind the tombstones now, some of them coughing, all of them staggering, and though they looked merely curious, puzzled, she didn’t know how long that would last, nor did she want to find out.

      Anxiously, she searched the moonlit cemetery for Eli, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the newcomer had taken off, which would mean they could leave, too. She fervently hoped so. It was so cold here, so very cold. Dark, too, despite the moon. Dark and creepy, and she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand clasp her shoulder.

      ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ Eli murmured, as she swore under her breath.

      ‘Yeah, well, next time warn me, okay?’ she said, trying to calm her thudding heart. ‘What’s the situation?’

      ‘According to Peg, the newcomer’s just a boy. He left his home in Aberdeenshire about a year ago—won’t say why, but Peg reckons something bad happened. He got robbed of what little savings he had on his first night in Edinburgh, and with no money he couldn’t pay for anywhere to live, and with no home address he couldn’t get any benefits, so he’s been living rough ever since.’

      ‘What does Peg want us to do?’

      ‘When did “I” become “us”?’ Eli asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

      ‘When I broke every rule in the EMDC manual by allowing this visit,’ she replied, ‘so quit stalling.’

      ‘Basically she wants us to get him out of here. She thinks he has a bad cold, which is not good news. Pneumonia, or a severe chest infection, would mean we could take him to the Pentland which would get him off the streets for a while, but a cold…’ He sighed. ‘Peg’s gone to ask if he’ll let me examine him.’

      The boy must have agreed because, out of the gloom, Brontë could see a white hand beckoning to them, and quickly she followed Eli as he picked his way through the tombstones, keeping as close to him as she could, so she almost collided into his back when he came to a sudden halt by one of the bigger mausoleums.

      ‘Is this him?’ she whispered, only to instantly feel stupid because, of course, it had to be, and yet…

      She had expected to see a young man but the person sitting hunched on the ground in front of them, dressed in threadbare trainers, thin denim trousers, and a tattered wine-coloured jacket, didn’t even look old enough to have left school. How on earth had he survived if he’d been sleeping rough for a year?

      ‘What’s your name, son?’ Eli murmured as he crouched down in front of the boy, seemingly heedless of the broken glass, and discarded syringes, glinting in the moonlight.

      With an effort, the boy raised his head. His skin was stretched tightly across his cheekbones, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but though those eyes looked tired and scared, Brontë didn’t think he was taking drugs. At least, not yet.