Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 49: In the tunnel

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 10th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

“It’s very dark, Bertie,” said Ranald. “Do you think –”

Had Bertie not begun to answer, the escapade might have ended right there as doubts consumed both boys. But Bertie started to reply, and did so in a tone intended to stiffen Ranald’s resolve. “We’ll be quite all right, Ranald,” he said. “Your eyes get used to the dark, you know.”

Ranald was not convinced, but he was conscious of the fact that Bertie had always been the brave one in their friendship, and he was unwilling to appear weak. So he said, “I suppose this will be just like all the other Edinburgh tunnels.”

“It will,” said Bertie, his voice betraying the uncertainty that he felt at setting off on a journey the end of which was completely unknown. He knew about some of the hidden streets under the Old Town, including Mary King’s Close; he knew about the old railway tunnel that connected Waverley Station and the former marshalling yards at the end of Scotland Street. He hoped that this tunnel, of which he had never before heard, would link up with the Scotland Street tunnel and therefore bring them back to thoroughly familiar territory. But he could not be sure. What if it went quite another way, and brought them out in a completely unfamiliar part of Edinburgh?

Bertie was on the point of admitting these doubts to Ranald, when his friend suddenly announced that he was not in the slightest bit afraid. “I don’t mind the dark,” said Ranald. “Some people are frightened of it, but not me.”

Bertie, although only seven, was wise enough to know that when somebody said that they were not frightened of something, it was, in many cases, as good as a frank admission that the thing of which they were allegedly not frightened was, in fact, was something of which they were deeply afraid.

“You don’t have to be ashamed to say that you’re afraid of the dark, Ranald,” he said. “Nobody should be ashamed of that sort of thing.”

“But I’m not afraid,” said Ranald. “I promise you, Bertie – I’m not afraid of not being able to see where we’re going.”

“Good,” said Bertie, his voice still tremulous.

“You’re not afraid, are you, Bertie?”

In the almost complete darkness, Bertie crossed his fingers on both hands. You could tell fibs if you crossed your fingers – everybody knew that. He had seen the truth of that proposition a few days ago when he had watched a politician on television claiming never to have promised not to raise taxes. There had been a rise in taxation, and the politician in question had appeared for interview on television with two fingers on his right hand noticeably crossed. That was not a sign of trustworthiness, Bertie thought. It was a general rule that those who said they would never tell a lie, were less trustworthy than those who admitted that they were human, like the rest of us, and that while they might not resort to direct lies, occasionally omitted to say things they should perhaps say.

Now he said to Ranald, “Me afraid, Ranald? What’s there to be afraid of?”

That was not a direct answer, but Bertie felt a certain responsibility for Ranald Braveheart Macpherson, and did not want to say anything that could sap his friend’s already fragile morale.

Ranald shivered. “There could be ghosts down here, Bertie. Edinburgh’s full of ghosts.”

Bertie tried to sound robust. “Ghosts don’t exist, Ranald,” he said. “Nor do bogles.”

Ranald was silent, but then he said, “What’s the difference between a bogle and a ghost, Bertie?”

Bertie considered this. They were now a hundred yards or so down the tunnel, in almost complete darkness, although a small chink of light filtered through from some source ahead of them. “A bogle,” Bertie said, “is a sort of ghost, but a bit nastier, I think. It’s a creature that lives here in Scotland – in a place like … like ....” He almost said like this, but stopped himself just in time.

“They don’t exist, Bertie?” asked Ranald. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” replied Bertie. “There’s no such thing as a bogle, Ranald.”

Ranald said nothing, and they continued to make their way along the tunnel. The walls were smooth and the pavement firm underfoot. The air was slightly musty, but the tunnel did not feel as if it had not been used for a long time.

“I wonder who comes down here,” Ranald Braveheart Macpherson mused. “Do you think it’s the Knights of the Thistle, Bertie?”

Bertie considered this. “Probably, Ranald.”

“Do you think we might see some of them?” Ranald asked.

“I don’t think so, Ranald. I saw a picture in the newspaper of them arriving at St Giles’ by taxi.”

They continued in silence. Then Ranald said, “Bertie, can you hear something?”

They stopped.

Bertie strained his ears. He heard Ranald’s breathing, and he heard his own heart, hammering now within his chest. Apart from that … Ranald grabbed his arm. “There, Bertie,” he whispered.

At first, Bertie thought it was Ranald’s imagination, or, indeed, his own. But then he realised that there was a sound, and the sound was that of footsteps on the stone floor of the tunnel. They were still faint, but unmistakeably getting closer.

“We’re finished,” said Ranald Braveheart Macpherson in a quivering whisper. “I’ve had a good life, Bertie. And thank you for being my friend.”

The silence returned, and then they heard the sound of voices somewhere, drifting down the tunnel. “This way, First Minister – after you …”

“Don’t give up, Ranald,” whispered Bertie. “Let’s run.”

Pushing, half dragging Ranald with him, Bertie made his way as fast as he could down the tunnel, which now sloped sharply down towards Princes Street. There was a glimmer of light from the occasional, half-hearted wall light, but they were mostly surrounded by darkness. Bertie became aware that Ranald was crying, as when they stopped to get their breath, his friend’s friends sobs filled the air. Behind them, still indistinct but growing steadily louder, came the ringing footsteps.

They continued to run, and in a short while the tunnel began to slope upwards. Without their knowing, it had reached the Waverley end of the Scotland Street Tunnel, and it was along this that they hurtled, tripping from time to time, but picking themselves up with the easy ability that small boys have to recover from falls. And then, suddenly, they saw a circle of light ahead of them. This spurred them on.

They heard a bark, and then another one, and these seemed to come from the opening mouth of the tunnel. Cyril.

A few minutes later, emerging into the old marshalling yards, with Cyril brimming with enthusiasm at their feet, Bertie looked up in gratitude at the sky. He felt like Tam O’Shanter at the end of his mad dash from Cutty Sark, delivered from the threat of something that may not exist, but that is no less frightening for that.