Sentence The Thirtyfourth
But, back beneath the bustling High Street, down through layers of granite setts, tar macadam, rubble, dirt, the abandoned detritus of hundreds of years of tenement living, including the outpourings of generations of night-time chamber-pots, down through the rocky spine that runs from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood, in a passage carved out of that living rock which once poured as lava from the volcano that now is the Castle Crag, two cousins lie in each other's arms – their faces ashen-white under a patina of grime, their eyes round and red-rimmed, their hair dusty and dishevelled; tears streak their faces and their harsh breathing racks their bodies, mingling with sighs and sobs and groans as they try to still the rapid beating of their hearts, to master their physical and mental anguish; for they have seen something which has damaged them so viscerally, assaulting their every sense and searing their emotions, something they will never forget, will never be able to blot out of their minds, which will haunt them until the very end of their days, and acerbating this dismay, which has shattered their usual sang-froid (for these are two smart cookies who have won their positions and status in this world dominated by men without recourse to nepotism – though they do have influential families and umpteen friends in high places) is the fact that they have recognised something in the horror - “is it real,” asked Jinty, “yes,” replied Roxy, “at least I believe so,” for their reason tries to drive out the awfulness of what they saw, so horrible was it, and simultaneously so unreal, like some climax to a sudser on television, using shock to draw tears from the numbed hearts of its viewers; “we have to call the police, or an ambulance,” suggests Jinty, “or maybe,” offers Roxy, haltingly, “we should warn Aunt Daphne,” and Jinty nods, understanding, “you think it was the same person who locked her down there,” and Roxy squeezed her head between the flats of her hands, as if trying to contain a pressure that threatened to burst it like a balloon, “it must be,” she said, and “that was the boy from the CCTV,” and Jinty replied “yes, I think so – so that means,” she stopped and looked straight into Roxy's eyes, and they both said “Angus Og!”
But, back beneath the bustling High Street, down through layers of granite setts, tar macadam, rubble, dirt, the abandoned detritus of hundreds of years of tenement living, including the outpourings of generations of night-time chamber-pots, down through the rocky spine that runs from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood, in a passage carved out of that living rock which once poured as lava from the volcano that now is the Castle Crag, two cousins lie in each other's arms – their faces ashen-white under a patina of grime, their eyes round and red-rimmed, their hair dusty and dishevelled; tears streak their faces and their harsh breathing racks their bodies, mingling with sighs and sobs and groans as they try to still the rapid beating of their hearts, to master their physical and mental anguish; for they have seen something which has damaged them so viscerally, assaulting their every sense and searing their emotions, something they will never forget, will never be able to blot out of their minds, which will haunt them until the very end of their days, and acerbating this dismay, which has shattered their usual sang-froid (for these are two smart cookies who have won their positions and status in this world dominated by men without recourse to nepotism – though they do have influential families and umpteen friends in high places) is the fact that they have recognised something in the horror - “is it real,” asked Jinty, “yes,” replied Roxy, “at least I believe so,” for their reason tries to drive out the awfulness of what they saw, so horrible was it, and simultaneously so unreal, like some climax to a sudser on television, using shock to draw tears from the numbed hearts of its viewers; “we have to call the police, or an ambulance,” suggests Jinty, “or maybe,” offers Roxy, haltingly, “we should warn Aunt Daphne,” and Jinty nods, understanding, “you think it was the same person who locked her down there,” and Roxy squeezed her head between the flats of her hands, as if trying to contain a pressure that threatened to burst it like a balloon, “it must be,” she said, and “that was the boy from the CCTV,” and Jinty replied “yes, I think so – so that means,” she stopped and looked straight into Roxy's eyes, and they both said “Angus Og!”
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