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entered the Necropolis. The previous night’s rain had made the ragwort and sedges glisten in the warm morning sunshine, and the air was filled by the sweet smell of hawthorn bloom as they trailed the pathway that snakes upward towards the summit of the grey rock. Bull noticed that although most of the large tombs were still preserved, many of the smaller gravestones were toppled over and overgrown with mulberry bushes and knotweed. Obelisks, stone angels without wings and statues with badly eroded faces lined their ascent. Bull studied some graffiti scrawled across a tomb – you’re a long time dead . He felt an uncomfortable wave of energy wash over his body. He took Saffron’s hand and squeezed it. Saffron said,
    “Do you know there are over fifty thousand bodies buried here?”
    Bull smiled awkwardly and replied,
    “That’ll be why they call it the city of the dead then.”
     
    The chattering song of a magpie pierced the background drone of traffic. Saffron saluted the bird and greeting it with a good morning. She pinched Bull’s ribs.
    “What is that for?” he asked. Saffron giggled like a school girl,
    “Its bad luck to see a magpie on its own. So if you don’t salute it, talk to it and pinch the person you are with, misfortune comes your way.”
    “Do you believe that? Or is it an old wives tale?” Bull rubbed his side where he had been nipped. He watched as another magpie hopped from behind a gravestone to join its compatriot.
    “It’s a superstition but some people think it brings good fortune.”
    “Do you believe in good fortune or do you think you make your own?”
    “I think you can set the ground work by creating balance and harmony. Its amazing what you can achieve when you channel all your positive energy.” Bull eyebrows narrowed. He said,
    “We used to have a rhyme at school: One for sorrow, two for joy. That’s all I remember I’m afraid.” Saffron told him of the Chinese fable about a cowherd boy and a fairy weaver girl who become separated by the stars, but on the seventh day of the seventh month the magpies flock to form a bridge so they could meet and be together.
    “That’s a very romantic notion and I will remember that the next time I see one scavenging around a bin looking for scraps,” said Bull.
    “It’s not their fault,” laughed Saffron. “Magpies are like urban foxes, pigeons and seagulls - they are all creatures who have learned to evolve. They are nature’s true adapters and live off our waste – we could learn a thing or two from them.”
    “Who, me? Take lessons from a pigeon? It’s a mad concept but I’ll give it a go, but not seagulls, I hate seagulls – a seagull stole my burger once, then to add insult to injury, swooped back to crap on my head.”
    Playfully, Saffron pushed Bull, but she was unable to move him. She persisted in trying to make him budge but he stood like one of the towering statues, absorbing her efforts as the magpies looked on.
     
    Later, they went on, stumbling through the long grass and wild flowers. Saffron told Bull that she felt the Necropolis was her oasis, stationed within the heart of Glasgow. Over hundreds of years, the city appeared to have grown around it, leaving it preserved. She told him she would go there early in the morning or before dark, when it was empty, to clear her head and meditate. Bull told her that when he felt down, he would go to the wild animal sanctuary at the Botanic Gardens and talk to the timber wolves.
    “The last time the park keeper asked me to move on. Apparently I was making the wolves feel uneasy.”
     
    They came to the top of the Necropolis and stared across the city. Bull pulled Saffron tighter towards him. Words piled up inside him like vehicles in a road crash. He wanted to express his feelings about last night in gushing terms, but he found it impossible to utter anything coherent or meaningful. He chose to remain silent and wait for the right moment, if it arrived to express his