Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘Chaos reigns supreme.’ She flung herself down on the only piece of furniture in the room, a large right-angled couch that made Murray think of airports and long delays. ‘Lewis was only three when his father died. I’m afraid he’s a little shy of men, while also being completely fascinated with them, of course. He’s currently very taken with Mr Sidique across the landing. His beard is a big part of the attraction — reminiscent of Santa’s apparently. He may get his courage up and come through to interrogate you in a while, if Lisa doesn’t get her skates on.’

Murray perched on the far promontory of the settee and rubbed his chin.

‘No beard.’

‘No, that may put you at a bit of a disadvantage.’

He smiled, unsure of whether he should declare himself relieved or disappointed. Instead he said, ‘Lewis, after RLS?’

‘No, the spelling’s different. Choosing names for a child is an unexpected trial. Alan and I made a lengthy list. In the end we chose one we thought original only to spot it a month later, somewhere near the top of the most popular boy’s names in Scotland.’ She laughed. ‘Never mind, it suits him.’

Murray remembered the collection of names he’d found in Archie’s effects and wondered if it resembled the list Audrey Garrett and her husband had made. He contemplated showing it to her, but Audrey had moved on. ‘I’ll make us some tea in a moment. I’m absolutely bushed. I’m usually working when Lewis is at school, but I played hookey this afternoon and went running before I collected him. I’m afraid I overdid it.’

She stretched out a leg. Her feet were bare, their soles dirty, as if she had been sprinting shoeless through the city.

Murray found her friendliness disarming. He wondered if it was typical or if her chatter was a delaying tactic; a means to avoid discussing her husband’s work with a stranger.

He leant forward.

‘Don’t worry about tea. You’ve enough to do with your boy and all this.’

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the boxes.

Audrey Garrett smiled and said, ‘You’re wondering when I’m going to shut up and let you get on with it.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘I guess I should tell you. He was in Lismore researching Archie Lunan when he died.’

Just for a second Murray couldn’t think which man’s death she meant, then it struck him and he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged, managing to acknowledge his consolation and its uselessness at the same time.

‘I thought it might be better to get it out there so you understand if I’m a little. . well. .’ She smiled. ‘Even after this space of time, I’m not always sure how things are going to affect me.’

‘No.’ He looked away from her towards the piles of brown boxes piled high like a defence, wondering what the correct response would be. ‘Perhaps you’d like someone else to join us, your sister-in-law maybe?’

‘Lisa?’ Audrey Garrett laughed. ‘She’s worse than me. No, we’ll be fine.’ The doorbell rang and she got to her feet. ‘Speak of the devil and smell smoke. Excuse me a moment.’

He heard a cheerful exchange of women’s voices, laughter and a child’s high, excited tones. Then the front door shut and there was a pause. He imagined her standing barefoot in the suddenly still hallway, gathering her strength. The new apartment held an atmosphere of brittle bravery. Murray pressed his hands together and sandwiched them between his knees. There would be a point when his own life tipped and the absent outweighed the living.

‘Peace, perfect peace.’ Audrey flung herself back on the settee, which shifted a little beneath her weight. ‘Lisa takes him overnight once a week to give me a bit of a break.’

He unfolded himself and leaned back.

‘I’m interrupting your evening off.’

‘Don’t let it bother you. But you’re right, we should get down to business.’ She straightened up and turned to face him, brushing a loose strand of hair from her eyes. ‘I donated most of Alan’s reference books to the department library and some of his colleagues kindly packed up his university office for me a decent-ish interval after the accident.’ She gave an ironic smile. ‘As you know, space is at a premium up there. Most of what they packed is still in boxes. I kept all of Alan’s stuff together when we moved, so you’re welcome to work your way through it. .’

She hesitated and he said, ‘But?’

‘But inevitably I disposed of some stuff. It’s important we start to move on. Not forget, just. .’ She sought for another phrase and gave up, smiling. ‘Just move on.’

‘Of course.’ He wondered what insights into Archie’s life had ended up in the recycling. ‘I understand Dr Garrett was a social scientist?’

‘Alan did a joint undergraduate degree in psychology and sociology, they both continued to inform his work.’

‘And his ongoing research was into artists who die young?’

‘Actually, it was more specific than that. Alan was interested in artists who commit suicide.’

There was something shamefaced in the way that she said it. Murray wanted to tell her not to worry, that he had read weirder research proposals, invitations to the psychiatric ward or prison cell. But instead he nodded and asked, ‘He believed Archie came into that category?’

‘I suppose he must have. We never talked much about that aspect of his work. I found it morbid.’

‘I guess I can relate to that, but sometimes when you’re doing research,’ he paused, searching for a way to explain. ‘Things lose their power to disturb. You get fascinated with the minutiae and the subject becomes abstract.’

‘Maybe that’s part of what bothered me, the desensi-tisation.’ She wiggled her foot, looking at her toes as if she had just noticed them. ‘It’s sad something that meant so much to him became almost taboo between us. It’s one of my regrets. Perhaps if I’d paid more attention to Archie Lunan’s death, to the deaths of all the people he studied, I’d understand Alan’s more.’

Murray felt the weight of the empty flat around them and wished the child hadn’t left. He rolled the pen he’d taken from his pocket between his palms then, when she remained silent, asked, ‘What do you mean?’

It was as if the words had been waiting to tumble out.

‘When a sober man who’s fascinated with suicide slams a car with perfectly good brakes into a tree, you have to ask yourself if it was deliberate.’ She looked up. ‘I spoke with his doctor and searched his stuff, his effects. But Alan had no secret history of depression, no stash of happy pills he’d suddenly stopped taking. The inquest decided it was death through misadventure. A polite way of saying his own carelessness was to blame. Maybe he was tired, trying to squeeze everything he needed to do into too short a time so he could get home to us — except, of course, that he didn’t.’ Audrey got to her feet. ‘Sorry, that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid.’ She was all briskness now. ‘I’ve shoved Alan’s boxes together and marked each one with an X. I’m not sure if you’ll find much. I don’t know how long he’d been looking into your mutual friend, but I do know he’d taken some of the relevant notes up there with him. Presumably they were in the car when he crashed. I didn’t get them back.’

She paused. Blood and shattered glass were in her silence.

Murray imagined the dead driver slumped against a steering wheel, the unbroken blare of a car horn, precious pages streaming through a smashed window, littering the fields beyond, fluttering down towards the ocean where Archie had drowned.

‘I gave his computer to a Malawian appeal. I guess I should have held onto it, but you know how it is.’