Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘Steven.’ She lifted her face to him and he kissed her on each cheek, his lips making contact with her skin, his arms pressing her into a clinch that made one of her feet leave the ground.

‘You clever girl. It’s amazing, by far the best thing you’ve done.’

Murray took the bundle of leaflets from his pocket, cursing his own ignorance and giving the couple the chance to escape. The exhibition guide was sandwiched between an advert for Richard the Turd , an adaptation of Shakespeare’s classic set in a toilet, and a flyer for the Ladyboys of Bangkok , the name Cressida Reeves printed just above Jack’s. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this woman in her spectacular dress might be one of the trio on show?

Cressida extricated herself from the hug.

‘Steven Hastings, this is Murray Watson, Jack Watson’s brother.’

‘Jack?’

Steven rolled the name in his mouth, as if tasting it for the first time and unsure of the flavour. Cressida met his vagueness with a stab of irritation.

‘You know Jack. He’s one of my fellow exhibitors, we were at college together.’

‘Ah yes, Jack . The flayed corpse.’

Murray winced at the memory of Jack’s degree show, but he could remember Cressida now. Her hair had been shorter then, her thrift-shop-chic outfit tighter and darker than what she was wearing today. Jack had been impressed and maybe a little jealous. She’d won a prize, a big one, though Murray couldn’t remember what. He steadied his gaze at Steven.

‘He’s moved on since then.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Murray felt an urgent need to knock Steven Hastings’ head from the high collar of his jaunty shirt. But he stifled the impulse and instead gave an awkward stiff bow that he couldn’t remember ever performing before.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing your work, Cressida.’

He turned towards the bar as Steven put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, guiding her towards the exhibition space and commanding, ‘Now, you’re going to explain everything to me in minute detail.’

Cressida rolled her eyes, but she allowed herself to be led away, giving Murray a last smile. He raised his hand in goodbye, then swapped his empty glass for a fresh red and went to look for his brother.

The paintings at the front depicted massive, candy-coloured Manga cartoon characters collaged into pornographic poses. Murray sipped his drink, taking in a doe-eyed schoolgirl in congress with an equally wide-eyed black and white spotty dog. The image was imposed onto a background of a devastated landscape, Nagasaki after the H-bomb. Murray checked the artist’s name, relieved to find it wasn’t Cressida or Jack, then headed towards the staircase. It was busy here too, the traffic going in both directions, people clutching their drinks as if they were vital accessories. He didn’t see Lyn until she was in front of him.

‘Hey.’ She stopped on the step above his so that their faces were almost level. Murray kissed her, smelling wine, cigarettes and fabric softener.

‘How’s the wee man?’

‘The wee man.’ She shook her head. ‘The wee man, as you call him, is doing very well, considering he’s been working till three in the morning practically every day for the last month and only finished hanging ten minutes before the doors were due to open.’

Murray grinned.

‘He should have given me a shout. I would have held the ladder for him.’

‘Rather you than me.’

Lyn was smiling, but there was an unaccustomed flatness in her tone that made Murray wonder if she and Jack had argued.

He asked, ‘And how are you doing? You’re looking well.’

His brother’s girlfriend had pale freckly skin that couldn’t endure sunlight. Maybe it was the contrast between her fairness and the unfamiliar red lipstick she was wearing, but Murray thought she looked a shade whiter than usual.

‘I’m doing great. Glad this has come round at last.’ She smiled hello to a couple going up the staircase then turned back to Murray. ‘You get yourself up there. Jack’ll want to see you.’

‘Jack will have a lot of people to talk to. I just came to show my support, I’ll not stick around getting in the way.’

Lyn raised her eyebrows comically.

‘And you’ve got a lot of work to be getting on with.’

‘A fair bit, aye.’

‘Well, you’d better go and pay your respects then.’ She slid past him. ‘I was about to get some wine before it’s all sooked up. Do you want a refill?’

Murray looked at his glass, surprised to see that it was almost empty.

‘Why not?’

‘Give it here then.’ She hesitated. ‘Murray, Jack talked to you about the show, didn’t he?’

He knocked back the last dreg of wine and handed his empty glass to her.

‘I think so, maybe a while ago.’

Lyn pushed a stray curl away from her eyes.

‘You’ve no idea, have you?’

He grinned, embarrassed at being caught out.

‘Maybe not.’

‘You might find it. .’ She hesitated, searching for the right word. ‘. . challenging.’

Murray laughed.

‘Aye, well, that won’t be a first.’

Lyn gave a weak smile.

‘Just remember it was done with love.’

‘No blood this time?’

‘No blood, but it was still painful for him, so be kind.’

‘When am I not?’

‘Never.’

She touched his arm gently as she descended the stairs to the bar.

Jack was at the centre of a small knot of people, but he saw Murray and broke away, flinging an arm around his brother’s shoulder. Murray wondered where it came from, this physicality. He couldn’t remember them ever touching as boys except when they were fighting.

‘Hiya.’

‘Hi, Jack.’ He put his arm round his brother, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of his suit. ‘Congratulations.’

Jack’s face was shiny, his forehead beaded with sweat and his eyes bright. Murray could hear his brother’s voice coming from somewhere else too, a voiceover on a video installation he guessed. The words were indistinct, but Jack’s soft tones were cut through with another wilder, higher voice. The Jack in front of him looked anxious. He squeezed Murray’s shoulder and said, ‘I was keeping an eye out for you. Have you been round everything already?’

‘No, I just got here. All I’ve seen are those Japanese cartoon-collage things.’

Jack gave a quick scan of the room then whispered, ‘Pile of pish, eh?’

Murray laughed.

‘I don’t know about art, but I do know a pile of pish when I see it.’

‘Don’t let them put you off. Anyway, don’t congratulate me till you’ve seen my stuff. You might not like it.’

‘I’d better go and have a butcher’s then.’

The walls behind him were lined with photos. They looked more muted than Jack’s usual sharp-focused colours, but they were too far away for Murray to take in their detail.

‘Wait a moment.’ Jack took his sleeve as if worried that his brother would escape. ‘Murray, it’s all about Dad.’

Murray pulled himself gently from his brother’s grip. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and walked into the heart of the exhibition.

Their father looked pretty much as he had when Murray had last seen him. He was propped up in the high-backed chair, wearing a pair of brown paisley-patterned pyjamas. His hands clutched the armrests. His head was thrown back, his old face lost in the crazy smile of another man. Jack’s camera had caught him mid-word, his mouth open, the wetness of saliva coating his lips. His eyes dazzled.

Murray shut his own eyes then opened them again, the vision of his father remained in front of him, exposed to the wine-drinkers. He could hear his father’s voice now, chatting to Jack. He walked to the curtained darkroom in the corner of the gallery, ignoring the display cases and trying to blinker himself to the other photographs. The two long benches inside the blacked-out cubicle were full, so he stood at the end of the row of people leaning against the back wall. The close-up of his father’s face was six foot high. Jack’s voice came from somewhere off-camera asking, ‘Mr Watson, can you tell me if you’ve got any children, please?’