Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

They hadn’t seen much of each other in those days, each forging their own way, occasionally meeting back at their dad’s, going for a beer when their paths crossed, but no more than that. The closeness had returned later.

Jack appeared again, looking very young, in a group shot with others from his class. A youth with a green Mohican who Murray vaguely remembered stood on Jack’s right side, Cressida on his other, her arm around his waist, hugging him close. She too looked much younger, her hair back-combed into a massive halo, her black leggings tucked into Doc Marten boots in a style that had always reminded him of Max Wall. She’d looked better on the night of the opening, older but more sophisticated, assured.

He scanned the rest of the set, realising that though the fashions in the photographs might vary, these records of college experience were as similar to each other as the childhood parties had been; as if the beer-drinking, lamppost-climbing, face-pulling and kissing had also been organised with tradition in mind.

He checked his watch. Five-thirty. Maybe he should step out and see if Jack had arrived. Murray turned to go, but something snagged on the edge of his vision and he returned to the display. It would have been easy to miss, and yet he wondered how he could ever have overlooked it: a black and white photo-booth strip. The one-after-the-other shots managed to both capture and animate the moment when his brother and Cressida turned towards each other laughing, touched lips, tongues, and then broke away, still laughing.

He paused for a moment in the next room, letting his eyes rest on Nagasaki. He wondered if Lyn had seen the photos, remembered her strained look on the exhibition’s opening night, her curtness in the Burger King when he asked if she knew Cressida. Exploiting a memory that should have been kept private was exactly what he had accused Jack of doing. He wondered if his brother minded, and realised that he hoped he did.

Murray was almost in the street before he become conscious that the young gallery attendant had said something as he passed. He retraced his steps and the boy repeated it.

‘Your brother’s in the café.’

‘Cheers.’

His voice was harsh with ill-use and the strains of the day, but it seemed he’d unintentionally hit on the right note because the young man’s belligerence was replaced by solicitude.

‘I tried to tell Jack you were here, but he and his girlfriend went past before I could catch them.’

Murray had an urge to enquire if his arse was superglued to the seat, but he ignored it and hurried through to the café, relieved to have the opportunity to see Lyn as well before Jack’s show got on the road.

The café was busy. Murray scanned the room, unable to spot Jack and Lyn amongst the close-packed tables. Then suddenly it was as if the photo-booth pictures had come to life.

Jack and Cressida were at a corner table by the window, kissing.

‘Jesus.’

Murray stepped forward unsure of what he was going to say.

There was nothing he could say.

A waitress approached, menu in hand, and he turned to leave, desperate to escape before they saw him. He felt his rucksack hit the counter, heard the waitress’s gasp and the echoing shatter of glass against concrete, loud as sudden gunshot. Water flashed across the floor as a massive arrangement of Stargazer lilies hit the deck.

Cressida and Jack broke their clinch, principals in a brilliantly choreographed move that had every head turning in perfect unison towards the smash. Murray saw his brother get to his feet, heard the hum of conversation build from the silent instant that had followed. He turned and walked from the building, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him, like a pathway to disaster.

‘Murray, wait.’

His brother’s boots sounded loud on the pavement. Who the fuck wore segs in their shoes? It was another affectation, part of the all-surface-no-substance shit that defined Jack these days.

‘Wait.’

‘Get to fuck.’

Murray caught the curious stares of the schoolchildren waiting to enter the Edinburgh Dungeons. The bored-looking ghost at the door said, ‘Mind your language or it’s the bloody stocks for you.’ And the queue giggled beneath their teacher’s disapproving gaze.

Murray felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, his fists balled.

‘Piss off, Jack.’

‘Wait a second, will you?’

Jack’s shirt had escaped his trousers. He was breathing heavily and there was a smudge of Cressida’s lipstick on his upper lip. One of the waiting children opened a bag of sweets and passed out an allotted ration to his friends, ready to enjoy the show.

Murray turned the corner down onto Waverley Bridge, towards Princes Street.

‘Why? Are you going to tell me things aren’t what they seem?’

Jack caught his arm, holding him there. He looked Murray in the eyes, no longer as young as he’d been in Cressida’s photographs, but just as handsome. More handsome, perhaps. The thought surprised Murray: he had never thought of his brother as good-looking before.

‘No, things are exactly as they seem.’

It was almost as much of a shock as seeing them together. The anger left him for a moment and he asked, ‘Does Lyn know?’

‘Not yet.’

Jack wiped a hand across his face. He saw the red lipstick on his fingers, took a hanky from his pocket and rubbed at his mouth.

‘What a fucking mess.’

He looked at the red stains again, then at Murray, and it wasn’t clear whether he meant his lipstick-smeared face, or the state of his love life.

‘Are you going to tell her?’

‘Yes.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Jack.’

‘I’m in love with Cressida.’

‘Just like that? After twelve years, you’ve suddenly found someone else?’

‘We knew each other before.’

‘So I saw, but time’s moved on.’

Murray pulled free from his brother’s grip. Jack raised his hand as if to snare him again, and then let it fall.

‘Life’s too short not to live it, Murray. You should know that.’

A group of youths passed them on the pavement. One of them shouted, ‘Why don’t you kiss and make up?’ and his companions laughed. Murray felt the urge to lay into them with his fists, land a good few punches before they beat him senseless. Instead he kept his voice low and asked, ‘What about Lyn?’

‘I’ll make sure Lyn’s okay. She’ll get over it. She’s a survivor.’

Murray shook his head.

‘You’re a prick, Jack.’

He turned his back on his brother and walked away. This time no one followed him.

IT WAS A while since Murray had driven. The winding road round Loch Lomond was testing and he arrived in Oban with a sense of relief. The car windscreen started to spot with rain as he drove down into the town. There was a glimpse of sunlight behind the wind-harried clouds moving above the sea, but he knew from experience that it was no guarantee blue skies would follow.

Murray followed the signs for the ferry terminus, then found the Lismore dock and parked at the end of the short queue of waiting vehicles on the quayside. The boat was due in fifteen minutes, but there was no sign of it on the grey waters beyond. He turned off the engine, closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind.

He was woken by the lorry in front rumbling into life. The small ferry had docked and the traffic from the island disembarked. Murray turned the key in his ignition, waiting until the lorry driver had reversed the large vehicle laden with building supplies up a tiny ramp and onto the deck. He edged his own car slowly backwards. The ferryman raised his hand in the rear-view mirror and the engine stalled. Murray scrolled the window down as the man came towards him, his face stern.