Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘There’s another sailing at four.’

Murray looked down at the ferry. There were two cars, the building lorry and a post van already sitting on its deck. An empty spot seemed to beckon from beside the van.

‘What about the space on the right?’

The ferryman adjusted his cap. ‘Four o’clock.’ He walked back down the slipway and onto the deck. Murray watched as the ramp was raised and the boat chugged surely out to sea.

An old man standing smoking by the quayside flicked his dout into the sea, strolled over and leaned companionably against the car roof.

‘You’d never mistake him for a sunbeam, eh?’

Murray felt his face warm.

‘What’s his problem?’

‘If you’re enquiring about his temperament, I’d say an undemonstrative father combined with overexposure to the United Free Church and a lack of serotonin. But if you’re asking why he didn’t let you board, my guess would be the building lorry brought them up to weight. Away over to the ticket office and get booked on the four o’clock. The island’s not going anywhere.’

The stranger slapped the car roof and walked on.

The booking clerk grinned cheerily when he asked for a ticket to Lismore.

‘Tired of life?’

Murray tried to return his smile, but the clerk grew suddenly serious and issued the ticket without further banter.

There were five hours to kill. He phoned the tourist board and booked himself into a B&B on the island, then abandoned the car in the long-term car park and took a walk along the front. All the seagulls hadn’t relocated to Glasgow to live off abandoned Chinese carry-outs and dead rats after all. Their country cousins ack-acked machine-gun rattles across the bay as they circled the fishing boats, hovering down from time to time to pick at delicacies the fishermen had eschewed. The scent of brine was sharp in his nostrils and beneath it a bitter smell of decaying seaweed. There was a cold wind blowing in from the sea, carrying a fine spray that might have been rain or spume, as if underlining his ill-preparedness.

Murray went into an outdoors shop and bought a woollen hat, a waterproof jacket, three tartan shirts in a warm, fuzzy fabric, three pairs of heavy socks and a pair of walking boots the salesman claimed would outlive them both. He changed in the shop’s tiny dressing room and regarded himself in the mirror. He looked like an older, more leisured version of himself; or maybe a down-and-out, scrubbed up by social services and equipped for a few more months of pavement life.

The season must surely have been drawing to a close, but the streets were busy with tourists drawn to the town from the outlying countryside, fresh fodder for the Clan Kitchen and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. He passed a middle-aged couple trailing a pair of disconsolate teenage boys. He and Jack had come here with their father years ago, on their way to somewhere else. He couldn’t remember much about it.

He went into a café that smelt of cheap air-freshener infused with accents of hot lard and Sarson’s vinegar. The room was homely but shabby, as if the proprietor had rejected trade fittings in favour of domestic furnishings not up to the job. The walls were papered with stripes and fleur-de-lis, divided by a floral border, the carpet decorated in a pattern of autumn leaves, not busy enough to camouflage spills and stains. A splotch of something that might have been lentil soup had crusted over the handwritten menu, as if illustrating the quality of the fare on offer. After a while an elderly waitress appeared and Murray ordered fish and chips and a cup of tea.

He was wondering whether his laptop was safe in the boot of the car or if he should nip back and collect it, when his phone rang. Lyn’s name flashed on the display.

The waitress placed his cutlery and a plate of bread spread with margarine in front of him.

‘Are you not going to answer that?’

Murray wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but anecdotes from students with part-time waiting jobs had taught him never to piss-off someone with access to his food.

‘I’ll call back later.’

She went over to the counter and returned with his tea.

‘Ignoring it won’t make things better.’

He took a bite of the tasteless bread, wondering if everyone in Oban considered themselves equipped to advise strangers. The phone burred back into life, Lyn’s name flashing again, like a warning signal on its tiny screen.

He sighed and pressed Talk .

‘Murray?’

‘Hi. Everything okay?’

‘Yes.’ Lyn’s voice was wary. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You don’t normally call me.’

‘I guess not.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘I was phoning to check if you’d seen Jack.’

He thought about lying, but the truth seemed easier, up to a point.

‘Briefly, before his lecture.’

‘So you’re talking?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’ll have to make it up sometime.’

‘Maybe.’

Silence hung on the line. She said, ‘He didn’t come home last night.’

Murray internally cursed his brother for being such a bastard, and himself for answering the call.

‘He probably ran into some mates and went for a drink. You know Jack.’

‘He’s a workaholic. He doesn’t have any mates.’

Murray had the urge to tell Lyn that she was wrong, his brother had one, very special, old friend. But instead he said, ‘Either way, he’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

‘I’m worried. Your dad’s car’s gone. It was parked outside when I started shift last night.’

‘Ah.’ He hadn’t meant to frighten her, only to get back at his brother. ‘I took it.’

‘Well seen you’re related, you’re as bad as each other. Does Jack know?’

‘He will, when you tell him.’

‘You tell him.’ The relief that had sounded in her voice at the news of the car was hardening into anger. ‘I’ve been up all night at the hostel. I don’t think I could manage any more drama. Where are you, anyway?’

‘Oban.’

‘Of course, the gateway to the islands.’

‘Armpit of the universe.’

‘Harsh.’

‘You’re telling me.’

The waitress squeezed his shoulder as she slid his order in front of him.

Lyn said, ‘It sounds noisy there.’

‘Just my lunch arriving.’ The fish and chips steamed fragrantly on the plate before him, but something in her voice made him say, ‘I’m not really hungry, just killing time.’

‘You need to eat.’

He wondered why women wanted either to look after him, or fuck him then kick him out the door. There was a time when he could have asked Lyn.

‘I wanted to ask you something. Did you ever come across an old guy with an amazing scar at your drop-in centre?’

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

It was an old joke and he laughed to show her that nothing had changed, though he suspected they both knew it had.

‘I’ve got a particular one in mind. Bobby Robb. He had a Mr Happy smile carved across one side of his face.’

‘Glasgow smiles better.’ This time neither of them laughed. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but then a lot of them don’t go by their given name. I could ask around, if you want.’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘On one condition.’

‘What?’

He thought it must be something to do with his brother. The waitress glanced in his direction, as if alerted to potential trouble by the wariness in his voice. Lyn said, ‘You remember Frankie?’

Murray smiled, relieved, and saw the waitress resume her conversation with the fish-fryer. He dropped his voice.

‘Lewis Hamilton in a wheelchair?’

‘Yes. Frank’s really trying to sort himself out. He’s hoping to do an access course at Telford College, then apply for uni.’