Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘That’s beyond my powers.’

‘I’m not stupid, Murray.’ The impatience was back. ‘I’m not asking you to shoo him in, I just meant you could maybe talk to him, tell him how to go about things. Frankie’s at a crossroads. He wants to change his life, but it’d still be easier for him to slide back into old ways. If he does, he’ll be writing his own death sentence.’

Murray doubted Frankie’s educational urges were anything more than a ruse to ease Lyn into his orthopaedic bed, but he put a smile into his voice.

‘How can I refuse? Let’s make a date when I get back.’

‘Thanks, Murray.’ Lyn had regained her usual warmth. He wondered if she would ever want to see him again, after Jack had told her his news. She asked, ‘So tell me about your mystery man.’

‘There’s not much to go on. He was an associate of Archie’s, which suggests he was around the fringes of the Edinburgh literary scene in the seventies. He left town for quite a while and only came back recently. He might also have been known as Crippen.’

Lyn gave a small snort of amusement.

‘Crippens are like Jims and Joes in my business, ten a penny. Do you want to interview him for your book?’

‘Yes, but I’m not willing to travel the distance.’

‘So you know where he is?’

‘Not exactly. He’s recently deceased.’

‘That’s not funny, Murray. I’ve been phoning the hospitals all morning looking for your brother.’

He said, ‘You’re too good for him.’ And meant it, but he promised to get in touch if Jack rang. He reckoned it wasn’t a pledge he’d be forced to keep.

Murray hung up and put a chip into his mouth. It was cold and tasted of the cheap fat it had been cooked in. He pushed the plate aside.

He’d emailed Audrey Garrett the photo he’d snapped of Bobby Robb’s lone mourner late the previous night; now he found her number and pressed Call . The line rang out, and then Audrey’s voice said, Hi, you’ve reached the answering service of Audrey and Lewis. We’re having too much fun to come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and . .‘Hi!’

She sounded out of breath and Murray wondered if she had been expecting a call. The thought made him awkward and he stuttered slightly as he spoke.

‘Hi, Audrey, sorry to interrupt you. It’s Murray Watson here.’

‘Ah, yes, Murray.’ There was no trace of antipodean accent in her telephone voice, but he thought he could detect a note of caution beneath her clear tones.

‘I was wondering if you got my email?’

‘Hang on.’

He heard the sound of her feet against the bare floorboards and pictured her walking through the chaotic sitting room to the tranquillity of her office. He asked, ‘How are you?’ but perhaps the phone was away from her ear, because she made no reply. Instead the receiver clunked onto a hard surface and he heard the singsong jingle as the computer came to life.

‘Right.’ Audrey picked up the phone. ‘I’ve got it in front of me.’ She read his message out loud. ‘“Dear Audrey, this may seem like an odd request, but I have attached a rather poor photograph of a woman I think may be Christie Graves to this message. Would you mind having a look and letting me know if it’s her, please? I’m going to be on the road for a while, so will give you a call sometime over the next couple of days. Best wishes, Murray Watson.” This is all rather cloak and dagger.’

‘I suppose it is.’

There was another pause. In his mind’s eye he saw Audrey at her desk, dressed in the same casual clothes she’d worn the evening they met. Then she came back on the line, her voice brisk and the vision was dispelled.

‘Well, I don’t think David Bailey has anything to worry about.’

‘Photography isn’t one of my talents.’

It could have been a cue for Audrey to mention what his talents included, but her voice remained businesslike.

‘Yes, that’s her. Where was it taken?’

‘The funeral of one of Archie’s old friends.’

‘Another funeral? She seems to make a habit of them.’

‘I guess people begin to at her age.’

‘Perhaps. Why didn’t you approach her?’

‘I should have, but I wasn’t sure if I’d got the right person, and it didn’t seem like the ideal moment.’

The excuse sounded lame to his ears, but Audrey said, ‘No, I can see that.’

Encouraged, he asked, ‘How’s Lewis?’

The memory of the small boy’s stare had stayed with him. But perhaps Audrey thought he was trying to ingratiate himself, because her response was cool.

‘Fine. We were just heading out.’

He wanted to ask where they were going, wanted her to ask him why he was on the road, but instead said, ‘I won’t keep you then.’

Her goodbye sounded final.

Murray sat for a moment, holding the still-warm mobile phone in his hand, then pulled his plate towards him and splattered it with tomato ketchup. He’d forgotten to shake the bottle and a clear liquid that put him in mind of blood plasma ran onto his food before the red stuff dripped out. He dunked a chip in it anyway and put it in his mouth. The taste of sugar and cold potato made him want to spit. He swallowed it down and pushed the plate aside, just as the waitress placed his bill on the table.

She looked at his uneaten meal.

‘What was wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, I let it get cold.’

Murray busied himself with his wallet, but perhaps his face betrayed him yet again, because the woman put her hand back on his shoulder and gave it another squeeze.

‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’ She looked at the untouched battered cod on his plate and laughed, ‘It’s true. No quota on how many you can catch in your net either’. She caught the eye of the fish-fryer and went lyrical for his benefit. ‘It’s full of promise for a lad like you. Just you remember that.’

THE WOMEN IN the tourist board had told him his B&B was about twenty minutes from Achnacroish pier, where the ferry docked. Murray drove slowly along the one-track road that climbed away from the bay, the sea receding in the rear-view mirror as he travelled inland, the mountains ahead in the distance, getting no closer.

The crossing had been smooth, but a faint nausea stirred in the depths of his stomach, as if his own tides had been disturbed. The sky was a palate of grey, iron smudges shifting against gunmetal. The wind was getting up, but there was still a possibility the grey skies might yet blow beyond the island, taking their cargo of rain with them.

Sheep grazed stoically in the fields beyond, their fleeces grey and shit-stained, ruffled by the same wind that bent the tall grasses edging the roadside. He’d left the village behind at the pier, but now and again he would pass a cottage built out of stone as grey and uncompromising as the sky. He slowed to take a corner and saw two children staring at him, hand in hand from the edge of the road, their hair matted, faces bronzed by sun and dirt. They looked like the kind of feral kids that might commune with faeries, and he was almost surprised to notice their stout Wellington boots. Murray raised a hand in hallo and was met with incurious stares.

A few drops of rain smeared the windscreen, but there was no need for the wipers yet. The radio had died, the signal left behind on the mainland. He turned on the CD player and Johnny Cash croaked into ‘I’ve Been Everywhere’.

Murray had a sudden memory of his father singing the song in the kitchen one evening as he dried the dishes, his father’s inflections the same as Cash’s, but his words slower, his voice leaving the tune behind on his adapted chorus, I’ve been to Fraserburgh, Peterburgh, Bridge of Weir, very queer. Dunoon, whit a toon, Aberdeen where folks are mean. I’ve been everywhere, I’ve been everywhere.