Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘Did she tell you?’

The weathered creases round the driver’s eyes wrinkled in amusement.

‘No, I got it from the Lismore Gazette.’

‘Shit, you’re kidding.’

The man laughed. ‘Jamie the postman.’

Murray thought he could hear the jolting of the cab in his own laugh. He said, ‘I should apologise to her.’

‘We’re headed in the right general direction, but I wouldn’t bother. She doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

‘Not the sociable type?’

The man slowed the pace and looked back towards the trailer.

‘Okay, then, off you go.’

For a second Murray thought his question had offended, but then the terrier jumped from the trailer and started to trot behind.

‘Jinx hates the next bit.’

The buggy rounded a bend and the road fell away from them into a precipitous scree-lined descent. Murray tensed his already tight grip and felt a sudden kinship with the dog. The small man’s grin grew wider. ‘My kids call it Everest.’

His bones were jarring so hard it felt they might soon be loosed from his flesh, but there was something exhilarating in the recklessness of the speed that made Murray dampen the urge to beg the stranger to stop and instead give himself over to the thrill of the plunge. He recalled ten-year-old Jack’s spew, candyfloss pink, catching the wind then coating the tough guy birling the waltzers at the Glasgow Green shows, and laughed out loud.

The man laughed with him.

‘This hill’s the reason I could afford the croft. It makes everything a hundred times harder, but I’ve got to love it. I wouldn’t be here without it.’ The terrier had somehow got ahead of them. Its rump flashed white as it ran, tail bobbing, down the rough track, too close to the tractor’s front wheels for comfort. The driver didn’t bother to slow his pace.

‘I’m Pete, by the way.’

‘Murray.’

‘On holiday?’

‘Aye, a bit of a break from Glasgow.’ His world seemed far away, here in the plunging gloom, the last greenery of the year still clinging to the leaves of the young trees that lined the sheltered track. Murray realised that the path had been dug into the hill and wondered if it was the small man’s doing. He asked, ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Three years.’

They were almost at the bottom now. Pete put an extra spurt on the last few yards; the dog anticipated the move and resigned the race, trotting up the verge, where she sat grinning as they passed. The cab listed to the left as it turned the corner, out of the shade of the trees and into the open. Pete slowed to a halt.

‘There’s the castle.’

But he needn’t have spoken. Murray could see the ruined structure perched on top of a plug of rock, silhouetted against the sea. Its walls had been reduced by wind or warfare to crooked columns that pointed towards the sky like a warped crown. Some grazing horses raised their heads at the sound of the tractor and then lowered them back to the grass, reassured it was nothing unusual. Murray tried to envision how the scene must have looked when the castle was whole and occupied by some tribe, but his imagination failed. All he could see was the vista spread before him, like Arcadia restored after the devastation of man.

The dog leapt into the trailer, wagging its tail.

‘Decided to trust my driving again, have you, Jinxy?’ Pete reached back and rubbed her hard between her ears, then pointed towards a small white-painted cottage, about a mile from the castle.

‘That’s our place there.’

‘And this is your land?’

‘Some of it.’

‘A beautiful place to live.’

‘Yep.’ The small man creased his face into a weathered grin. ‘You can forget how stunning a landscape is when you see it every day. I do anyway, the wife’s more appreciative.’

Murray wondered if Pete had brought him here in the hope of viewing the scene afresh, through another pair of eyes.

‘And your children?’

He laughed.

‘Desperate for bright lights, big city. The horses are the only thing keeping them here, and them not for long. Meaghan will be off to university next year and I doubt her brother will be far behind.’

Murray scanned the horizon, hoping for sight of a house that might belong to Christie Graves, but apart from the castle and Pete’s cottage, there was only land and sea.

Pete started the engine again. ‘I’ll drop you down at the bottom. You should be able to climb up to the castle and make it back in good time for the ferry. Have you enjoyed your stay?’

‘It was too short.’

‘That’s holidays for you. We threw caution to the wind and took the kids to Corfu last year. I swear I was just off the plane when I was getting back on it again, couldn’t understand where I got the tan from.’

‘Aye, I would have stayed longer, but I screwed up my booking.’

‘Unless someone makes an almighty balls-up, the island will still be here next year. That’s what I told myself as we flew away from the sunshine. Mind you, Corfu would be no place for our kind of farming. Dry as beef jerky, no grazing at all.’

‘Next year will be too late.’

Pete glanced at him, his face suddenly guarded, and Murray realised he sounded like a man with terminal illness or suicide on his mind.

‘My project will have run out of time.’

He told Pete about his research, and the biography he was planning, as they closed the final distance to the ruined castle.

‘You screwed up.’

Pete slowed the tractor to a halt and Murray climbed from the cab.

‘I did indeed.’

‘Ah, well.’ The small man grinned. ‘It happens. You know where we are now. Next time you visit, don’t be a stranger. Drop by and have a dram.’

The Scots word sounded strange married with his flat, Midland vowels.

Murray nodded. ‘You’re on.’

Jinx perched her front paws on the edge of the trailer watching them. Murray reached out to pat the terrier and her teeth snarled back in a growl.

‘No manners, this one.’

Pete shoved the dog gently from its perch and climbed back into his cab. Murray raised a hand in farewell, and then started towards the castle. When he looked back the tractor was bouncing far along the track towards home.

MURRAY CLIMBED UP into the grassed-over centre of the castle and stared out to sea, his mind as blank as the white foam frothing on the incoming tide. He would go to Edinburgh tomorrow, seek out the Geordie’s landlord and ask why he’d burnt Bobby Robb’s library. What kind of books were they that the man had felt compelled to turn them into a bonfire, even though he’d already promised them to his niece?

It was a while before he could find a signal and call a directory service for the Geordie’s number. They connected him and he waited, imagining Lauren sitting in the pub’s backroom, absorbed in some existential tome while the phone rang out.

Murray killed the call. He looked at the three bars on his phone, wondering how long the battery would last, then found the phone signal again and pressed redial, determined to check whether the man was on shift and break the cycle of disorganisation that would see him expelled from the island. This time a gruff male voice answered on the second ring.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi, can I speak to the landlord, please?’

‘If you make it snappy.’

Murray hadn’t thought through what he would say and the words seemed to tumble from him.

‘I’m phoning about a recently deceased customer of yours. .’

‘Jesus Christ, let me guess — our dear departed Crippen.’

‘How did you know?’

‘We might not attract the youth market, but they’re still not exactly dropping like flies round here.’ The landlord sounded wary. ‘What about him?’