Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

This time Murray decided to tell the truth.

‘I’m writing a book about someone Mr Robb knew a long time ago. I was hoping to interview him.’

‘Aye, well, unless you’re planning on following him down into the eternal beer cellar, I’d say you were onto plums.’ Someone said something in the background and the landlord muffled the mouthpiece and gave an indistinct reply that sounded impatient. When he returned to the phone his voice was brisk. ‘Look, mate, I’m in the middle of a delivery. I didn’t really know the guy, just sold him a few beers over the years. I don’t think I can help you.’

‘I need to ask you a specific question.’

‘What?’

‘About Bobby’s effects.’

There was silence on the line. For a moment Murray thought he’d blown it and the other man was about to hang up, but then he heard a sigh and the landlord said, ‘Why don’t you drop by later in the day? I’m on until two.’

Murray looked out to where the grey sea met the lighter grey of the sky. The pub would be there tomorrow, but he had the man on the line now. He said, ‘You’ve no idea how good the idea of a pint sounds to me, but. .’

‘But?’

‘I’m up north on an island that doesn’t have a pub.’

‘So you’re a long-distance heavy.’

‘I’m not a heavy at all. I’m a lecturer in English literature.’

‘Christ,’ the landlord laughed. ‘What are you going to do if I don’t cooperate? Make me spell a difficult word?’ He snorted. ‘This island, did you ken it was dry when you went there?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus.’ He laughed again. ‘Did you take anything with you?’

The other man’s delight at his predicament decided Murray against mentioning the shop’s shelves groaning with spirits.

‘A bottle of whisky I’m halfway through.’

There was palpable glee in the other man’s voice.

‘I’m guessing you’re rationing that.’

‘I’m down to around an X-ray of a dram every night.’

The landlord’s snort sounded down the line.

‘This book, is it going to show that old cunt in a good light?’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

‘And will it have acknowledgements? You know, wee thank-yous to people that helped out in the making of it?’

‘More than likely.’

‘Right.’ The landlord cleared his throat, like a torch singer about to embark on a particularly gruelling number. ‘Have you got a pen and paper handy?’

‘Aye, hang on a minute.’ Murray wedged his mobile between his chin and his shoulder and fumbled in the pocket of his cagoule for a notepad and pen. He found them, put a foot up on a toppled remnant of one of the castle’s stone walls and awkwardly rested the book on his knee. ‘Okay.’

‘Right. My name is John Rathbone. I’ll spell it for you, R-a-t-h-b-o-n-e. Got that?’

It was cold and the ballpoint refused to write. Murray scribbled on the damp surface of the paper, but only succeeded in scratching a hole through to the next page.

‘Yes.’

‘And here’s where you can send my copy when it comes out.’ Rathbone detailed an address on the south side of Edinburgh, taking care to spell any words he thought Murray might have trouble with. ‘On second thoughts, maybe you should send two. I’ll give one to my old dear, she’s always had a thing about me not staying on at school. It’d give her a kick to see my name in print.’

Murray repeated the address out loud and shoved the useless pen and paper into his pocket, resolving to look the man up and check his details if the book ever made it to publication.

‘I’ll send you three.’

‘Cheers, I’ll give one to my bird. No, I’ll save it in case I need to impress a new one.’

‘Aye, the ladies like a bit of culture.’

‘Talking from experience, are you?’

Murray gave what he hoped was a manly chuckle.

‘Some.’

‘The revenge of the swot?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Could be my old dear was right about staying on at school then.’

Murray could feel the conversation drifting away from him. He thought of his fading battery and said, ‘The main thing I wanted to ask was why did you burn Bobby’s books?’

The man’s sigh seemed at one with the wind whispering around the fallen fortifications.

‘So you heard about that, did you? I’m guessing you dropped by here before you set out for Temperance Island.’

‘I never reveal my sources.’

‘No need to. My sister’s girl Lauren gave me pure grief for it.’

‘It’s your flat. I’d imagine that, technically speaking, anything abandoned in it’s yours to dispose of as you see fit.’

‘I wish it was mine to dispose of. A wee place in the centre of Edinburgh? Must be worth a bomb. I would have had that old bum out of it in a shot. Nah, I just manage it for a bloke.’

‘So the books?’

‘Crippen was always going on about his book collection. When it turned out no one wanted his stuff, I promised them to Lauren. She’s a good kid, always got her head in a book. She’s saving up to go to uni, and I thought there might be something in there she could use. But they were filth, so I took them out into the back court and burnt them.’

‘Pornography?’

‘If they’d been porn, I would have kept them for myself, wouldn’t I? Nah, it was spooky stuff, books on spells and the like, horrible.’

‘He had a big collection of occult books?’

‘He had more than that. You should have seen the state of the place. Hang on a wee minute, will you?’

The man put the handset down. Far off Murray could hear him talking to someone. A dark cloud passed across the sky, throwing its shadow over the water. Murray drew his scarf closer, muffling his face against the cold. It was going to rain again. He thought of Hamlet, confronted with the ghost of his father on the castle ramparts at night, and a shiver stiffened the hairs on the back of his neck.

‘Well, that’s me popular with the bar staff, an entire delivery offloaded with no help from yours truly.’ Rathbone sounded pleased with himself. ‘What was I saying?’

‘Bobby Robb had more than just a big collection of occult books.’

‘Who?’

‘Crippen, as you called him.’

‘Oh, aye. I had to redecorate before the boss saw the state of the place. You can imagine how delighted I was at that — took me a sander and three coats of varnish to cover up his handiwork.’

‘Why?’

‘I was meant to do an inspection every six months, make sure the place was ship-shape, but I’d kind of let it slide. It’s a good gig, looking after amateur landlords’ flats. As long as you’ve got a wee black book full of reliable tradesmen, it’s money for old rope most of the time. But word soon gets round if you slip up.’

‘No, I meant what did you have to cover up?’

‘I’m getting to that.’ Now that he had decided to tell his story, Rathbone’s voice was full of relish at the strangeness of it. ‘Crippen was lodged in a one-bedroom flat on the High Street, three floors up above the Starbucks. A lot of stairs for an old man, but he looked fit enough. I would have bet he had another ten years in him. Just goes to show.’ The landlord paused, giving them both time to take in the impossibility of ever knowing the future, then went on, ‘The place wasn’t that clean, but I didn’t expect it to be. Crippen never had much of an acquaintance with soap and water, so it didn’t take a genius to work out he didn’t own a pair of Marigolds. It wasn’t a problem, my sister’s generally happy to earn a few bob cleaning for me, as long as there’s nothing too nasty involved. I checked out the kitchen and the sitting room, everything was pretty much as it should be, except for dust and beer stains, but as I said, I expected as much. The shock came when I went into the bedroom. I’ve found all sorts in my time; bloodstains on top of the mattress, used condoms underneath, mice in the skirting, beetles under the wallpaper. I even had a pair of students who let their kitchen get so fucking beyond them they boarded it up and made it into a no-go zone — needless to say, they didn’t get their deposits back. I thought they were the worst I was ever likely to see, but they were just lazy cunts. Crippen’s bedroom. . well, that was something else. Like a scene from a horror movie. To tell you the truth, there was a moment when I thought about calling the police, but I decided it’d be a waste of their time. I mean, if you could be arrested for crimes against decorating, that cunt Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen would be doing a twenty stretch, right?’