Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

Murray started to laugh, but the chill had him in its grip now. A shiver that could have doubled as a spasm clutched at him and the laugh turned to a cough. Murray pulled off his hat, dragged his jumper over his head and started to rub his chest dry with his T-shirt. University of North Alabama . God, that had been a while ago, back when everything seemed possible.

‘So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.’ Fergus’s voice was slick with sarcasm. He lifted the kettle from the Primus stove, felt the weight of water in it and lit the gas. ‘You need to wash yourself in warm water.’ He went through to the bedroom and returned with a blanket. ‘Here, wrap yourself in this while we wait for it to boil.’

Murray draped the blanket round his shoulders, pulled his boots and socks off then stripped away his sodden trousers and underpants. The mud had penetrated his clothing and specks of it clung to his skin. Fergus Baine shook his head.

‘What did my wife see in you? You look like Bobby Sands towards the end.’ The kettle started to howl. The professor emptied it into a bowl, then filled a cup from the rain butt outside and cooled the boiling water with it. He put the steaming bowl and a cloth on the table in front of Murray. ‘Here.’

Murray took the bottle of malt from the table and started to fumble with its cap.

‘You don’t need that.’ Fergus plucked the whisky from Murray’s grip. He took the empty kettle, refilled it and set it back on the stove. ‘Spirits lower the body’s temperature. A hot drink’s always better.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

Murray started to sponge himself. The water turned brackish. He supposed he should freshen it if he really wanted to get clean, but carried on dipping the unfamiliar cloth into the water, wiping himself down the half-hearted way a man might clean an old but necessary piece of equipment that was going to be replaced soon.

Fergus had been rummaging around in the boxes of supplies Pete had set in the corner and found a jar of instant coffee and a tin of powdered milk. He spilled generous measures into two mugs and added water.

‘It’s none of my business, but why are you camping in this hovel in the middle of nowhere?’

‘The archaeology department requisitioned all the good rooms.’

Fergus set a mug of strong coffee on the table and stood cradling his own.

‘You do realise that archaeology has much lower RAE scores than us? They’re way behind on student numbers too.’

Murray’s laugh held an edge of hysteria.

‘These things don’t count for much out here.’ He took the blanket and started to wipe himself dry with it. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘I asked at the shop. Always the hub of island life.’

‘No, I meant how did you know I was on the island?’

‘Rab Purvis told me.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t look so crestfallen, it hardly makes him a quisling. I was coming over to see Christie and had an idea you might be around so I asked Purvis. He didn’t know I was going to look you up.’

‘Pastoral care?’

‘Something like that.’

The two men looked at each other. Murray was the first to break eye contact. He’d wrapped himself back in the damp blanket; now he went through to the other room, found a jumper and a cleanish pair of jeans and put them on. When he returned he said, ‘You told me you’d only met Archie once.’

Fergus gave a nod that conceded his lie.

‘I suppose I hoped the less fuel on the fire, the sooner it would burn out.’

Murray sat back at the table and cradled the coffee mug in his hand, taking comfort from its warmth. He thought about rescuing the whisky from the shelf where Fergus had placed it and found he couldn’t be bothered.

‘Why are you so against Archie getting his due?’

The older man had taken his cap off, but still wore his heavy jacket. The haggard paleness of his face gave him the air of a distinguished thespian.

‘There was something about Lunan, a core of Romanticism perhaps, that’s dangerous for your type of approach. Sailing when a storm was coming in was stupid egotism. It was typical of Archie.’ Fergus steepled his hands together and rested his forehead on them for a moment as if the strain of memories threatened to loosen his composure. He massaged his temples then looked at Murray. The bright spark of energy that had seemed his defining feature was dulled, but it was still there, a small pilot light in the gleam of his eyes. ‘Ultimately I thought you’d reduce a complex life to a simplistic narrative. Naïve but talented young man comes to the city, falls into decadent ways and is punished for his carelessness by an early death. I didn’t think it would do either of you justice.’

‘You came all this way to say my work’s crap and have the balls to tell me it’s for my own protection?’

Fergus gave the upside-down smile that meant he knew he had scored a hit.

‘I came to see Christie. Her mobility’s reduced to the point where living here’s no longer feasible. The time has come for her to make a decision about where she wants to go.’

‘And you’re here to help her decide?’

Fergus bowed his head in a slight nod.

‘Sometimes it helps to talk things over with old friends.’

‘Was Christie’s illness part of the reason you discouraged me from investigating Archie Lunan?’

‘No, I told you. I thought it a genuinely poor proposal.’

Murray sipped his coffee. It tasted harsh, but it was hot and he took a second swallow. He shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the professor was still there, staring at him, his expression as alert as an inner-city fox. Murray said, ‘I met her this morning, on the ridge above the limekilns.’

Fergus’s voice was free of concern.

‘I’m surprised she can make it that far.’

‘Her car had got stuck in the mud. I helped get it out.’

‘She was lucky you came along. Weather like this, who knows how long she might sit there? Something like that could kill her.’

‘She wants me to come and see her, to talk about Lunan.’

‘When?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not going.’

The same downturned smile twitched Fergus’s lips.

‘It’s the opportunity you were waiting for.’

It was typical of the man to want to rub his victory home.

Murray kept his voice steady and said, ‘I’ll be on tomorrow’s ferry.’

Fergus picked up his cap and set it on his head at a jaunty angle.

‘I think you’ve made the right decision. Confine yourself to the poems. I’ll make sure you get every support from the department.’ He slapped the table with his open palm. ‘Perhaps I should write an introduction for you? I could include a short reminiscence of Archie. It might help set his work in context of the time.’

The urge to punch him ran through Murray like an electric current.

‘I don’t know that I’ll still be a member of the department.’

Fergus had half risen, now he sat back down and gave Murray his kingly look, a wise old lion giving counsel to a talking ape.

‘There will be no awkwardness between us. Rachel and I are going to Italy at the end of next week, but she’ll telephone when we’re back and you’ll come round for dinner. This will be in the past.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you can get your luggage up to the crossroads, I’ll give you a lift to the pier tomorrow afternoon.’

He might have been a father offering to do a favour for a teenage son.

‘There’s a long way round, slightly more civilised than the route Christie takes in that souped-up jeep of hers, and I brought the Saab over. Its suspension is famous.’