Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

‘Were you here the night he drowned?’

‘Yes, safe in bed like the rest of the island. The alarm wasn’t raised until the next day. By then his body had been taken by the currents.’

‘Who raised the alarm?’

‘I heard that it was the smooth one, Fergus, who came looking for him at the shop. God knows where Christie thought he was, but I suppose that even she didn’t think he’d go sailing on a night like that. There was a search, of course, though I think people knew it was a corpse they were looking for. Two days later Fergus and the other one left the island. I hadn’t realised it, but there had been talk about strange goings-on for a while.’ She gave him a smile. ‘The old islanders were maybe unsophisticated by my standards, but they knew a lot more than they let on, a lot more than me when it came to it. The two men were told to leave if they wanted to stay in one piece.’

‘And Christie?’

‘There were those who would have liked her to go too, but she was a different case. She had ties here, and though there were few that would speak to her at first, that never seemed to bother Christie. I dare say she could have been forced out, but she kept herself to herself, and though there was talk about midnight rambles and the amount of time she spent down by the old limekilns, people grew used to her. There were even a couple that were pleased when she published her first book.’

Murray leaned forward.

‘What did you mean when you said she had ties here?’

‘Christie’s mother came from here. I thought you would have known that? She and Archie Lunan were cousins.’ The surprise must have shown in his face because Mrs Dunn smiled. ‘It seems strange to us, but I doubt that would have bothered the islanders if Archie and Christie had behaved. They travel far and wide, island folk. It wasn’t unusual even back then for men to have crossed the Atlantic and back several times, but there were always some who married not far from their own door.’

‘So the cottage where she lives now. .?’

‘Came to her after Lunan died. I hear she’s done a lot to it. I would hope so. But that visit was my first and last.’

She paused and it seemed as if her story might be at a close. Murray said, ‘Mrs Dunn, you mentioned that there was something that chilled you even more than the rest of your experience. Will you share it with me?’

She nodded and her voice took on the same clear quality he now recognised as the tone she used whenever she had something difficult to relate.

‘It was while I was still in the recess. I was groggy, but I could understand what they were saying. The one with the scar said, “She would do. No fuss, not much blood, a quick stab to the heart, over and out. Painless. All that energy released and the prize of a new dimension in store for her.” Fergus laughed, and told him he was talking something-I-won’t-repeat. Then he said, “Anyway, you can tell she’s not a virgin, and that’s what you’re always going on about isn’t it? Purity?” Christie snapped at them both to shut up. I was grateful to her, but I blamed her too. It might not have been logical, but it was her I had come to see.’

‘But she was right about what she said? You were expecting?’

‘Yes, I was.’ She looked back at the wedding photograph on the table by her side then said, ‘I’m afraid we lost that baby. Things just turn out that way sometimes, but I couldn’t help associating the miscarriage with what had happened and blaming them, even though I suspected it was nonsense.’

They sat in silence for a moment, then there was the sound of a key in the lock. Mrs Dunn said, ‘That’ll be my archaeologists. Will you excuse me a moment, please, Dr Watson? They’ll be famished.’

‘And muddy?’

‘As gravediggers on nightshift.’ She put the bottle of whisky on the table. ‘Help yourself to another dram. You look like you could do with it.’

Murray had no idea of how long he had been asleep. He picked up his phone and checked the time. Seven-fifteen. He must have been out for at least an hour. He shoved the mobile in his pocket. His mouth was dry, the dram where he had left it. He raised the glass to his lips and knocked it back, getting to his feet and banging his leg on the coffee table, almost tumbling it over. Mrs Dunn must have been listening out for him because she opened the sitting-room door.

‘I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. I kept you a bit of dinner back.’

‘That’s kind, but I have to be somewhere.’

‘You’re going to see her, aren’t you?’

‘I think I have to.’ He hesitated. ‘Did you ever talk about it with anyone else? A professional?’

‘Life is for getting on with, Dr Watson.’

‘It’s for looking back on too.’

‘True enough. But if you’re wise, you choose your memories. I don’t plan to think on this again, now that I’ve told you.’ She smiled. ‘You’re my sin-eater come to take it away.’ Mrs Dunn lifted a padded envelope from the hall table. ‘This came for you.’

Murray turned it over and read Professor James’s address on the back.

‘Thanks. It’s a book of poetry someone thought I might enjoy.’

‘You say that as if you already know they’re wrong.’

He slid the envelope unopened into his pocket. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very keen on the author.’

‘Oh, well.’ Mrs Dunn held the front door open for him. ‘You never know, they’ll maybe surprise you.’

Murray thanked her and turned to go. He was already on the path when she called him back.

‘Dr Watson, Jamie the postie told me you were doing a rare tear the other day. You know, the roads here are good, as they go, but you have to take care. We had a bad crash here a few years back.’

‘I heard.’

Mrs Dunn nodded her head, as if everything she needed to say had already been said.

THE WIND THAT had battered against Mrs Dunn’s windows was battering against Murray now. It occurred to him that this was the kind of night when ill-prepared walkers drifted from pathways and died of hypothermia. He wondered if he should turn back, but kept trudging forth, head down against the wind, like some gothic rambler compelled to wander the world.

Murray saw the lights of a car blinking from the distant curves and bends of the road ahead as if to emphasise how far he had left to walk. The warmth of Mrs Dunn’s living room had blown away in the wind. He started to murmur a song his father used to sing late on sleepless nights when he and Jack were boys. It was a ballad about what it was to be a cowboy; the impossibility of ever finding love and the inevitability of a lonely death. Sometimes, when he was young, it had seemed to Murray that misery was all he had. He would nurse it to himself, not daring to let it go for fear of losing himself. Murray remembered taking the point of his maths compass and twisting it slowly into his palm, digging a homemade stigmata. It was stupid. All of it. Life and what you made of it. Stupid.

He heard the rumble of the vehicle’s engine, saw its headlights round the bend and stepped aside into the verge as a large, grey Land-Rover hove into view. The vehicle slowed to a halt beside him and the driver wound down his window.

‘Murray Watson?’

‘Yes?’

His first thought was that something had happened to Jack and this person had been sent to find him, but the man was smiling beneath his shaggy beard.

‘Hop in and I’ll give you a lift.’

‘I’m going in the opposite direction.’

The man grinned. His teeth shone piratical against the black of his beard and the dark of the night. He said, ‘We’re on a small island, how far can it be?’

The wind picked up tempo, bringing a hail of rain with it. Murray jogged round to the passenger side, pulled open the door and climbed in. The stranger might be a descendent of Sawney Bean intent on reviving the family business, but if he was offering a lift, Murray was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He snapped the seatbelt home.