Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

Christie’s voice was shrill.

‘You can’t take her from me, Fergus.’

The professor might have been at an overcrowded cocktail party where the hubbub required raised voices. His tones carried sleek and smooth across the grassy divide.

‘Don’t be silly, Christina.’

Murray shouted, ‘What happened to Rachel?’

‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself? She’s in the car.’

He leapt forward, but Christie had him by the arm, her grip tighter than he would have thought possible. She hissed, ‘Don’t. He’s lying.’

Murray shouted, ‘Rachel!’ But there was no reply. It would have been an easy thing to shake Christie free, but he stalled, hesitating, beside her.

‘She’s there, I promise you.’ Fergus advanced slowly towards them, his arms open, like a TV evangelist ready to embrace the world. ‘Let the boy go, Christie. It’s nothing to do with him.’

Murray said, ‘If you’ve hurt her, I’ll fucking kill you.’

Fergus laughed.

‘It’s me she loves, Murray, me she married. You were just a diversion. Look at you, crawling around in the mud on an old witch’s errand. You’re not really Rachel’s type.’

Christie kept her hand locked on Murray’s elbow and hauled herself in front of him.

‘She prefers old men who have to watch because they can’t manage it themselves any more.’

‘Your insults are almost as clichéd as your books.’

Murray heard Christie draw in a deep breath and then another.

‘We’re old friends, Fergus. Can’t we come to some arrangement?’

‘Of course.’ The professor had taken another slow step forward.

He was like a hunter, right enough, thought Murray. One that wanted to take his prey alive, or maybe simply get close enough to make certain his aim was true.

‘Give me the box and I’ll make sure she gets a decent burial.’

Her voice was plaintive.

‘Why can’t I have her?’

‘Because you can’t be trusted to keep her safe.’

‘I’m her mother.’

‘And her murderer.’

Christie tightened her grip on Murray’s arm and looked up into his eyes.

‘He’s lying.’

‘Come on, Christie.’ Fergus’s voice was reasonable. ‘I don’t know what you told young Dr Watson, but I was there, remember? We may be old, but neither of us is senile. You and Bobby used her for your little occult experiment.’

The box was still at Christie’s feet. She leaned down and touched it with her fingertips, as if reassuring whatever lay inside of her fidelity.

‘You lie.’

‘You know I don’t.’ Fergus was closer now, facing them through a curtain of soft drizzle. ‘You didn’t just kill her. You killed Archie too.’

‘No, he killed himself.’

‘Technically I suppose that’s true. But we both know he would never have taken that leaky sieve out into a storm if he and I hadn’t come back to the island and found a butcher’s shop.’ Fergus looked at Murray. ‘She didn’t tell you that did she?’

Murray said, ‘She gave me her version of events. Why don’t you give me yours?’

Christie spat, ‘Do you think he’s going to tell you the truth?’

Fergus sounded clear and rational against Christie’s passion.

‘Lunan and I had got fed up of our country idyll. He’d tried to persuade Christie to come back to the city with us, but she was adamant. The child wasn’t due for weeks, so we left her here. I thought she’d come trailing after us as usual. I didn’t see how anyone could stomach living alone with Bobby Robb for any length of time. But it seems I underestimated his charms. Lunan couldn’t drive, so a fortnight after we’d deserted, he persuaded me to bring him back. His excuse was he’d left his manuscript behind. If he had, it was deliberate.’

Christie started a soft, keening mantra: ‘ You’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying . .’

For the first time Fergus lost his cool.

‘I’m not bloody lying, and you know it. Who are you trying to fool? Him?’ He pointed at Murray. ‘Let’s see if he wants to help you after he’s heard the truth.’

‘ You’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying . .’

Christie continued her chant, and it seemed to Murray that the waving trees and still-falling rain picked up the rhythm of her words and carried it through the glen. Perhaps Fergus thought so too, because he paused for a moment and when he spoke next his voice wavered beneath its calm.

‘Archie was a chaotic drunk, but looking back I think he was desperate for that child. Maybe he thought being a father would help put some of his demons to rest. Who knows?’ The professor shrugged. ‘I had an interest in it too, of course, so I drove and he drank. By the time we reached the ferry, he was insensible. But when we reached the cottage, he’d sobered up enough to take in what had happened. The child had lived its whole life in the time we’d been gone. When you see something like that. .’ His voice trembled. ‘It’s as if your eyes refuse to let you witness it. We stood on that doorstep staring at Bobby and Christie, sky-clad in the middle of a charnel house. God knows what they’d taken while we’d been in Edinburgh, but all of Bobby Robb’s fantasies about purity and sacrifice had been realised. I’m not sure how long we were frozen there, trying to make sense of the scene. . all that redness. . Archie understood what had happened first. Suddenly he went wild. I thought he was going to murder them both, me too perhaps. I don’t know where I found the strength, but I bundled him out of the cottage. I thought I was preventing another death.’ Fergus took a deep breath. ‘The rest you know.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

‘Why haven’t you?’

It would have taken too long to explain. Murray replied, ‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t know either. Maybe out of pity for Christie. She’d realised what she’d done and was screaming fit to wake the dead. Maybe out of a fear I’d be implicated. After all, it was only my word against theirs that Archie and I were innocent. I knew Bobby Robb well enough to be sure that if he went down, he’d do his best to pull the rest of us into Hell behind him. Whatever the reason, it was a big mistake. I opened myself up to blackmail and nightmares. But I do know I’m damned if I’m going to have the whole thing resurrected.’

Murray could see the fly-blown kitchen, the naked couple leaning over the kitchen table, the baby at its centre. It was too much. He closed his eyes for a moment then asked, ‘What did you mean when you said you had an interest in the child as well?’

Fergus was close enough for Murray to see his sad smile.

‘Can’t you guess?’

Murray nodded.

‘I suppose I should have.’

Christie ended her mantra. She shouted, ‘If you want her, you’re going to have to come and take her.’

Fergus looked at Murray.

‘Are you going to stand in my way, Dr Watson?’

‘It depends on what you intend to do.’

All this time they had been standing a distance apart, like opposing foes reluctant to fight or flee before they saw each other’s weapons. Now Fergus adjusted his cap and started to walk across the grass to parley face-to-face. This was the Fergus Murray recognised: the lecture-theatre showman, darling of the students, despair of the secretaries, the canteen boaster and distinguished scholar, crass enough to pimp his wife, vain enough for a bespoke academic gown.

Murray looked down at his own mud-drenched clothes and knew that whatever the truth of the child’s death, and whatever followed next, his career was over. He was too stunned to feel the full impact of the knowledge, but he knew it would come, just as a bereaved man knows his numbness will be replaced by grief. He straightened his back, wanting to walk away and leave them to it, but unwilling to abandon Christie to Fergus’s ruthless self-interest.