Louise Welsh - Naming the Bones

He could see the windows of Christie’s lonely cottage burning brightly in the dark. He supposed it would look beautiful in the summertime, the small white house shining from a midst of green, but tonight it looked like a Halloween lantern, its windows blazing, door glowing like the mouth of Hell. He dropped their speed.

‘Christie, did you leave the front door open?’

He heard her rustling upright in the back seat.

‘No.’

There was a halo around the building. It rippled gently. Murray glanced at Christie in the mirror again and saw her head silhouetted against the back window, a tuft of hair spiked at a crazy angle.

‘Fergus.’ Her voice was full of wonder. ‘I always knew he’d be the death of me.’

Murray drove on, expecting to hear the sound of sirens, but nothing disturbed the night except the gentle rumble of the Cherokee’s engine. He could see the flames now. They had burst beyond the windows and were licking the outside walls of the house. Soon they would begin to consume the roof. They were less than half a mile from the cottage when Christie commanded him to stop.

Murray eased the car to a halt, got out and helped her from the back seat. The interior of the house had seemed full of natural materials — wood, paper and brightly woven rugs — but the fire smelt toxic, as if the whole place had been formed from plastic. Murray started to cough, his eyes teared, but still he stood there, Christie leaning on his arm, both of them watching the flames’ progress.

Eventually she said, ‘I should have put the photographs and my memoir in the boot of the car.’

He nodded, knowing the answer to his question, but asking it anyway.

‘They’re all in there?’

‘Yes, all your pretty chickens lost at one fell swoop. Fergus always wanted to know if I’d written any of it down. I told him no, but I guess he didn’t want to take the chance.’

Her smile was strangely peaceful, as if none of it mattered any more. She turned and lumbered awkwardly towards the car’s back seat. Murray moved and helped her in. The mud was beginning to dry on his clothes, stiffening the fabric. He wanted nothing more now than to be gone. He asked, ‘What will you do?’

‘What I was always going to do.’

It was too much in one night. He looked back towards the burning cottage, expecting to see car headlights racing towards it, half-hoping for the whole sorry mess to be taken from him. But the only brightness came from the flames. They were alone on the dark expanse of moor.

‘Why hasn’t anyone come?’

‘Perhaps they hope I’m inside.’

‘Are you really hated that much?’

‘Who knows?’ She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘People sleep deeply in the countryside, and I suppose the house isn’t overlooked. They would probably come if they knew.’

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘I want to.’

‘It would be better to wait.’

‘For what?’ She nodded towards the distant house and placed her hand on her daughter’s coffin. ‘I’ve lost everything and gained everything. Life seldom achieves such perfect balance.’

‘I won’t help you.’

‘You don’t need to. I brought what I needed with me, just in case.’

Murray took a deep breath and walked a few yards into the darkness, wondering if this had always been what she’d intended. He rested his hands on his knees and bent over, fearing that he was going to be sick again. When he returned, she was propped up against the car window with her legs stretched out along the back seat. She’d pulled the blanket up to her neck, and Murray could see that beneath it she was clutching something to her. He was reminded of a woman preserving her privacy with her child’s shawl while she breastfed in public.

She gave him a smile that beckoned visions of the girl she’d been, and said, ‘I’m sorry. The poems weren’t inside Miranda’s coffin.’

‘Were they ever?’

‘I suppose not. It was Fergus who suggested placing them beside her. I thought it was an overly sentimental gesture, but he ran back to the cottage to get them. I guess he didn’t follow through.’

Her voice was empty of rancour.

Murray said, ‘What really happened?’

She ignored his question.

‘There should be a bottle of water in the boot. Will you fetch it for me, please?’

He got it and handed it to her.

‘Tell me Fergus made everything up.’

‘I already did.’

‘Convince me.’

Christie’s voice was devoid of emotion.

‘Fergus lied. Miranda died of neglect. It’s a measure of your own madness that you could even contemplate the possibility I’d make a sacrifice of my own child.’

Murray looked into the dark and then back at the old woman, searching for the truth in her face. Her eyes held the reflection of the burning cottage. Murray said, ‘I’m going to go now.’

Christie nodded.

‘It’s all right. I’m not alone.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you think I’ll meet them again?’

‘Who?’

‘All of them. Archie and Bobby.’ She hesitated and added, ‘Fergus.’

‘I don’t know. Would you like to?’

‘If we could be young again. We had a lot of fun in the early days.’ Christie smiled. ‘A lot of good times.’ She looked at him. ‘Maybe you could meet them too.’

‘No.’

‘I’ve read all your articles, Dr Watson, everything you ever published. Archie’s in every word, even when you’re writing of something else, just as he’s in your thoughts, even when he’s absent. And now you’ve lost him too.’

‘Not completely. There are papers in the library.’

‘Who do you think gifted them to the archives? I only gave away worthless doodlings. Enough to tantalise, but too little to tell.’ Her voice was soft and comforting. ‘Anything of worth went up in flames tonight.’ She lifted a hand from beneath the blanket and stroked his mud-smeared fingers. ‘Who would miss you? Your wife?’

‘No.’

‘Family?’

He looked away.

‘I thought not.’ Christie’s voice held the promise of peace. ‘I can always tell.’

She took something from her pocket and put it to her lips. Murray made no move to stop her. Christie started to choke. He held the water bottle to her lips. She drank, then raised a vial to her mouth and drank again. The coughing overtook her. He tried clumsily to ease it with more water, but most of it escaped her mouth and ran down her front. Her coughs faded to faint gasps. Murray held her head and pressed the water against her mouth, but Christie had grown limp. He let her sink back against the seat and saw her face flush in the glow of the premature dawn. He stood there for a while gazing at her body, knowing that if he lifted the blanket he might get closer to the truth of the child’s death, but unable to bring himself to.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been frozen there when he was roused by the sound of a rook cawing. He turned and saw it treading the edge of the path like an old-world minister on his way to kirk. The crow met his stare and set its beak at a quizzical angle. The bird looked scholarly and demonic, and Murray couldn’t chase away the thought that it was Fergus, transformed and returned for his revenge. He rushed at it.

‘Go on, away with you.’

The bird flapped its wings and fluttered a yard or two before landing beyond his reach and continuing its perambulations, still fixing him with its dark stare.

Murray slammed the car door, guarding the bodies from the rook’s iron beak. He took off his scarf and wiped the handles and steering wheel clean of fingerprints, not sure why he was bothering, except he supposed he didn’t want his memory associated with any of it. Then he started to walk across the fields towards Pete’s bothy, the rook’s caws grating on in his head long after he was out of earshot.