Naming the Bones (12 page)

‘So tell me more about how the research is going.’

It occurred to him that she was humouring him the way she’d just humoured Frankie, the way she probably humoured Jack.

‘It’s dull. You know what I’m like when I get onto that, a train-spotting stamp-collector.’

Murray picked a bottle of oil from a shelf. It had red and black peppercorns suspended in it. He turned the bottle on its side and watched them slide slowly through the yellow viscous, like migrating stars in a steady firmament.

‘Come on, you know I like hearing about your mad poet.’

The oil was the same pale yellow as lager. He remembered a night in the pub years ago, Lyn pouring the remains of her pint over Jack in response to something she’d deemed sexist. He remembered the surprise of it, Jack’s expression and his own astonished shock of admiration. He remembered laughing then taking a deep draught of his own drink before drenching his brother with the dregs. Their drunken dash to outrun the bartender’s curse –
Yous’re all barred!

He put the oil back on the shelf.

‘I don’t think Archie was mad, not at the start anyway. Sure, he behaved crazily sometimes, but from what I’m hearing he tanked it. I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t drugs somewhere in the mix too.’

‘You sound almost hopeful.’

‘It’s in the past. I can’t fix it. All I can do is make sure I get the facts right.’

Lyn’s voice was soft.

‘Can’t you cut your brother’s exhibition the same slack?’

The comparison bewildered him.

‘As long as I’m around, our dad isn’t in the past. I’m surprised Jack doesn’t feel the same way.’

‘He does, Murray. He just has a different way of expressing it.’

Perhaps Lyn sensed the pressure at the back of his eyes, because she took another tin from the shelf and asked again if he was sure he didn’t need anything.

*   *   *

The three of them waited together at the checkout behind an elderly couple. The old man placed his wire shopping basket at the end of the counter and his wife set four tins of dog food, a packet of cornflakes and a bottle of Three Barrels brandy on the conveyor belt. It scrolled forwards and Lyn started to unload Frankie’s trolley.

‘You had something you wanted me to tell Jack.’

‘Did I?’

He didn’t want to discuss anything in front of the other man.

‘Yes, just before the bus came. It got lost in the commotion.’

‘It wasn’t important.’

The cashier started to check their stuff through and Lyn and Frankie began bagging it. Murray moved to help, but Frank said, ‘You’re all right, mate, we’ve got a system.’

Lyn gave him an apologetic look.

‘Weeks of practice. Frankie and I have to get all this back now, but that’ll be me finished for the day. Maybe we could grab a coffee, if you’ve got time?’

He knew that coffee was code for pub. It would be easy to go with her, slip into the comfort of alcohol and company, allow his defences to drift until he was willing to become reconciled to Jack’s betrayal of their father’s dignity.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve masses of work to do and I’ve got to start my packing.’

‘Is that what you were going to tell me?’

‘What?’

‘That you’re going away.’

‘For a week or so, to Lismore.’

She laughed.

‘For a moment I thought you were going to tell me you were emigrating.’

‘No, just a wee trip to fill in some background. It’s where Archie ended up.’

‘Where he drowned?’

‘Yes, I thought I’d take my notes up there, get a feel for the place.’

He meant get a feel for Archie, but it would sound stupid out loud.

The bags were packed. Lyn slung one on the back of the wheelchair. Frankie rolled his wheels to and fro then said, ‘Stick another couple on there.’

‘I don’t want to topple you.’

‘Nah, that’ll not happen again. I’ve got the hang of it now.’

Lyn made a face behind his back, but she did as he asked and the three of them made their way slowly out of the supermarket. The sky had clouded over in the time they’d spent shopping and it felt as if it might rain. The promise of the day had gone. Cars edged along on the main road, but the landscape beyond the shop held a concrete bleakness that made it easy to imagine the bombed-out world of Archie’s sci-fi novel. Lyn placed a hand gently on the back of Frankie’s chair, steadying the bags. She’d restrained her curls, but the wind blowing across the car park threatened to free them again. She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes and gave Murray a smile.

‘Are you sure about that coffee?’

‘I’ve got to get back.’

‘To your dead poet?’

‘He’s beckoning through the waves.’

And for a moment it was as if Murray could see Lunan against the dreary expanse, hair floating wild in the water, arms outstretched as he drifted with the current.

‘Excuse me, Lyn.’ Frankie’s voice was weighted with exquisite politeness. ‘I’m going to have to use the toilet.’

‘No problem.’ She was brisk, all business now. ‘The staff facilities have good access here. Can you hold on while I get someone to let us in?’

‘It’s not an emergency.’ Beyond the grey of the car park a Burger King sign glowed red. Frankie nodded towards it. ‘Why don’t we go over there and you can have your coffee.’

‘Ach, I don’t know, Frank . . .’

‘If you grab me an
Evening News
, I can sit on my own and let yous have a catch-up. I don’t mind.’

Lyn looked at Murray. He shrugged his shoulders, defeated. It was nigh-on forty years since Archie had drowned, his corpse was long since gone and the best Murray would do was revive his reputation. It could wait an hour or so.

‘Why not?’

Murray went into the Burger King with Frankie and the shopping bags, while Lyn went in search of a newsagent’s. He followed him awkwardly to the door of the disabled toilets. Frankie halted his chair.

‘Do you like to watch?’

‘No.’

‘So fuck off. I might not be able to piss standing up any more, but I’m still capable of wiping my own arse.’

‘One of the few pleasures left to you?’

‘Not even close, mate, not even close.’ He beckoned Murray towards him and when he got close whispered with breath that smelt of smoke and onions, ‘Tell your brother to take better care of her or I’ll be in like Flynn.’

Murray’s snort of amusement surprised them both.

‘I’ll pass the message on.’

‘Laugh all you want, pal. She’s too good for that poofy git. I’m what they call a catch these days.’

‘I guess times are tough.’

‘Not for me, they’re not. I’m getting decent money, I’ve got my own place and I’ve knocked the drugs. But do you know what my biggest advantage is?’

‘What?’

‘I’m a project. Lassies like a project. I’ll let her reform me, don’t you worry.’

He leered and rounded the chair into the cubicle.

Murray bought three coffees, garnishing his tray with a few sugar sachets and little tubs of whatever substituted for milk. He set it all at a table near the window then got out his mobile. There were no messages. He started to compose a text to Rachel but only got as far as Sorry before he spotted Lyn entering with Frankie’s paper. Murray shut the phone down without pressing Send. He couldn’t think what he would have said. After all, he could hardly describe himself as a catch.

Frankie sat on the other side of the room, resolute about ‘giving them space’, though Murray noted he’d chosen a seat with a clear view of their table. Lyn sipped her coffee.

‘We’d best not take too long. So what have you been up to?’

‘Nothing. The usual, just work.’

‘Just work. You should take a tip from Frankie’s book, get out more.’

‘I’ve been out all day.’

‘Visiting strip clubs, browsing round supermarkets. It’s some life you literary doctors lead.’

‘It’s all go.’

Murray drank some of his coffee. It had been a mistake coming here. The sooner he finished it, the sooner he could leave.

‘Will you come and see us before you head off?’

It was as if Lyn had read his mind.

‘Sure, if there’s time.’

She nodded. They both knew that there wouldn’t be. Murray felt Frankie’s eyes on them. Was it pathetic to feel jealous of a paraplegic? A recently homeless paraplegic, if he was under Lyn’s care.

Lyn regarded him over the rim of her paper cup.

‘Jack’s exhibition has had good reviews.’

‘Great.’

His brother’s treachery soured the pleasure Murray would normally have felt in his success.

Lyn held his gaze in hers.

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

He shrugged, sullen as a recalcitrant first-year presented with a low mark they knew they deserved.

‘I met one of the other artists. Cressida something. How’s she getting on?’

Lyn raised her cup to her mouth.

‘Cressida Reeves? She’s more Jack’s friend than mine. They were at art college together.’

‘So were you.’

‘Yes, but they were in the same intake. I didn’t appear on the scene until Jack’s third year. I’d not seen her for years before this show.’ She looked at Murray. ‘Did you see her work?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should.’ Her voice was dry. ‘Cressida puts a lot of herself into it.’

‘Preferable to exploiting someone else’s weaknesses.’

Lyn sighed. She took another sip of coffee and kept the paper cup cradled in her hands as if trying to thaw them, though the fast-food joint was warm after the chill of outside.

‘Jack should have told you what his exhibition was about, but you can’t think badly of him for creating it.’

‘He didn’t create anything, just pointed a camera and took a shot.’ Murray folded his hand into the shape of a gun and pulled the trigger. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Lyn’s face flushed red. She put her cup down and glanced over at Frankie. ‘I’d best get going.’

He wanted to apologise, but instead asked, ‘You’re supporting disabled people now?’

There was a shine to her eyes, but her voice was steady.

‘No, same job, same chronic pay. Frank’s an existing client who happens to have become disabled.’

What was wrong with him that he couldn’t feel pity for a homeless man in a wheelchair?

‘Sleeping on the streets has got to be tough in his condition.’

‘He’s not on the streets any more. That’s why I’m here, supporting his transition from hostel to independent living.’

‘So a lucky accident?’

She gave him a look, but didn’t rise to the bait.

‘It wasn’t so much an accident as . . . I’m not sure what you’d call it. A cry for help? A drug-inspired psychotic episode? One day Frankie finds himself walking near the M8, no idea how he got there, just comes to, aware of the lights of the cars going by. It’s dark, but it’s winter and it’s only around five in the afternoon, so it’s busy, everyone coming home from work. He sees a motorway bridge, climbs up, and throws himself over the top.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yes, shit.’

‘Did he cause a pile-up?’

‘No. Jack says that Frankie’s the luckiest suicide artist in the business. He hit the roof of a lorry, bounced off the edge and onto the central reservation. It should have killed him, but instead he ended up in a chair. The funny thing is, we’d tried to re-house Frank before, but it was a disaster. It was too much for him, the responsibility. But ever since he got out of hospital he seems better. I mean, he’s still got problems – some days we do this he’s three sheets to the wind – but he’s trying to help himself. He’s cooking – he was a chef when he was in the army – and he’s trying to look after the flat. He’s not missed an appointment with me. Yeah, he’s still a pain sometimes. But it’s like Frank’s decided to live. Almost as if suicide’s been the making of him.’

‘He fancies you rotten.’

‘They all fancy me. I’m the only woman they get to speak to who isn’t a barmaid.’

‘So the feeling’s not mutual?’

‘God, Murray, Jack’s right about you. You’re not of this world.’ Lyn glanced at Frankie again. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘I guess you do, the world’s waiting.’

Lyn’s face flushed. She pushed a curl from her eyes and leaned across the table, so close he felt her words on his face.

‘It’s my fucking job, Murray, and it’s just as important as your book or Jack’s bloody art.’

‘I know that.’

She looked like she wanted to slap him, but she stretched over and kissed him instead. ‘No, you don’t.’ She squeezed his arm and was gone.

He watched them through the window as they made their way towards the taxi rank. Frankie said something and Lyn laughed, shaking her head as if amused against her will.

Murray poured more sugar into his cold coffee and stirred. Lyn was right, of course, her job was vital, he of all people should know that. But still, he couldn’t reconcile the thought that fetching Frankie’s messages was as important as un­covering Archie Lunan’s life. There were a million drunks in the city; Archie had been one himself. But he had also been a poet, and there were precious few of those in the world.

He took out his Moleskine notebook and looked again at the list of names he’d copied from Archie’s jotter:

Danny
Denny
Bobby Boy
Ruby!
I thought I saw you walking by the shore
Ramie
Moon
Jessa* * *
Tamsker
Saffron
Ray – will you be my sunshine?

Perhaps Lunan had whiled away the hours composing names for the protagonists of his sci-fi novel, but the jaunty phrases suggested something else. Murray read the list again, and wondered what it could be.

Chapter Ten

THERE WAS A
voicemail message on Murray’s mobile. He checked Missed Calls and saw an unfamiliar Glasgow number. How had he got to the point where an unfamiliar number was a relief? The voice was female and infused with the same assured tones that dominated the university’s corridors and lecture halls.