by Louise Welsh
NAMING THE BONES
Louise Welsh was named one of Britain’s Best First Novelists by the Guardian and won both The Crime Writers’ Association Creasey Dagger for best first crime novel and the Saltire First Book Award for The Cutting Room. Her subsequent novels, Tamburlaine Must Die and The Bullet Trick are also published by Text.
NAMING
THE
BONES
LOUISE
WELSH
The paper used in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
textpublishing.com.au
Copyright © Louise Welsh 2010
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
‘First Fig’ by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Copyright © 1922, 1950, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Reproduced by permission of Elizabeth Barnett, Literary Executor, The Millay Society.
‘In Memoriam I.K.’ by George Mackay Brown reproduced by kind permission of The Estate of George Mackay Brown.
Extract of ‘Punishment’ taken from North copyright © Seamus Heaney and reproduced by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
First published in the UK by Canongate Books 2010
First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company 2010
Typeset in Sabon by Cluny Sheeler, Edinburgh
Printed and bound by Griffin Press
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Welsh, Louise
Naming the bones / Louise Welsh.
ISBN: 9781921656217 (pbk.)
823.92
For Clare Connelly and Lauchlin Bell
That one should leave The Green Wood suddenly
In the good comrade-time of youth
And clothed in the first coat of truth
Set out on an uncharted sea
Who’ll ever know what star
Summoned him, what mysterious shell
Locked in his ear that music and that spell
And what grave ship was waiting for him there?
The greenwood empties soon of leaf and song.
Truth turns to pain. Our coats grow sere.
Barren the comings and goings on this shore.
He anchors off The Island of the Young.
‘In Memoriam I.K.’,
George Mackay Brown
Contents
Part One: Edinburgh & Glasgow
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two: The Island of Lismore
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Postscript Glasgow
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgements
Part One
Edinburgh & Glasgow
Chapter One
MURRAY WATSON SLIT the seal on the cardboard box in front of him and started to sort through the remnants of a life. He lifted a handful of papers and carefully splayed them across the desk. Pages of foolscap, blue-tinted writing paper, leaves torn from school jotters, stationery printed with the address of a London hotel. Some of it was covered in closepacked handwriting, like a convict’s letters home. Others were bare save for a few words or phrases.
James Laing stepped out into an ordinary day.
Nothing could have prepared James for the …
James Laing was an ordinary man who inhabited a …
The creature stared down on James with its one
ghastly fish eye. It winked.
Murray laughed, a sudden bark in the empty room. Christ, it had better get more interesting than this or he was in trouble. He reached into the pile and slid out a page at random. It was a picture, a naïve drawing done in green felt-tip of a woman with a triangular dress for a body. Her stick arms were long and snaking. They waved up into a sky strewn with sharp-angled stars; the left corner presided over by a pipe-smoking crescent moon, the right by a broadly smiling sun. No signature. It was crap, the kind of doodle that deserved to be crumpled into a ball and fired into the bin. But if it had been deliberately kept, it was a moment, a clue to a life.
He reached back into the box and pulled out another bundle of papers, looking for notebooks, something substantial, not wanting to save the best till last, though he had time to be patient.
Pages of figures and subtractions, money owed, rent due, monies promised. A trio of Tarot cards; the Fool poised jauntily on the edge of a precipice, Death triumphant on horseback, skull face grinning behind his visor, the Moon a pale beauty dressed in white leading a two-headed hound on a silver leash. A napkin from a café, printed pink on white Aida’s, a faint stain slopped across its edge – frothy coffee served in a glass cup. A newspaper cutting of a smiling yet serious man running a comb through his side parting; the same man, billiard-ball smooth and miserable on his hirsute double’s left side. Are you worried about hair loss? The solution to baldness carelessly cut through and on the other side a listing for a happening in the Grassmarket. No photograph, just the names, date and time. Archie Lunan, Bobby Robb and Christie Graves, 7.30pm on Sunday 25th September at The Last Drop.
Then Murray struck gold, an old red corduroy address book held together by a withered elastic band and cramped with script. A diary would have been better, but Archie wasn’t the diary-keeping kind. Murray opened the book and flicked through its pages. Initials, nicknames, first names or surnames, no one was awarded both.
Danny
Denny
Bobby Boy
Ruby!
I thought I saw you walking by the shore
Lists of names with the odd phrase scribbled underneath. There was no attempt at alphabetisation. He was getting glimpses already, a shambles of a life, but it had produced more than most of the men that went sober to their desks at nine every morning.
Ramie
Moon
Jessa *
Diana the huntress, Persephone hidden, names can
bless or curse unbidden.
Murray would have liked photographs. He’d seen some already, of course. The orange-tinted close-up of Archie that showed him thin and bestraggled, something like an unhinged Jesus, his hands knuckled threateningly around his features, as if preparing to tear the face from his head. It was all art and shadows. The other snaps came from a Glasgow Herald feature on Professor James’s group that Murray had managed to pull from the newspaper’s archive. Archie always in the background caught in a
laugh, squinting against the sky; Archie cupping a cigarette to his mouth, the wind blowing his fringe across his eyes. It would be good to have one of him as a boy, when his features were still fine.
Murray pulled himself up. He was in danger of falling into an amateur’s trap, looking for what he wished for rather than what was there. He hadn’t slept much the night before. His mind had got into one of those loops that occasionally infected him, information bouncing around in his brain, like the crazy lines on his computer screensaver. He’d made a cup of tea in the early hours of the morning and drunk it at the fold-down shelf that served as a table in the galley kitchen of his small flat, trying to empty his brain and think of nothing but the plain white cup cradled in his hand.
He would divide the contents of the box into three piles – interesting, possible and dross – cataloguing as he went. Once he’d done that he could get caught up in details, pick at the minutiae that might unravel the tangled knot of Archie’s life.
Murray had handled originals many times. Valuable documents that you had to sign for then glove up to protect them from the oils and acids that lived in the whorls of your fingertips, but he’d never been the first on the scene before, the explorer cracking open the wall to the tomb. He lifted an unsent letter from the box, black ballpoint on white paper.
Bobby
For God’s sake, find me some of the old!
We’ll wait for you at Achnacroish pier on Saturday.
Yours, closer than an eye,
Archie
No date, no location, but gold. Murray put it in the important pile, then took out his laptop, fired it up and started listing exactly what he had. He picked up a discarded bus ticket to Oban, for some reason remembering a hymn they’d sung at Sunday school.
God sees the little sparrow fall,
it meets His tender view;
Even this simple ticket might have the power to reveal something, but he put it in the dross pile all the same.
Murray’s interest in Archie Lunan had started at the age of sixteen with a slim paperback. He could still remember the moment he saw it jutting out from a box of unsorted stock on the floor of a secondhand bookshop. It was the cover that drew him, a tangerine-tinted studio shot of a thin man with shadows for eyes. Murray had known nothing about Lunan’s poetry or his ill-starred life, but he had to have the book.
‘Looks like a baby-killer, doesn’t he?’ The man behind the counter had said when Murray handed over his fifty pence. ‘Still, that was the seventies for you, a lot of it about.’
Once he owned the book Murray had been strangely indifferent to its contents, almost as if he were afraid they might be a let-down. He’d propped it on the chest of drawers in the bedroom he shared with his brother until elevenyear-old Jack had complained to their dad that the man’s non-existent eyes were staring at him and Murray had been ordered to put it somewhere where it wouldn’t give people nightmares.
He’d rediscovered the book the following year, when he was packing to go to university, and thrown it in his rucksack, almost on a whim. The paperback had languished on the under-stocked bookshelf in his bed-sit through freshers’ week and into most of the following year. It was exam time, a long night into studying, when he’d found himself reaching for the poems. Murray supposed, when he bothered to think about it, that he was looking for a distraction. If so, he’d found one. He’d sat at his desk reading and re-reading Archie Lunan’s first and only poetry collection until morning. It was an enchantment which had quietly shadowed Dr Murray Watson in his toil through academe, and now at last he was free to steep himself in it.
It was after six when Murray stepped out from the National Library. Somewhere a piper was hoiching out a tune for the tourists. The screech of the bagpipes cut in and out of the traffic sounds; the grumble of car engines, the low diesel growl of taxis and unoiled shriek of bus brakes. The noise and August brightness were an assault after the gloom of the small back room. He took his sunglasses from their case and swapped them for his everyday pair. A seagull careened into the middle of the road, diving towards a discarded poke of chips. Murray admired the bird’s near-vertical takeoff as it swooped up into the air narrowly missing a bus, its prize clamped firmly in its beak.
It dawned on him that he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the Twix he’d had for breakfast on the Glasgow to Edinburgh Express early that morning. He crossed the street, pausing to buy a Big Issue from a neat-pressed vendor who readjusted his baseball cap when Murray declined his change. There was a faint scent of salt in the breeze blowing through the city from the Firth of Forth. It suited Murray’s mood. His mind still half on the island where Archie had been born, Murray began to walk briskly towards the city centre. The Edinburgh Fringe was well under way. The town had taken on the atmosphere of a medieval fête and it was hard negotiating a path through the crush of tourists, rival ghost-tour operators, performers and temporary street stalls that swamped the High Street. He sidestepped the spit-spattled Heart of Midlothian, at the same time avoiding a masked Death, cowled in unseasonably warm black velvet. On other days the crush and stretched smiles of performers trumpeting their shows might have irritated Murray, but today their edge of cheerful hysteria seemed to echo his own optimism. He turned into Cockburn Street, his feet unconsciously stepping to the rhythm of a busking drum troupe, each stride on the beat, precise as a policeman on duty at an Orange Walk. Murray accepted leaflets shoved at him for shows he had no intention of seeing, still thinking about the papers in the box, and keeping his eyes peeled for a chippy.
In the end he settled for pie and beans washed down by a pint of 80/- in the Doric. He ate at one of the high stools by the bar, his eyes fixed on the television mounted on the wall above the gantry, watching the newsreader relaying headlines he couldn’t hear. The screen flashed to soldiers in desert fatigues on patrol then to a crease-eyed correspondent packed into a flak jacket, the background behind him half sand, half blue sky, like a child’s what-I-did-on-my-holiday drawing.
Murray slid his hand into his rucksack, brought out his notebook and read again the names he had copied from the red corduroy address book, wishing to God it had been a diary.
Tamsker
Saffron
Ray – will you be my sunshine?
It was a misnomer to call it an address book. It had contained no addresses, no telephone numbers, simply lists of unfamiliar names occasionally accompanied by phrases of nonsense. If he knew the identity of even one of them he’d have something to work with, but he was clueless, the knot still pulled tight. Murray folded the words back into his pocket, feeling the pleasure of possession, the secret thrill of a man on the brink of a discovery that might yet elude him.
His plate was cleared, his pint nearly done. He tipped it back and placed the empty glass on the bar, shaking his head when the barman asked him if he’d like another. It was time to go and do his duty.
Chapter Two
THERE WAS ALREADY a crush of people beyond the glass front of the Fruitmarket Gallery. Murray eyed them as he made his way towards the entrance. He couldn’t see the exhibits from here, but the bar was busy. He paused and took in the exhibition poster, the name JACK WATSON shining out at him from the trio of artists. He lingered outside, savouring the rightness of it all, suddenly wishing he’d bought a camera so he could record the event for posterity. When he looked up he noticed a young woman wearing an orange dress gathered in curious origami folds gazing at him from beyond the glass. Murray half returned her smile then quick-glanced away. He ran a hand through his hair and fumbled in his pocket for the ticket Lyn had sent him, getting a sudden vision of it tucked inside last month’s New York Review of Books somewhere midway down in the pile of papers that had colonised his couch. He hesitated for a moment then stepped from the damp coolness of the bridge-shadowed street into the warm hubbub of bodies and chatter, steeling himself for the embarrassment of getting Lyn or Jack to vouch for him. But no one challenged his right to be there. Murray wondered, as he
helped himself to a glass of red and a leaflet explaining the artists’ intentions, how many people were here to view the art and how many had been drawn in by the vision of a free bar.
He was scanning the paper for Jack’s name as he turned, glass in hand. His rucksack jarred and a little wine slopped onto his cuff. ‘God, I’m sorry.’
The woman he had jolted glanced down at the clever folds of her dress.
‘You’re fine, no harm done.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her arms were bare and freckled, her nails painted the same tangy colour as the fabric. Murray realised that he was staring at the point in her midriff where the folds met and felt his face flush. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your dress, it looks expensive.’
She laughed. There was a small scar in the centre of her upper lip where long ago an operation had left its mark.
‘It was that.’ She had a Northern Irish accent, the kind that sometimes drew comparisons between harsh politics and harsh brogues. It sounded cool and amused. ‘You’re here to see Jack.’
Murray realised he was still wearing his sunglasses and took them off. The world blended into smudged brightness and the girl’s face slipped out of focus. He fumbled for his other pair, trying not to squint.
‘I guess that’s why we’re all here.’ He found his specs and slid them on. Everything sharpened. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Jack’s brother, Murray.’
‘I know.’ She took his hand and shook it. ‘Cressida. You don’t remember me, do you?’
Not for the first time Murray wished his brain were as efficient as his computer. How could he retain a minutia of dates, form and verse but dispense with the memory of a good-looking woman? He tried to sound sincere.