by Louise Welsh
He was sure the driver was about to turn him back with some warning about bulls or rutting stags, but the man flashed an easy grin.
‘Cheers.’ He was somewhere in his early thirties, compact and wiry, dressed in orange overalls and mudspattered Wellingtons. ‘Heading for the castle?’
It was the first he had heard of the existence of a castle on the island, but Murray returned the man’s smile and said, ‘I am if I can get there and back before the ferry sails.’
‘Hop in. There’s plenty time if I drive you one way.’
The man’s accent was English, from somewhere in the Midlands, though Murray couldn’t place where.
He gripped one of the bars that composed the open frame of the small cab and hauled himself onboard, unsure of whether he should follow his whim. But the vehicle was already gaining speed, bouncing over the loose stones faster than he would have thought possible. Murray held tight to the crash bar, unable to stop himself jolting with the buggy’s movements, feeling the stranger’s body hard and unwelcome against his side.
‘I saw your car at the top of the road. You’ll be the man who almost wiped out Mrs Graves.’
‘Did she tell you?’
The weathered creases round the driver’s eyes wrinkled in amusement.
‘No, I got it from the Lismore Gazette.’
‘Shit, you’re kidding.’
The man laughed. ‘Jamie the postman.’
Murray thought he could hear the jolting of the cab in his own laugh. He said, ‘I should apologise to her.’
‘We’re headed in the right general direction, but I wouldn’t bother. She doesn’t like to be disturbed.’
‘Not the sociable type?’
The man slowed the pace and looked back towards the trailer.
‘Okay, then, off you go.’
For a second Murray thought his question had offended, but then the terrier jumped from the trailer and started to trot behind.
‘Jinx hates the next bit.’
The buggy rounded a bend and the road fell away from them into a precipitous scree-lined descent. Murray tensed his already tight grip and felt a sudden kinship with the dog. The small man’s grin grew wider. ‘My kids call it Everest.’
His bones were jarring so hard it felt they might soon be loosed from his flesh, but there was something exhilarating in the recklessness of the speed that made Murray dampen the urge to beg the stranger to stop and instead give himself over to the thrill of the plunge. He recalled ten-year-old Jack’s spew, candyfloss pink, catching the wind then coating the tough guy birling the waltzers at the Glasgow Green shows, and laughed out loud.
The man laughed with him.
‘This hill’s the reason I could afford the croft. It makes everything a hundred times harder, but I’ve got to love it. I wouldn’t be here without it.’ The terrier had somehow got ahead of them. Its rump flashed white as it ran, tail bobbing, down the rough track, too close to the tractor’s front wheels for comfort. The driver didn’t bother to slow his pace.
‘I’m Pete, by the way.’
‘Murray.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Aye, a bit of a break from Glasgow.’ His world seemed far away, here in the plunging gloom, the last greenery of the year still clinging to the leaves of the young trees that lined the sheltered track. Murray realised that the path had been dug into the hill and wondered if it was the small man’s doing. He asked, ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Three years.’
They were almost at the bottom now. Pete put an extra spurt on the last few yards; the dog anticipated the move and resigned the race, trotting up the verge, where she sat grinning as they passed. The cab listed to the left as it turned the corner, out of the shade of the trees and into the open. Pete slowed to a halt.
‘There’s the castle.’
But he needn’t have spoken. Murray could see the ruined structure perched on top of a plug of rock, silhouetted against the sea. Its walls had been reduced by wind or warfare to crooked columns that pointed towards the sky like a warped crown. Some grazing horses raised their heads at the sound of the tractor and then lowered them back to the grass, reassured it was nothing unusual. Murray tried to envision how the scene must have looked when the castle was whole and occupied by some tribe, but his imagination failed. All he could see was the vista spread before him, like Arcadia restored after the devastation of man.
The dog leapt into the trailer, wagging its tail.
‘Decided to trust my driving again, have you, Jinxy?’ Pete reached back and rubbed her hard between her ears, then pointed towards a small white-painted cottage, about a mile from the castle.
‘That’s our place there.’
‘And this is your land?’
‘Some of it.’
‘A beautiful place to live.’
‘Yep.’ The small man creased his face into a weathered grin. ‘You can forget how stunning a landscape is when you see it every day. I do anyway, the wife’s more appreciative.’
Murray wondered if Pete had brought him here in the hope of viewing the scene afresh, through another pair of eyes.
‘And your children?’
He laughed.
‘Desperate for bright lights, big city. The horses are the only thing keeping them here, and them not for long. Meaghan will be off to university next year and I doubt her brother will be far behind.’
Murray scanned the horizon, hoping for sight of a house that might belong to Christie Graves, but apart from the castle and Pete’s cottage, there was only land and sea.
Pete started the engine again. ‘I’ll drop you down at the bottom. You should be able to climb up to the castle and make it back in good time for the ferry. Have you enjoyed your stay?’
‘It was too short.’
‘That’s holidays for you. We threw caution to the wind and took the kids to Corfu last year. I swear I was just off the plane when I was getting back on it again, couldn’t understand where I got the tan from.’
‘Aye, I would have stayed longer, but I screwed up my booking.’
‘Unless someone makes an almighty balls-up, the island will still be here next year. That’s what I told myself as we flew away from the sunshine. Mind you, Corfu would be no place for our kind of farming. Dry as beef jerky, no grazing at all.’
‘Next year will be too late.’
Pete glanced at him, his face suddenly guarded, and Murray realised he sounded like a man with terminal illness or suicide on his mind.
‘My project will have run out of time.’
He told Pete about his research, and the biography he was planning, as they closed the final distance to the ruined castle.
‘You screwed up.’
Pete slowed the tractor to a halt and Murray climbed from the cab.
‘I did indeed.’
‘Ah, well.’ The small man grinned. ‘It happens. You know where we are now. Next time you visit, don’t be a stranger. Drop by and have a dram.’
The Scots word sounded strange married with his flat, Midland vowels.
Murray nodded. ‘You’re on.’
Jinx perched her front paws on the edge of the trailer watching them. Murray reached out to pat the terrier and her teeth snarled back in a growl.
‘No manners, this one.’
Pete shoved the dog gently from its perch and climbed back into his cab. Murray raised a hand in farewell, and then started towards the castle. When he looked back the tractor was bouncing far along the track towards home.
Chapter Twenty-One
MURRAY CLIMBED UP into the grassed-over centre of the castle and stared out to sea, his mind as blank as the white foam frothing on the incoming tide. He would go to Edinburgh tomorrow, seek out the Geordie’s landlord and ask why he’d burnt Bobby Robb’s library. What kind of books were they that the man had felt compelled to turn them into a bonfire, even though he’d already promised them to his niece?
It was a while before he could find a signal a
nd call a directory service for the Geordie’s number. They connected him and he waited, imagining Lauren sitting in the pub’s backroom, absorbed in some existential tome while the phone rang out.
Murray killed the call. He looked at the three bars on his phone, wondering how long the battery would last, then found the phone signal again and pressed redial, determined to check whether the man was on shift and break the cycle of disorganisation that would see him expelled from the island. This time a gruff male voice answered on the second ring.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, can I speak to the landlord, please?’
‘If you make it snappy.’
Murray hadn’t thought through what he would say and the words seemed to tumble from him.
‘I’m phoning about a recently deceased customer of yours …’
‘Jesus Christ, let me guess – our dear departed Crippen.’
‘How did you know?’
‘We might not attract the youth market, but they’re still not exactly dropping like flies round here.’ The landlord sounded wary. ‘What about him?’
This time Murray decided to tell the truth.
‘I’m writing a book about someone Mr Robb knew a long time ago. I was hoping to interview him.’
‘Aye, well, unless you’re planning on following him down into the eternal beer cellar, I’d say you were onto plums.’ Someone said something in the background and the landlord muffled the mouthpiece and gave an indistinct reply that sounded impatient. When he returned to the phone his voice was brisk. ‘Look, mate, I’m in the middle of a delivery. I didn’t really know the guy, just sold him a few beers over the years. I don’t think I can help you.’
‘I need to ask you a specific question.’
‘What?’
‘About Bobby’s effects.’
There was silence on the line. For a moment Murray thought he’d blown it and the other man was about to hang up, but then he heard a sigh and the landlord said, ‘Why don’t you drop by later in the day? I’m on until two.’
Murray looked out to where the grey sea met the lighter grey of the sky. The pub would be there tomorrow, but he had the man on the line now. He said, ‘You’ve no idea how good the idea of a pint sounds to me, but …’
‘But?’
‘I’m up north on an island that doesn’t have a pub.’
‘So you’re a long-distance heavy.’
‘I’m not a heavy at all. I’m a lecturer in English literature.’ ‘Christ,’ the landlord laughed. ‘What are you going to do if I don’t cooperate? Make me spell a difficult word?’
He snorted. ‘This island, did you ken it was dry when you went there?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus.’ He laughed again. ‘Did you take anything with you?’
The other man’s delight at his predicament decided Murray against mentioning the shop’s shelves groaning with spirits.
‘A bottle of whisky I’m halfway through.’
There was palpable glee in the other man’s voice.
‘I’m guessing you’re rationing that.’
‘I’m down to around an X-ray of a dram every night.’
The landlord’s snort sounded down the line.
‘This book, is it going to show that old cunt in a good light?’
‘I wouldn’t think so.’
‘And will it have acknowledgements? You know, wee thank-yous to people that helped out in the making of it?’
‘More than likely.’
‘Right.’ The landlord cleared his throat, like a torch singer about to embark on a particularly gruelling number. ‘Have you got a pen and paper handy?’
‘Aye, hang on a minute.’ Murray wedged his mobile between his chin and his shoulder and fumbled in the pocket of his cagoule for a notepad and pen. He found them, put a foot up on a toppled remnant of one of the castle’s stone walls and awkwardly rested the book on his knee.
‘Okay.’
‘Right. My name is John Rathbone. I’ll spell it for you, R-a-t-h-b-o-n-e. Got that?’
It was cold and the ballpoint refused to write. Murray scribbled on the damp surface of the paper, but only succeeded in scratching a hole through to the next page.
‘Yes.’
‘And here’s where you can send my copy when it comes out.’ Rathbone detailed an address on the south side of Edinburgh, taking care to spell any words he thought Murray might have trouble with. ‘On second thoughts, maybe you should send two. I’ll give one to my old dear, she’s always had a thing about me not staying on at school. It’d give her a kick to see my name in print.’
Murray repeated the address out loud and shoved the useless pen and paper into his pocket, resolving to look the man up and check his details if the book ever made it to publication.
‘I’ll send you three.’
‘Cheers, I’ll give one to my bird. No, I’ll save it in case I need to impress a new one.’
‘Aye, the ladies like a bit of culture.’
‘Talking from experience, are you?’
Murray gave what he hoped was a manly chuckle.
‘Some.’
‘The revenge of the swot?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Could be my old dear was right about staying on at school then.’
Murray could feel the conversation drifting away from him. He thought of his fading battery and said, ‘The main thing I wanted to ask was why did you burn Bobby’s books?’
The man’s sigh seemed at one with the wind whispering around the fallen fortifications.
‘So you heard about that, did you? I’m guessing you dropped by here before you set out for Temperance Island.’
‘I never reveal my sources.’
‘No need to. My sister’s girl Lauren gave me pure grief for it.’
‘It’s your flat. I’d imagine that, technically speaking, anything abandoned in it’s yours to dispose of as you see fit.’
‘I wish it was mine to dispose of. A wee place in the centre of Edinburgh? Must be worth a bomb. I would have had that old bum out of it in a shot. Nah, I just manage it for a bloke.’
‘So the books?’
‘Crippen was always going on about his book collection. When it turned out no one wanted his stuff, I promised them to Lauren. She’s a good kid, always got her head in a book. She’s saving up to go to uni, and I thought there might be something in there she could use. But they were filth, so I took them out into the back court and burnt them.’
‘Pornography?’
‘If they’d been porn, I would have kept them for myself, wouldn’t I? Nah, it was spooky stuff, books on spells and the like, horrible.’
‘He had a big collection of occult books?’
‘He had more than that. You should have seen the state of the place. Hang on a wee minute, will you?’
The man put the handset down. Far off Murray could hear him talking to someone. A dark cloud passed across the sky, throwing its shadow over the water. Murray drew his scarf closer, muffling his face against the cold. It was going to rain again. He thought of Hamlet, confronted with the ghost of his father on the castle ramparts at night, and a shiver stiffened the hairs on the back of his neck.
‘Well, that’s me popular with the bar staff, an entire delivery offloaded with no help from yours truly.’ Rathbone sounded pleased with himself. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Bobby Robb had more than just a big collection of occult books.’
‘Who?’
‘Crippen, as you called him.’
‘Oh, aye. I had to redecorate before the boss saw the state of the place. You can imagine how delighted I was at that – took me a sander and three coats of varnish to cover up his handiwork.’
‘Why?’
‘I was meant to do an inspection every six months, make sure the place was ship-shape, but I’d kind of let it slide. It’s a good gig, looking after amateur landlords’ flats. As long as you’ve got a wee black book full of reliable tradesmen, it’s money
for old rope most of the time. But word soon gets round if you slip up.’
‘No, I meant what did you have to cover up?’
‘I’m getting to that.’ Now that he had decided to tell his story, Rathbone’s voice was full of relish at the strangeness of it. ‘Crippen was lodged in a one-bedroom flat on the High Street, three floors up above the Starbucks. A lot of stairs for an old man, but he looked fit enough. I would have bet he had another ten years in him. Just goes to show.’ The landlord paused, giving them both time to take in the impossibility of ever knowing the future, then went on, ‘The place wasn’t that clean, but I didn’t expect it to be. Crippen never had much of an acquaintance with soap and water, so it didn’t take a genius to work out he didn’t own a pair of Marigolds. It wasn’t a problem, my sister’s generally happy to earn a few bob cleaning for me, as long as there’s nothing too nasty involved. I checked out the kitchen and the sitting room, everything was pretty much as it should be, except for dust and beer stains, but as I said, I expected as much. The shock came when I went into the bedroom. I’ve found all sorts in my time; bloodstains on top of the mattress, used condoms underneath, mice in the skirting, beetles under the wallpaper. I even had a pair of students who let their kitchen get so fucking beyond them they boarded it up and made it into a no-go zone – needless to say, they didn’t get their deposits back. I thought they were the worst I was ever likely to see, but they were just lazy cunts. Crippen’s bedroom … well, that was something else. Like a scene from a horror movie. To tell you the truth, there was a moment when I thought about calling the police, but I decided it’d be a waste of their time. I mean, if you could be arrested for crimes against decorating, that cunt Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen would be doing a twenty stretch, right?’
‘So what had he done?’
‘He’d covered the floor in writing.’
‘The entire floor?’
‘Not all of it, no. The bed was in the centre of the room and he’d made a kind of circle of words around it. When I first saw it, I thought it was going to be some major confession, where he’d hidden the bodies of hundreds of missing schoolgirls or something, but thank Christ it was just a load of crap.’