by Louise Welsh
‘Piss off, Jack.’
‘Wait a second, will you?’
Jack’s shirt had escaped his trousers. He was breathing heavily and there was a smudge of Cressida’s lipstick on his upper lip. One of the waiting children opened a bag of sweets and passed out an allotted ration to his friends, ready to enjoy the show.
Murray turned the corner down onto Waverley Bridge, towards Princes Street.
‘Why? Are you going to tell me things aren’t what they seem?’
Jack caught his arm, holding him there. He looked Murray in the eyes, no longer as young as he’d been in Cressida’s photographs, but just as handsome. More handsome, perhaps. The thought surprised Murray: he had never thought of his brother as good-looking before.
‘No, things are exactly as they seem.’
It was almost as much of a shock as seeing them together. The anger left him for a moment and he asked, ‘Does Lyn know?’
‘Not yet.’
Jack wiped a hand across his face. He saw the red lipstick on his fingers, took a hanky from his pocket and rubbed at his mouth.
‘What a fucking mess.’
He looked at the red stains again, then at Murray, and it wasn’t clear whether he meant his lipstick-smeared face, or the state of his love life.
‘Are you going to tell her?’
‘Yes.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack.’
‘I’m in love with Cressida.’
‘Just like that? After twelve years, you’ve suddenly found someone else?’
‘We knew each other before.’
‘So I saw, but time’s moved on.’
Murray pulled free from his brother’s grip. Jack raised his hand as if to snare him again, and then let it fall.
‘Life’s too short not to live it, Murray. You should know that.’
A group of youths passed them on the pavement. One of them shouted, ‘Why don’t you kiss and make up?’ and his companions laughed. Murray felt the urge to lay into them with his fists, land a good few punches before they beat him senseless. Instead he kept his voice low and asked, ‘What about Lyn?’
‘I’ll make sure Lyn’s okay. She’ll get over it. She’s a survivor.’
Murray shook his head.
‘You’re a prick, Jack.’
He turned his back on his brother and walked away. This time no one followed him.
Part Two
The Island of Lismore
Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS A while since Murray had driven. The winding road round Loch Lomond was testing and he arrived in Oban with a sense of relief. The car windscreen started to spot with rain as he drove down into the town. There was a glimpse of sunlight behind the wind-harried clouds moving above the sea, but he knew from experience that it was no guarantee blue skies would follow.
Murray followed the signs for the ferry terminus, then found the Lismore dock and parked at the end of the short queue of waiting vehicles on the quayside. The boat was due in fifteen minutes, but there was no sign of it on the grey waters beyond. He turned off the engine, closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind.
He was woken by the lorry in front rumbling into life. The small ferry had docked and the traffic from the island disembarked. Murray turned the key in his ignition, waiting until the lorry driver had reversed the large vehicle laden with building supplies up a tiny ramp and onto the deck. He edged his own car slowly backwards. The ferryman raised his hand in the rear-view mirror and the engine stalled. Murray scrolled the window down as the man came towards him, his face stern.
‘There’s another sailing at four.’
Murray looked down at the ferry. There were two cars, the building lorry and a post van already sitting on its deck. An empty spot seemed to beckon from beside the van.
‘What about the space on the right?’
The ferryman adjusted his cap. ‘Four o’clock.’ He walked back down the slipway and onto the deck. Murray watched as the ramp was raised and the boat chugged surely out to sea.
An old man standing smoking by the quayside flicked his dout into the sea, strolled over and leaned companionably against the car roof.
‘You’d never mistake him for a sunbeam, eh?’
Murray felt his face warm.
‘What’s his problem?’
‘If you’re enquiring about his temperament, I’d say an undemonstrative father combined with overexposure to the United Free Church and a lack of serotonin. But if you’re asking why he didn’t let you board, my guess would be the building lorry brought them up to weight. Away over to the ticket office and get booked on the four o’clock. The island’s not going anywhere.’
The stranger slapped the car roof and walked on.
The booking clerk grinned cheerily when he asked for a ticket to Lismore.
‘Tired of life?’
Murray tried to return his smile, but the clerk grew suddenly serious and issued the ticket without further banter.
There were five hours to kill. He phoned the tourist board and booked himself into a B&B on the island, then abandoned the car in the long-term car park and took a walk along the front. All the seagulls hadn’t relocated to Glasgow to live off abandoned Chinese carry-outs and dead rats after all. Their country cousins ack-acked machine-gun rattles across the bay as they circled the fishing boats, hovering down from time to time to pick at delicacies the fishermen had eschewed. The scent of brine was sharp in his nostrils and beneath it a bitter smell of decaying seaweed. There was a cold wind blowing in from the sea, carrying a fine spray that might have been rain or spume, as if underlining his ill-preparedness.
Murray went into an outdoors shop and bought a woollen hat, a waterproof jacket, three tartan shirts in a warm, fuzzy fabric, three pairs of heavy socks and a pair of walking boots the salesman claimed would outlive them both. He changed in the shop’s tiny dressing room and regarded himself in the mirror. He looked like an older, more leisured version of himself; or maybe a down-and-out, scrubbed up by social services and equipped for a few more months of pavement life.
The season must surely have been drawing to a close, but the streets were busy with tourists drawn to the town from the outlying countryside, fresh fodder for the Clan Kitchen and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. He passed a middle-aged couple trailing a pair of disconsolate teenage boys. He and Jack had come here with their father years ago, on their way to somewhere else. He couldn’t remember much about it.
He went into a café that smelt of cheap air-freshener infused with accents of hot lard and Sarson’s vinegar. The room was homely but shabby, as if the proprietor had rejected trade fittings in favour of domestic furnishings not up to the job. The walls were papered with stripes and fleurde-lis, divided by a floral border, the carpet decorated in a pattern of autumn leaves, not busy enough to camouflage spills and stains. A splotch of something that might have been lentil soup had crusted over the handwritten menu, as if illustrating the quality of the fare on offer. After a while an elderly waitress appeared and Murray ordered fish and chips and a cup of tea.
He was wondering whether his laptop was safe in the boot of the car or if he should nip back and collect it, when his phone rang. Lyn’s name flashed on the display.
The waitress placed his cutlery and a plate of bread spread with margarine in front of him.
‘Are you not going to answer that?’
Murray wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but anecdotes from students with part-time waiting jobs had taught him never to piss-off someone with access to his food.
‘I’ll call back later.’
She went over to the counter and returned with his tea.
‘Ignoring it won’t make things better.’
He took a bite of the tasteless bread, wondering if everyone in Oban considered themselves equipped to advise strangers. The phone burred back into life, Lyn’s name flashing again, like a warning signal on its tiny screen.
He sighed and pressed Talk.
‘Mur
ray?’
‘Hi. Everything okay?’
‘Yes.’ Lyn’s voice was wary. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t normally call me.’
‘I guess not.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘I was phoning to check if you’d seen Jack.’
He thought about lying, but the truth seemed easier, up to a point.
‘Briefly, before his lecture.’
‘So you’re talking?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’ll have to make it up sometime.’
‘Maybe.’
Silence hung on the line. She said, ‘He didn’t come home last night.’
Murray internally cursed his brother for being such a bastard, and himself for answering the call.
‘He probably ran into some mates and went for a drink.
You know Jack.’
‘He’s a workaholic. He doesn’t have any mates.’
Murray had the urge to tell Lyn that she was wrong, his brother had one, very special, old friend. But instead he said, ‘Either way, he’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll turn up.’
‘I’m worried. Your dad’s car’s gone. It was parked outside when I started shift last night.’
‘Ah.’ He hadn’t meant to frighten her, only to get back at his brother. ‘I took it.’
‘Well seen you’re related, you’re as bad as each other.
Does Jack know?’
‘He will, when you tell him.’
‘You tell him.’ The relief that had sounded in her voice at the news of the car was hardening into anger. ‘I’ve been up all night at the hostel. I don’t think I could manage any more drama. Where are you, anyway?’
‘Oban.’
‘Of course, the gateway to the islands.’
‘Armpit of the universe.’
‘Harsh.’
‘You’re telling me.’
The waitress squeezed his shoulder as she slid his order in front of him.
Lyn said, ‘It sounds noisy there.’
‘Just my lunch arriving.’ The fish and chips steamed fragrantly on the plate before him, but something in her voice made him say, ‘I’m not really hungry, just killing time.’
‘You need to eat.’
He wondered why women wanted either to look after him, or fuck him then kick him out the door. There was a time when he could have asked Lyn.
‘I wanted to ask you something. Did you ever come across an old guy with an amazing scar at your drop-in centre?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’
It was an old joke and he laughed to show her that nothing had changed, though he suspected they both knew it had.
‘I’ve got a particular one in mind. Bobby Robb. He had a Mr Happy smile carved across one side of his face.’
‘Glasgow smiles better.’ This time neither of them laughed. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but then a lot of them don’t go by their given name. I could ask around, if you want.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
He thought it must be something to do with his brother.
The waitress glanced in his direction, as if alerted to potential trouble by the wariness in his voice. Lyn said, ‘You remember Frankie?’
Murray smiled, relieved, and saw the waitress resume her conversation with the fish-fryer. He dropped his voice.
‘Lewis Hamilton in a wheelchair?’
‘Yes. Frank’s really trying to sort himself out. He’s hoping to do an access course at Telford College, then apply for uni.’
‘That’s beyond my powers.’
‘I’m not stupid, Murray.’ The impatience was back. ‘I’m not asking you to shoo him in, I just meant you could maybe talk to him, tell him how to go about things. Frankie’s at a crossroads. He wants to change his life, but it’d still be easier for him to slide back into old ways. If he does, he’ll be writing his own death sentence.’
Murray doubted Frankie’s educational urges were anything more than a ruse to ease Lyn into his orthopaedic bed, but he put a smile into his voice.
‘How can I refuse? Let’s make a date when I get back.’
‘Thanks, Murray.’ Lyn had regained her usual warmth. He wondered if she would ever want to see him again, after Jack had told her his news. She asked, ‘So tell me about your mystery man.’
‘There’s not much to go on. He was an associate of Archie’s, which suggests he was around the fringes of the Edinburgh literary scene in the seventies. He left town for quite a while and only came back recently. He might also have been known as Crippen.’
Lyn gave a small snort of amusement.
‘Crippens are like Jims and Joes in my business, ten a penny. Do you want to interview him for your book?’
‘Yes, but I’m not willing to travel the distance.’
‘So you know where he is?’
‘Not exactly. He’s recently deceased.’
‘That’s not funny, Murray. I’ve been phoning the hospitals all morning looking for your brother.’
He said, ‘You’re too good for him.’ And meant it, but he promised to get in touch if Jack rang. He reckoned it wasn’t a pledge he’d be forced to keep.
Murray hung up and put a chip into his mouth. It was cold and tasted of the cheap fat it had been cooked in. He pushed the plate aside.
He’d emailed Audrey Garrett the photo he’d snapped of Bobby Robb’s lone mourner late the previous night; now he found her number and pressed Call. The line rang out, and then Audrey’s voice said, Hi, you’ve reached the answering service of Audrey and Lewis. We’re having too much fun to come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and …‘Hi!’
She sounded out of breath and Murray wondered if she had been expecting a call. The thought made him awkward and he stuttered slightly as he spoke.
‘Hi, Audrey, sorry to interrupt you. It’s Murray Watson here.’
‘Ah, yes, Murray.’ There was no trace of antipodean accent in her telephone voice, but he thought he could detect a note of caution beneath her clear tones.
‘I was wondering if you got my email?’
‘Hang on.’
He heard the sound of her feet against the bare floorboards and pictured her walking through the chaotic sitting room to the tranquillity of her office. He asked, ‘How are you?’ but perhaps the phone was away from her ear, because she made no reply. Instead the receiver clunked onto a hard surface and he heard the singsong jingle as the computer came to life.
‘Right.’ Audrey picked up the phone. ‘I’ve got it in front of me.’ She read his message out loud. ‘“Dear Audrey, this may seem like an odd request, but I have attached a rather poor photograph of a woman I think may be Christie Graves to this message. Would you mind having a look and letting me know if it’s her, please? I’m going to be on the road for a while, so will give you a call sometime over the next couple of days. Best wishes, Murray Watson.” This is all rather cloak and dagger.’
‘I suppose it is.’
There was another pause. In his mind’s eye he saw Audrey at her desk, dressed in the same casual clothes she’d worn the evening they met. Then she came back on the line, her voice brisk and the vision was dispelled.
‘Well, I don’t think David Bailey has anything to worry about.’
‘Photography isn’t one of my talents.’
It could have been a cue for Audrey to mention what his talents included, but her voice remained businesslike.
‘Yes, that’s her. Where was it taken?’
‘The funeral of one of Archie’s old friends.’
‘Another funeral? She seems to make a habit of them.’
‘I guess people begin to at her age.’
‘Perhaps. Why didn’t you approach her?’
‘I should have, but I wasn’t sure if I’d got the right person, and it didn’t seem like the ideal moment.’
The excuse sounded lame to his ears, but Audrey said, �
��No, I can see that.’
Encouraged, he asked, ‘How’s Lewis?’
The memory of the small boy’s stare had stayed with him. But perhaps Audrey thought he was trying to ingratiate himself, because her response was cool.
‘Fine. We were just heading out.’
He wanted to ask where they were going, wanted her to ask him why he was on the road, but instead said, ‘I won’t keep you then.’
Her goodbye sounded final.
Murray sat for a moment, holding the still-warm mobile phone in his hand, then pulled his plate towards him and splattered it with tomato ketchup. He’d forgotten to shake the bottle and a clear liquid that put him in mind of blood plasma ran onto his food before the red stuff dripped out. He dunked a chip in it anyway and put it in his mouth. The taste of sugar and cold potato made him want to spit. He swallowed it down and pushed the plate aside, just as the waitress placed his bill on the table.
She looked at his uneaten meal.
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘Nothing, I let it get cold.’
Murray busied himself with his wallet, but perhaps his face betrayed him yet again, because the woman put her hand back on his shoulder and gave it another squeeze.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’ She looked at the untouched battered cod on his plate and laughed, ‘It’s true. No quota on how many you can catch in your net either’. She caught the eye of the fish-fryer and went lyrical for his benefit. ‘It’s full of promise for a lad like you. Just you remember that.’
Chapter Eighteen
THE WOMEN IN the tourist board had told him his B&B was about twenty minutes from Achnacroish pier, where the ferry docked. Murray drove slowly along the one-track road that climbed away from the bay, the sea receding in the rear-view mirror as he travelled inland, the mountains ahead in the distance, getting no closer.
The crossing had been smooth, but a faint nausea stirred in the depths of his stomach, as if his own tides had been disturbed. The sky was a palate of grey, iron smudges shifting against gunmetal. The wind was getting up, but there was still a possibility the grey skies might yet blow beyond the island, taking their cargo of rain with them.
