Читать книгу Naming the Bones - Louise Welsh - Страница 9

Chapter Four

HE’D MISSED THE main thrust of the rush hour, but most of the seats on the Edinburgh to Glasgow Express were taken. Murray squeezed himself into a spare place at a table for four, smiling his apology at the businessman opposite as he felt the softness of one of the man’s smart shoes beneath his own scuffed trainer. The man winced but nodded his acceptance without raising his eyes from the spreadsheets in front of him. Murray glanced down the carriage at the tired eyes and limp collars, the half-read novels and glowing laptops. This was what people called the real world, he supposed, a mortgage, kids and a commute that added a day to every working week. It wouldn’t be so bad. He would make it reading time and fuck the spreadsheets.

A recorded message trailed through the scheduled stops as the train slid out of the station. Murray leaned back in his seat, keeping his knees bent to avoid contact with his opposite neighbour.

Meikle had looked tired by the time they’d finished. Murray had offered to get the bookfinder a taxi, but he’d produced his bus pass from his wallet with an ironic flourish.

‘No need. I’ve got this, a licence to ride.’

‘Brilliant.’

The older man’s surliness had returned.

‘Aye, great compensation for fuck-all of a pension. Take my advice, if you’ve got any money spend it now while you’re still young enough to enjoy it. Don’t get conned into saving it for bankers to piss up the wall, the way we were. Old age is no fun when you’re skint.’

Murray almost told him that old age had let him in on its dubious charms early and it was no fun full-stop, but there was no point. Instead he smiled to show he agreed and cut the sympathy from his voice because the older man would dislike it.

‘Better than the alternative.’

Meikle gave Murray a tough look, and then granted him a grin.

‘Mibbe so, mibbe no. I guess we’ll all find out eventually.’

He’d headed towards his bus stop, wherever it was, raising his hand in a wordless goodbye as he turned away.

Murray felt infected with Meikle’s weariness. He could see the glowing squares of house windows as they passed Broomhouse. It made him think of when he and Jack were boys. The kitchen window steaming with condensation as their dad cooked the dinner, Jack watching Vision On or Blue Peter while Murray did his homework at the table in the corner of the living room. Eventually there had been the second-hand paraffin heater in their shared bedroom so Murray could study in heady fumes and privacy.

The woman sitting next to him was reading a gossip magazine, flicking through photographs of celebrities shopping on sunlit streets, large black shades and pained expressions. He glanced at her, half-expecting a cut-price version of the girls in the pictures, but she was in her forties, neat rather than fashionable, her clothes carefully chosen. Did she wish herself young and in LA? God knows he did, though the idea had never occurred before. Maybe he could go there, become a movie star. That would show them. It would indeed.

The woman gave him a sharp glare and pointedly turned the page. He looked away. They were out of the city now and there was nothing but darkness in the beyond. He could see his own face reflected in the window; the shine of his glasses against the pits and bumps on the lunar landscape of his skin. Maybe he should shelve the idea of a movie career.

Murray unzipped his rucksack and slid out the manila folder containing the letter from Christie’s agent.

Dear Dr Watson

I have passed on your letter to Ms Graves, who has asked me to let you know that she will give your request for an interview serious consideration. To help her in her decision, she invites you to forward through me a copy of your CV, a list of previous publications and a synopsis of your proposed biography of Archibald Lunan.

Regards

Foster James

Niles, James and Worthing

He wondered why he had lied to George Meikle about Christie having already granted him an interview. He’d sent the requested documents six weeks ago. They would confirm his credentials, the scholarly nature of his interest. Would that be enough?

Murray’s phone chimed with news of a new text. He drew it from his pocket and watched the tiny electronic envelope twirl and open, half-anticipating a self-justifying missive from his brother.

Where are you?

There were people standing further down the carriage. To get up would mean losing his seat, so he dialled where he sat. He expected her voicemail, but Rachel picked up on the third ring. He said, ‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘I wondered if you’d get my message. I’d like to see you.’

‘I’d like to see you too.’

‘Good.’ Her voice was all business. ‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t like to say.’

‘I don’t have much time, Murray, Fergus has got his big deal of a dinner party later.’

‘I’m on the train.’

‘Heading where?’

‘Home.’

‘Can we meet at your office?’

He hated meeting her there, disliked the risk, the clash of associations.

‘Okay, when?’

‘When can you make it?’

Murray glanced at the display above the carriage door. They were approaching Croy.

‘I’ll jump in a cab at Queen Street and be with you in thirty minutes.’

‘Good.’

She cut the connection without saying goodbye. Outside, the train window started to speck with rain.