Naming the Bones Read Free Page B

now?’
    ‘I know for certain.’
    ‘Aye, well, that’s good. On their holidays, aren’t they?’
    ‘That’s right. Away with the BBs.’ The old man on screen nodded, quickly comforted, and Jack asked him, ‘Do you remember who I am?’
    The mischief was back in his father’s face.
    ‘If you don’t know, I doubt that I can help you out.’
    The old man and Jack laughed together.
    ‘No idea at all?’
    Their father stared at the Jack-off-screen intently. He stared at Murray too, his broken veins scoured and red. There was a patch of grey stubble on his chin that whoever had shaved him had missed.
    ‘I don’t think I know you, son.’ He hesitated and a ghost of something that might have been recognition flitted across his face, bringing a smile in its wake. ‘Are you yon boy that reads the news?’
    ‘Poor auld soul.’ The woman standing next to Murray whispered to her friend. ‘He doesnae ken if it’s New York or New Year.’
    Jack-on-screen told the old stranger who had taken up residence in his father’s body, ‘You’ve rumbled me.’ And the old man slapped his knee in glee.
    Murray pushed through the black curtains and out into the brightness of the white-painted gallery. Jack was standing where he had left him. Murray shook his head and jogged quickly down the stairs. Lyn was coming towards him, chatting to another girl, both of them clutching brimming wine glasses. She said his name, ‘Murray’, but he continued down onto the street, then further down still, towards Waverley Station and the train that would take him home.

Chapter Three
    MURRAY LOOKED AT the neat piles of papers he’d assembled, then surveyed the list that he had made.
    Jotters – 3
Address Book– 1
Loose Papers – 325
Newspaper Cuttings – 9
Bus Tickets– 13
Train Tickets– 8
Drawings/Doodles– 11
Tarot Cards– 3
Letters– 6
Photograph– 1
    The jotters and address book were his biggest prizes, but the photograph pleased him more. Archie and Christie sitting on a rock laughing together, their hair caught in a bluster of wind, eyes screwed tight against the weather. Archie was wearing an old Harris tweed jacket that looked too broad for his thin frame. His hair was long and stringy, his laugh topped by an unkempt moustache. Christie’s blonde hair was long too, parted carelessly in the centre. Her wide-lapelled coat looked Edwardian, but it had been a period of retro and revivals, and maybe it had been the latest fashion. She’d stuffed her hands into her pockets, pushing them together through the fabric so it looked like she was hugging herself. Archie had one hand on his knee. His other hand was hidden. Clasped around Christie’s waist or lost in the closeness of the pose? It was difficult to tell. Archie’s face was half-obscured by his hair and moustache, but he looked alive in a way that none of the other photographs had shown him. Murray wondered when it had been taken. That last summer up on Lismore? The look was right, the seventies hair and careless clothes, the treeless scrub of heather in the background. He would take a copy with him when he went to meet Christie Graves. Perhaps she would remember the moment it was taken, and maybe that memory would prompt others.
    He pulled the jotters towards him. They were similar to those he recalled using in primary school, with boxed-in lines on the front cover for the owner’s name, subject and class, which Archie had left blank. He lifted one in the air and shook it gently. A couple of dried leaves slid from between the pages. Murray laid them carefully to one side and added them to his list.
    Leaves– 2
    The words looked stupid. He scored them out then took one of the leaves between his thumb and index finger and held it up to the light, seeing the veins still branching beneath the crisp surface. There was no secret message scratched on its desiccated flesh. He placed it gently back on the desk and opened the notebook. A list of words ran close to the margin on