What was wrong with him that he couldn’t feel pity for a homeless man in a wheelchair?
‘Sleeping on the streets has got to be tough in his condition.’
‘He’s not on the streets any more. That’s why I’m here, supporting his transition from hostel to independent living.’
‘So a lucky accident?’
She gave him a look, but didn’t rise to the bait.
‘It wasn’t so much an accident as. . I’m not sure what you’d call it. A cry for help? A drug-inspired psychotic episode? One day Frankie finds himself walking near the M8, no idea how he got there, just comes to, aware of the lights of the cars going by. It’s dark, but it’s winter and it’s only around five in the afternoon, so it’s busy, everyone coming home from work. He sees a motorway bridge, climbs up, and throws himself over the top.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes, shit.’
‘Did he cause a pile-up?’
‘No. Jack says that Frankie’s the luckiest suicide artist in the business. He hit the roof of a lorry, bounced off the edge and onto the central reservation. It should have killed him, but instead he ended up in a chair. The funny thing is, we’d tried to re-house Frank before, but it was a disaster. It was too much for him, the responsibility. But ever since he got out of hospital he seems better. I mean, he’s still got problems — some days we do this he’s three sheets to the wind — but he’s trying to help himself. He’s cooking — he was a chef when he was in the army — and he’s trying to look after the flat. He’s not missed an appointment with me. Yeah, he’s still a pain sometimes. But it’s like Frank’s decided to live. Almost as if suicide’s been the making of him.’
‘He fancies you rotten.’
‘They all fancy me. I’m the only woman they get to speak to who isn’t a barmaid.’
‘So the feeling’s not mutual?’
‘God, Murray, Jack’s right about you. You’re not of this world.’ Lyn glanced at Frankie again. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I guess you do, the world’s waiting.’
Lyn’s face flushed. She pushed a curl from her eyes and leaned across the table, so close he felt her words on his face.
‘It’s my fucking job, Murray, and it’s just as important as your book or Jack’s bloody art.’
‘I know that.’
She looked like she wanted to slap him, but she stretched over and kissed him instead. ‘No, you don’t.’ She squeezed his arm and was gone.
He watched them through the window as they made their way towards the taxi rank. Frankie said something and Lyn laughed, shaking her head as if amused against her will.
Murray poured more sugar into his cold coffee and stirred. Lyn was right, of course, her job was vital, he of all people should know that. But still, he couldn’t reconcile the thought that fetching Frankie’s messages was as important as uncovering Archie Lunan’s life. There were a million drunks in the city; Archie had been one himself. But he had also been a poet, and there were precious few of those in the world.
He took out his Moleskine notebook and looked again at the list of names he’d copied from Archie’s jotter:
Danny
Denny
Bobby Boy
Ruby!
I thought I saw you walking by the shore
Ramie
Moon
Jessa* * *
Tamsker
Saffron
Ray — will you be my sunshine?
Perhaps Lunan had whiled away the hours composing names for the protagonists of his sci-fi novel, but the jaunty phrases suggested something else. Murray read the list again, and wondered what it could be.
Chapter Ten
THERE WAS A voicemail message on Murray’s mobile. He checked Missed Calls and saw an unfamiliar Glasgow number. How had he got to the point where an unfamiliar number was a relief? The voice was female and infused with the same assured tones that dominated the university’s corridors and lecture halls.
‘Hello, I’m phoning with regard to your advert in the TLS. My late husband Alan Garrett did some research into Archie Lunan’s death.’ The woman stalled as if expecting someone to pick up, then continued less confidently, ‘Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.’ A number and email address followed, succeeded by a click on the line as the widowed Mrs Garrett hung up.
Rachel had suggested the advert to him on one of their early dates. She’d driven them swiftly along the unlit road, the dark nothingness of the reservoir below them, the lights of the city trembling in the beyond. Rachel had guided the car surely round the tricky bends and Murray had tried not to dwell on how well she knew the road. She’d slowed as they got closer to their destination, uncertain at the last moment of their turning, and a stag had started into the full beam of their headlights. Murray caught a glimpse of bright eyes blackly shining, a candelabra of horn, before the creature darted back into the night. He remembered a news report about a driver colliding with a stag, the beast’s antlers piercing first the windscreen, then the man’s chest, the injured animal tossing its head frantically trying to escape, the ruin of bodies found hours later.
He asked, ‘Are you okay?’
Rachel laughed, ‘Yes, that was a close one’, and pressed down on the accelerator. The turn-off appeared soon after on their left and she bumped the car gently into the pitch-darkness of the car park. ‘Here we are.’
He pushed his chair back. Rachel killed the engine and clambered quickly from the driver’s seat into his lap. They were kissing, her hands moving thrillingly down to his fly, his fingers unfastening her blouse, tracing the line between the lace of her bra and her not-yet-familiar-breasts, when Murray saw the shadowy form of another car resting mutely in the darkness. He stayed his hand.
‘There’s someone else here.’
‘Mmmm.’ Rachel had set him free and was rubbing herself against him. She wasn’t wearing any knickers and the thought that she’d driven him there naked beneath her skirt gave him a quick frisson of excitement. But the knowledge of the other car bothered him.
‘Do you think they can see us?’
Rachel leaned back and turned on the interior light. Her breasts shone whitely beneath their lace.
‘Let’s make sure.’
He reached up and quickly clicked it off.
‘You spoilsport, Murray.’
‘I don’t want an audience.’
‘Shame.’
She snapped open the front fastening of her bra and let her breasts fall softly against his face. They’d kissed and resumed their play, but the awareness of the car lurking in the opposite bay remained with him, and their coupling was clumsy and hurried.
They’d driven back down from the country park in silence, Rachel taking the turns more slowly this time, only gathering speed when she reached the straight road that bordered the reservoir.
She’d been hitting seventy-five when the headlights of another car shone in from behind, illuminating the dashboard. Murray turned and saw Rachel’s face caught in shine and shadows like a black and white photograph, her jaw set somewhere between a smile and a grimace. He realised she would have seen the car’s approach in the rear-view mirror and wondered if it, rather than the straightness of the road, had prompted her increase in speed.
The car was a Saab. It started to overtake and Rachel hit the accelerator, staying level with it, racing. Up ahead the road curved into a bend. Murray’s right foot pressed on an imaginary brake, the Saab zoomed on and Rachel dropped speed, letting it pull in front. Up ahead the car’s brake lights shone red. Rachel tailed it down to the cross, where the Saab made it through the traffic lights. For a second Murray thought Rachel was going to put on a spurt and follow it through, but at the last minute she hit the brakes. Murray jarred forward. The seatbelt’s inertia reel held him tight.