‘I saw your door was open.’
‘I’m collecting the last of my stuff.’
The other woman glared at him.
‘A car’s on its way for us.’
Rachel dropped the book she was holding into a box and said, ‘Maybe you could go and check whether it’s there, please, Jenny.’
It was more of an order than a request. The older woman paused. For a moment Murray thought she was about to refuse, but then she let out a sigh and pushed past him without a word.
Rachel said, ‘You may as well shut the door. Who knows who else might be lurking here on a Sunday morning.’
Murray closed it gently, hearing the soft click of the latch as it sank home.
‘Maybe the rest of the department have a life.’
Rachel turned away, lifting more books from the shelf and fitting them neatly into the box.
‘Thanks for your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t get time to answer it.’
‘No one mentioned you were leaving.’
‘No, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit indecisive lately. I only posted my resignation today.’
Murray nodded, not daring to speak for a moment, then asked, ‘Where will you go?’
‘My sister has a house near Fontainebleau. She and her husband have persuaded me to stay with them for a while.’
Her voice was devoid of inflection. It gave her words a vague, robotic quality.
‘Will you come back?’
‘To Glasgow?’ Her eyes met his for a moment. ‘I doubt it.’
He wanted to ask if he could write to her, but instead said, ‘How are you?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, everyone is. It was a great loss. To me, if not to literature.’
Once again the flatness in her voice rendered everything insincere. He watched as she added more volumes to the box, then said, ‘I was on Lismore at the same time as Fergus.’
He waited for Rachel to ask what had happened, unsure of what he would tell her. But she merely nodded.
‘I was going to leave him. I told him before he left for the island. The photographs he sent you were the last straw. Well,’ she gave a small smile, ‘not the photos themselves, the fact that he sent them to you.’
‘He never mentioned you were leaving.’
‘Why would he?’ Rachel slid another stack of books from the shelf and set them in the box at her feet. She turned back to Murray. ‘I couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with what happened.’
He felt stupidly out of his depth, standing by the door, his ears straining for the return of her sister.
‘What?’
‘The fact that I was going to leave him. You knew Fergus. He wasn’t a clumsy man. He was graceful, cautious despite his recklessness.’
‘Fergus was the least suicidal person I can think of.’
‘Perhaps. But he was distracted. Maybe, just for a moment, he forgot to be careful.’
‘I was told you’d tried to kill yourself.’
‘Did you believe it?’
Murray nodded, and for the first time Rachel’s voice took on some colour.
‘You should have known better. I may occasionally be unwise, but I’m rarely stupid.’
Murray faltered. The door behind him opened and Rachel’s sister said, ‘Ralph’s downstairs, parking the van.’
Murray asked, ‘Can I help?’
‘No.’ Her voice was curt. ‘We’ll manage, thank you.’
He turned to go, but Rachel called him back.
‘Murray, remember — take good care of yourself.’
‘You too.’ He gave her a last smile and stepped back into the familiar darkness of the department corridor.
Jack said, ‘You did what you set out to do. You resurrected Archie Lunan. Two posthumous books in the same year, that’s bound to make a splash. Remember you said you’d let me have a look at the sci-fi novel as soon as you’d made a copy.’
‘Sure. Shall I photocopy the poems for you too?’
Jack shrugged. ‘If you like.’
It was the answer he’d anticipated, and Murray smiled in spite of himself.
Christie had dismissed the science-fiction novel Archie had been writing as worthless, but the poet’s apocalyptic vision might yet turn out to be a classic of the genre, with the potential to attract more readers than the poems ever would.
His brother was still talking. ‘I guess if this poetry collection’s as good as you say, people will take another look at his early stuff.’
Murray shrugged. ‘What does it matter who wrote the poems? It’s the work that counts, right? The art, not the artist.’
Jack laughed. ‘I’m not sure I can agree with you on that one.’
He raised his hand in a wave and walked swiftly towards the reception desk where the curator sat, her long hair falling across her profile like a black satin curtain. ‘Aliah, this is my brother Murray, who I was telling you about. He’s the clever one in the family.’
The woman looked up from her computer, her brown eyes dubious behind her stylish spectacles.
‘Really?’
Murray put a smile on his face and walked towards her. The smile was forced, everything was forced, but for the moment that was just how it had to be.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank the Internationales Künstlerhaus, Villa Concordia, Bamberg, and the Civitella Ranieri Foundation for their hospitality and support during the writing of this book.
Lismore is a beautiful island, rich in wildlife and archaeology, situated in Loch Linnhe on the west coast of Scotland. The islanders are friendly, the B&B is well kept and welcoming. For more details, go to www.isleoflismore.com