Read Online Naming the Bones by Louise Welsh - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Welsh
Tags: General Fiction
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time?’
It came out too loud. He caught the barman throwing Mrs Noon a questioning look and the woman’s answering shake of the head.
‘You heard the bell, that’s drinking-up time over. Do you want to get me into trouble?’
He was a lecturer in English literature at a distinguished and ancient university. He straightened himself in his chair and summoned forth the spirit of Oscar Wilde.
‘Don’t you think you may be a little old for me to get you into trouble, Mrs Noon?’
‘No need for that now.’ Rab was pulling on his jacket. ‘You’ll have to excuse my colleague. He is the recipient of bad news.’
Murray lumbered to his feet. The battle was lost, there was no more drink to be had, no possibility of reaching the required state here. The landlady disregarded Rab’s apologies and turned her practised smile on Murray: ice and glass. She’d once told him she had a daughter at the uni.
‘I was just thinking the same thing of the pair of you. You’re both too old to be getting into trouble. Go home, gentlemen.’
Outside black cabs and private hires edged along the road accompanied by the bass beat and infra-bright lights of sober boys in souped-up cars. It was another kind of rush hour, Friday night chucking-out time, louder, younger and messier than the into-work-and-home-again crowds. Here came the smashed windows, spilled noodles, lost shoes and sicked-up drinks, the pigeon breakfasts and trailing bloodstains.
Two teenage girls perched on the windowsill of the late-night Spar passing a bottle between them while a yard away their friend snogged a youth in a tracksuit, their joined mouths sealed vacuum-tight. The boy’s hand slid up the girl’s crop top. One of the drinkers tipped back a swig from the bottle, arching her body, her short skirt riding up her thighs. For an instant she looked like an advert for the elixir of youth. Then she lost her balance and bumped against her companion. Both girls giggled and the one who had nearly fallen shouted, ‘Fucking jump him if you’re gonnae or we’ll miss the bus.’
The boy broke the clinch, grinning at his audience, then pulled the girl back to him, whispering something that made her laugh, then push herself free, staggering slightly on her high heels as she tottered towards her friends.
‘Virgin,’ the teenagers taunted, passing her the bottle.
Lyle Joff gave them a stern look. ‘I should bloody hope so.’ The girls sniggered, nudging each other, and Lyle took refuge in his kebab. He didn’t speak again until they had passed the group.
‘If I caught Sarah or Emma behaving like that, I’d lock them up until they were thirty. Fuck it, thirty-five. I’d lock them up till they were thirty-five and even then I’d still want some guarantees.’
Murray looked back at the girls. They were at the bus stop now. One of them – he wasn’t sure if it was the one who’d been doing the kissing – pushed the boy. The youth stepped into a half trot, shouting something. The girls roared back, united now as they rushed at him, their high heels clattering against the pavement, laughing, full of victory as the boy ran off down the street.
Murray joined in the laughter. Some people had more talent for life.
‘ Brief Encounter .’
Lyle said, ‘It’s not funny, Murray. Boys like that take advantage of young girls.’
Rab asked, ‘What age are Sarah or Emma now? Five and seven? You don’t need to worry about that for a few years.’
‘Three and six. Remind me to look up convent schools in the Yellow Pages in the morning. Here, hold this a minute.’
Lyle thrust his half-eaten kebab into Murray’s hand and nipped up a lane. Murray lifted the swaddled meat and salad to his mouth, crunching into vinegar, spices and heat. When had he last eaten? There had been a packet of crisps in the pub, but before that? Some sauce escaped the wrap and ran down his chin.
‘Hey.’ Lyle emerged from the alleyway. ‘I said hold it, not eat it.’
‘Sorry.’
It came out too loud. He caught the barman throwing Mrs Noon a questioning look and the woman’s answering shake of the head.
‘You heard the bell, that’s drinking-up time over. Do you want to get me into trouble?’
He was a lecturer in English literature at a distinguished and ancient university. He straightened himself in his chair and summoned forth the spirit of Oscar Wilde.
‘Don’t you think you may be a little old for me to get you into trouble, Mrs Noon?’
‘No need for that now.’ Rab was pulling on his jacket. ‘You’ll have to excuse my colleague. He is the recipient of bad news.’
Murray lumbered to his feet. The battle was lost, there was no more drink to be had, no possibility of reaching the required state here. The landlady disregarded Rab’s apologies and turned her practised smile on Murray: ice and glass. She’d once told him she had a daughter at the uni.
‘I was just thinking the same thing of the pair of you. You’re both too old to be getting into trouble. Go home, gentlemen.’
Outside black cabs and private hires edged along the road accompanied by the bass beat and infra-bright lights of sober boys in souped-up cars. It was another kind of rush hour, Friday night chucking-out time, louder, younger and messier than the into-work-and-home-again crowds. Here came the smashed windows, spilled noodles, lost shoes and sicked-up drinks, the pigeon breakfasts and trailing bloodstains.
Two teenage girls perched on the windowsill of the late-night Spar passing a bottle between them while a yard away their friend snogged a youth in a tracksuit, their joined mouths sealed vacuum-tight. The boy’s hand slid up the girl’s crop top. One of the drinkers tipped back a swig from the bottle, arching her body, her short skirt riding up her thighs. For an instant she looked like an advert for the elixir of youth. Then she lost her balance and bumped against her companion. Both girls giggled and the one who had nearly fallen shouted, ‘Fucking jump him if you’re gonnae or we’ll miss the bus.’
The boy broke the clinch, grinning at his audience, then pulled the girl back to him, whispering something that made her laugh, then push herself free, staggering slightly on her high heels as she tottered towards her friends.
‘Virgin,’ the teenagers taunted, passing her the bottle.
Lyle Joff gave them a stern look. ‘I should bloody hope so.’ The girls sniggered, nudging each other, and Lyle took refuge in his kebab. He didn’t speak again until they had passed the group.
‘If I caught Sarah or Emma behaving like that, I’d lock them up until they were thirty. Fuck it, thirty-five. I’d lock them up till they were thirty-five and even then I’d still want some guarantees.’
Murray looked back at the girls. They were at the bus stop now. One of them – he wasn’t sure if it was the one who’d been doing the kissing – pushed the boy. The youth stepped into a half trot, shouting something. The girls roared back, united now as they rushed at him, their high heels clattering against the pavement, laughing, full of victory as the boy ran off down the street.
Murray joined in the laughter. Some people had more talent for life.
‘ Brief Encounter .’
Lyle said, ‘It’s not funny, Murray. Boys like that take advantage of young girls.’
Rab asked, ‘What age are Sarah or Emma now? Five and seven? You don’t need to worry about that for a few years.’
‘Three and six. Remind me to look up convent schools in the Yellow Pages in the morning. Here, hold this a minute.’
Lyle thrust his half-eaten kebab into Murray’s hand and nipped up a lane. Murray lifted the swaddled meat and salad to his mouth, crunching into vinegar, spices and heat. When had he last eaten? There had been a packet of crisps in the pub, but before that? Some sauce escaped the wrap and ran down his chin.
‘Hey.’ Lyle emerged from the alleyway. ‘I said hold it, not eat it.’
‘Sorry.’
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