Read Online Naming the Bones by Louise Welsh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Welsh
Tags: General Fiction
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get up, pretend you’re going to the gents’ and offer them another one en route.’
‘Is that how James Bond does it? Hello, ladies, I was on my way for a pish and wondered if I could bring you anything back? Ever wondered why it’s going to say “confirmed bachelor” on your obituary?’
‘It must be better than mooning over Ms Houghton.’
Lyle Joff awakened slowly, like an ugly toy twitching into life in a deserted nursery. The flesh beneath his eyes trembled and then the eyes themselves opened. He blinked and turned his fuzzy gaze on Murray.
‘Rachel Houghton.’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Good arse. Good everything else too.’
‘Lyle.’ Rab’s voice was warning. ‘We’re talking about a colleague.’
Lyle’s brief sleep seemed to have refreshed him. He wiped away the glue of saliva that had formed at the corners of his mouth and took a sip of his pint. ‘Listen to Professor PC. ’
Rab said, ‘Shut up, Lyle, you’re drunk.’
A couple of the pool players looked over. Murray raised his beer to his lips. It tasted of nothing.
‘We’re all drunk. Say what you were going to say, Lyle.’
‘Lyle, I’m warning you.’
Rab’s tone was low and commanding, but Lyle was too far gone to notice. He patted Rab’s shoulder.
‘Murray’s one of us, the three mouseketeers.’ He giggled. ‘It’s top secret. Rab said Fergus would have his balls strung up and made into an executive toy for his desk if he found out.’
‘The three musketeers, great swordsmen.’ Murray turned to Rab. ‘What’s the big secret?’
‘Nothing, Lyle’s just being provocative, aren’t you, Lyle?’
‘Not as provocative as Rachel.’ Lyle put an arm around Rab. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.’
Rab lifted the arm from his shoulder. His eyes met Murray’s and all of the ruined adventure was in them. There was no need to ask what had happened, but Murray said, ‘Tell me.’
Lyle looked from one to the other, wary as a barroom dog whose master is on his fourth drink.
Rab sighed wearily.
‘What’s the point? She’s a free spirit, Murray, a generous woman.’
‘I want to know.’
A little beer had slopped onto the table. Rab dipped his finger in it and drew a damp circle on the Formica. He looked his age.
‘A one-off mercy fuck, that’s all there is to it.’
‘When?’
‘The end of last term. You remember all that hoo-ha about my introduction to the new Scottish poetry anthology?’
Murray did. Rab had been forthright in his assessment that a new wave of Scottish poets were throwing off the class-consciousness, self-obsession and non-poetic subject matter of the previous generation and ushering in a golden age. The new wave had leapt to the defence of their predecessors while balking at Rab’s description of them as non-political. The elder statesmen had been vitriolic in their assessment of academics in general, and Rab in particular. It must have been a week when war and disaster had slipped from the news because the row had hit the broadsheets. Rab had been derided by academics and pundits north of the border and a source of amusement to those south of it.
‘It all blew up in my face a bit. Some people thrive on controversy, Fergus for example, but I don’t. It got me down. Rachel dropped into my office one afternoon to commiserate and we went for a few drinks, quite a few drinks. Then when the pub closed I remembered that there was another bottle at my place. There’s always another bottle at my place.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I didn’t expect her to come and then when she did I didn’t expect anything more than a drink. I was going to tell you.’ He laughed almost shyly. ‘But a gentleman doesn’t talk about these things.’
‘You bloody talked about it to Lyle.’
‘Oh, come on, Murray. I’m an overweight fifty-five-year-old poetry lecturer and Rachel’s a thirty-five-year-old dolly bird. I had to tell someone. Anyway, I’d been drinking.’
‘You’ve
‘Is that how James Bond does it? Hello, ladies, I was on my way for a pish and wondered if I could bring you anything back? Ever wondered why it’s going to say “confirmed bachelor” on your obituary?’
‘It must be better than mooning over Ms Houghton.’
Lyle Joff awakened slowly, like an ugly toy twitching into life in a deserted nursery. The flesh beneath his eyes trembled and then the eyes themselves opened. He blinked and turned his fuzzy gaze on Murray.
‘Rachel Houghton.’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Good arse. Good everything else too.’
‘Lyle.’ Rab’s voice was warning. ‘We’re talking about a colleague.’
Lyle’s brief sleep seemed to have refreshed him. He wiped away the glue of saliva that had formed at the corners of his mouth and took a sip of his pint. ‘Listen to Professor PC. ’
Rab said, ‘Shut up, Lyle, you’re drunk.’
A couple of the pool players looked over. Murray raised his beer to his lips. It tasted of nothing.
‘We’re all drunk. Say what you were going to say, Lyle.’
‘Lyle, I’m warning you.’
Rab’s tone was low and commanding, but Lyle was too far gone to notice. He patted Rab’s shoulder.
‘Murray’s one of us, the three mouseketeers.’ He giggled. ‘It’s top secret. Rab said Fergus would have his balls strung up and made into an executive toy for his desk if he found out.’
‘The three musketeers, great swordsmen.’ Murray turned to Rab. ‘What’s the big secret?’
‘Nothing, Lyle’s just being provocative, aren’t you, Lyle?’
‘Not as provocative as Rachel.’ Lyle put an arm around Rab. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.’
Rab lifted the arm from his shoulder. His eyes met Murray’s and all of the ruined adventure was in them. There was no need to ask what had happened, but Murray said, ‘Tell me.’
Lyle looked from one to the other, wary as a barroom dog whose master is on his fourth drink.
Rab sighed wearily.
‘What’s the point? She’s a free spirit, Murray, a generous woman.’
‘I want to know.’
A little beer had slopped onto the table. Rab dipped his finger in it and drew a damp circle on the Formica. He looked his age.
‘A one-off mercy fuck, that’s all there is to it.’
‘When?’
‘The end of last term. You remember all that hoo-ha about my introduction to the new Scottish poetry anthology?’
Murray did. Rab had been forthright in his assessment that a new wave of Scottish poets were throwing off the class-consciousness, self-obsession and non-poetic subject matter of the previous generation and ushering in a golden age. The new wave had leapt to the defence of their predecessors while balking at Rab’s description of them as non-political. The elder statesmen had been vitriolic in their assessment of academics in general, and Rab in particular. It must have been a week when war and disaster had slipped from the news because the row had hit the broadsheets. Rab had been derided by academics and pundits north of the border and a source of amusement to those south of it.
‘It all blew up in my face a bit. Some people thrive on controversy, Fergus for example, but I don’t. It got me down. Rachel dropped into my office one afternoon to commiserate and we went for a few drinks, quite a few drinks. Then when the pub closed I remembered that there was another bottle at my place. There’s always another bottle at my place.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I didn’t expect her to come and then when she did I didn’t expect anything more than a drink. I was going to tell you.’ He laughed almost shyly. ‘But a gentleman doesn’t talk about these things.’
‘You bloody talked about it to Lyle.’
‘Oh, come on, Murray. I’m an overweight fifty-five-year-old poetry lecturer and Rachel’s a thirty-five-year-old dolly bird. I had to tell someone. Anyway, I’d been drinking.’
‘You’ve
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