well, that won’t be a first.’
Lyn gave a weak smile.
‘Just remember it was done with love.’
‘No blood this time?’
‘No blood, but it was still painful for him, so be kind.’
‘When am I not?’
‘Never.’
She touched his arm gently as she descended the stairs to the bar.
Jack was at the centre of a small knot of people, but he saw Murray and broke away, flinging an arm around his brother’s shoulder. Murray wondered where it came from, this physicality. He couldn’t remember them ever touching as boys except when they were fighting.
‘Hiya.’
‘Hi, Jack.’ He put his arm round his brother, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of his suit. ‘Congratulations.’
Jack’s face was shiny, his forehead beaded with sweat and his eyes bright. Murray could hear his brother’s voice coming from somewhere else too, a voiceover on a video installation he guessed. The words were indistinct, but Jack’s soft tones were cut through with another wilder, higher voice. The Jack in front of him looked anxious. He squeezed Murray’s shoulder and said, ‘I was keeping an eye out for you. Have you been round everything already?’
‘No, I just got here. All I’ve seen are those Japanese cartoon-collage things.’
Jack gave a quick scan of the room then whispered, ‘Pile of pish, eh?’
Murray laughed.
‘I don’t know about art, but I do know a pile of pish when I see it.’
‘Don’t let them put you off. Anyway, don’t congratulate me till you’ve seen my stuff. You might not like it.’
‘I’d better go and have a butcher’s then.’
The walls behind him were lined with photos. They looked more muted than Jack’s usual sharp-focused colours, but they were too far away for Murray to take in their detail.
‘Wait a moment.’ Jack took his sleeve as if worried that his brother would escape. ‘Murray, it’s all about Dad.’
Murray pulled himself gently from his brother’s grip. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and walked into the heart of the exhibition.
Their father looked pretty much as he had when Murray had last seen him. He was propped up in the high-backed chair, wearing a pair of brown paisley-patterned pyjamas. His hands clutched the armrests. His head was thrown back, his old face lost in the crazy smile of another man. Jack’s camera had caught him mid-word, his mouth open, the wetness of saliva coating his lips. His eyes dazzled.
Murray shut his own eyes then opened them again, the vision of his father remained in front of him, exposed to the wine-drinkers. He could hear his father’s voice now, chatting to Jack. He walked to the curtained darkroom in the corner of the gallery, ignoring the display cases and trying to blinker himself to the other photographs. The two long benches inside the blacked-out cubicle were full, so he stood at the end of the row of people leaning against the back wall. The close-up of his father’s face was six foot high. Jack’s voice came from somewhere off-camera asking, ‘Mr Watson, can you tell me if you’ve got any children, please?’
Their father grinned.
‘I’ve got two boys, terrific wee fellas. Six and eleven, they are.’
‘Great ages, and what are they up to the now?’
The old man’s face fogged with confusion.
‘I don’t know. I’ve no seen them in a long while.’ He was getting distressed, his pitch rising. ‘They telt me they were fine, but how do they know? Have you seen them, son?’
‘I’ve seen them, they’re absolutely fine.’
‘Are you sure 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,
