Naming the Bones by Louise Welsh

‘How do you find Fergus Baine as head of department?’
    Murray wondered if news of his affair with Rachel had spread as far as here, the self-contained bed-sit in the heart of what used to be a family home. He took a sip of coffee. He’d put in too much of the instant powder and it tasted bitter on his tongue.
    ‘Very efficient.’
    ‘Yes, efficiency has a habit of propelling men to the top.’
    Tiredness was slackening the professor’s face. If Lunan had been a bright, short-lived flame, James was wax, his features melting with time. Murray turned the tape recorder back on.
    ‘Tell me about Christie Graves. Did you see much of her?’
    James sighed, as if disappointed to be abandoning the subject of Murray’s head of department.
    ‘Not at first, but pretty soon Christie became part of the package. She was Archie’s shadow, or maybe he was hers, who knows? She was very beautiful in a way that was fashionable back then: big eyes, pale skin and that red hair, very pre-Raphaelite. She’s always credited as being part of the group and, in a way, I suppose she was. She was certainly there a lot that year, but she never contributed anything, just sat there quietly with a Giaconda-like smile on her face. It irritated the hell out of me.’
    ‘She must have surprised you later.’
    ‘Oh, yes, Christie was a big surprise. Of course, in a way, Lunan’s death was the making of her. Maybe that’s a resurrection of sorts, though it didn’t seem so at the time.’ James took a sip of his coffee. The ancient goblin features drooped with the weight of memories. ‘There was no funeral. Lunan’s body was lost but somebody organised a wake in Mather’s, and someone else was mawkish enough to give a reading of “Preparation for a Wake”. Needless to say, Archie didn’t rise up like some thirsty messiah, ready to join in the drinking. Those that did attend got horribly drunk, myself included. Christie stayed away. I can’t say I blamed her. I only saw her once after Lunan drowned, quite soon afterwards in fact, walking down the Bridges. She’d cut her hair. I remember being terribly touched by that. She’d had such beautiful hair, been quite aware of it too. But it was gone, hacked off. I crossed the street to offer my condolences. She saw me, met my eyes and nodded, but she didn’t stop. I didn’t hear anything of her until a few years later when her book came out.’
    ‘What did you make of it?’
    ‘What could you make of it? It was good. A funny word to apply to a book like that, but it was. Terrible and good.’
    ‘Did you think any of it was based on fact?’
    ‘What does it matter? Would it make it a better book?’
    ‘Not necessarily better, but it’s an interesting question, from my perspective.’
    James leaned back in his chair and raised his wilting features to the ceiling, showing the full stretch of his tortoise neck.
    ‘Authenticity . . . was it authentic? It existed, I held it in my hands and it impressed me. I think it had something better than authenticity. It had integrity, and that’s all the truth that we can ever hope for.’
    James accompanied Murray to the front door despite his protestations that he could find the way himself. They shook hands on the doorstep and James asked, ‘Are you going to interview her? Christie?’
    ‘Apparently not. My requests have been turned
down.’
    ‘A pity. Now that would have been a coup.’
    He was halfway down the path when James called him back.
    ‘It’s up to you what kind of book you want this to be, but I think you have to find a way of seeing her.’
    The older man was a head shorter. Murray looked down into eyes sparked with youth. He remembered James’s description of Lunan as an over-elated religious convert and thought it could also be applied to this elderly face brimming with conviction.
    ‘Easier said than done. She’s threatened to prosecute me if I try.’
    Professor James snorted.
    ‘And you’re going to let that stop