He remembered where he was and minimised the screen, glancing behind him to check whether anyone had seen his shame, but the shop was still empty, the proprietor still somewhere in the backroom. Murray half-turned his chair towards the door, the better to hear any new customers entering, and then looked at the image again.
It took him a moment to realise what he was seeing. Then he recognised the room, the familiar desk with its pile of unmarked essays, the uncomfortable chair he reserved for students, shoved to one side. It was the night she dumped him, the night he had rushed into the corridor, chasing after the intruder. He could see his own white arse caught mid-thrust on the screen, Rachel’s elegant legs inelegantly spread beneath him.
Murray glanced towards the counter, wondering how good a view someone standing behind it would have of the monitor, realising the computer had been cleverly positioned to allow minimum privacy. He rolled the cursor down the screen anyway, wondering how many snaps the prowler had managed to take. He would phone Rachel afterwards, reassure her that no one could know the woman was her, even if the photo were to be pasted billboard-high in George Square, or more likely distributed amongst a thousand pay-for-view websites.
Jesus, what a mess. But it was a mess they were in together.
He didn’t feature in the next image. Instead there was Rachel with a young man Murray thought he might recognise from postgraduate forums. He couldn’t be sure. The man’s face was turned away and he was naked, Rachel kneeling on the floor between his open legs, her features hidden in his groin. She was naked too, pale and beautiful. Murray felt a sharp surge of jealousy, remembering that they had never completely undressed for each other.
The four remaining images were more of the same, Rachel and sex the only constant. Rachel with a grey-haired man who had kept his watch on. The time was half past three, and she was astride him, her hands fondling her breasts.
Rachel bent over a chair in a hotel bedroom while a hirsute man with a slack belly and balding head held her rear and pointed his erect penis into her.
Rachel on her back, two men with her this time, and the faint blur of other undressed bodies in the background.
Rachel with her legs splayed, the head of some naked stranger pressed between them, her head thrown back, neck exposed so that Murray could see the hollow in her throat he had liked to kiss.
There was a sound behind him. He killed the image and spun round in his chair. Christie Graves was standing at the far end of the aisle, a newspaper and a loaf of bread in her basket. Their eyes met.
The pictures had been so big, so arresting, as loud in his head as the Jump Jet that had brought him to his knees. He couldn’t imagine how she could have missed them. Christie held his gaze for a moment, then looked away and went to the counter.
Murray sat staring at the blank monitor, hearing the shop man’s cheery greeting and Christie’s low replies, feeling a sense of loss that brought back other losses, too sad to even wonder who had sent him the photographs and what he could send them in return. He heard the door swing shut as Christie left the shop, but even then his eyes remained on the black screen of the sleeping machine.
Chapter Twenty-Four
PETE HAD BEEN apologetic about the state of the bothy, but in the afterglow of the race down Everest, Murray had thought it the perfect solution. Back then Rachel’s call had seemed like a spark of hope. She had thought of him, and even though she had hung up when he said he missed her, she’d sounded sad. Sadness had seemed something he might be able to work with. Now he felt that he might drown in it.
In the pale light of the afternoon the small cottage had appeared charmingly simple. Viewing its front room through the beam of his battery torch, Murray thought it embodied a decrepitude that matched his mood. The floor was covered in old cardboard, ‘your original underlay’ Pete had called it, to keep out the damp in the earth that sat directly beneath the wooden floor the crofter had laid when he and his family had camped there three years ago.
Pete dumped the carton of supplies they’d bought at the shop onto the makeshift table that took up most of the first room and swung the beam of his torch around the stone walls.
‘It’ll be a bit isolated for you after Glasgow, but we’re only a couple of miles down the road and I’ll drop by from time to time to see if there’s anything you need.’ Jinx padded around the room, sniffing into corners with an enthusiasm that hinted at vermin. ‘Hi, you. Sit,’ Pete commanded, ‘or you’re going out.’ He primed the Calor heater, the blue flames bursting into life on the third press of the ignition. The dog settled herself in front of the fire. Pete scratched her belly roughly. ‘That’s not for your benefit.’ He turned his attention back to Murray. ‘There’s an extra canister of gas for when this one runs out and there’s butane for the Primus stove. I’ve brought you the wind-up radio we used when we were down here. Do you know how to use an Aladdin lamp?’
Murray said, ‘I think so.’
But Pete showed him anyway. The room grew more present, but no more cheerful, in the lamp’s yellow glow.
‘You’re going back to basics. The kids loved it when we lived here, but that was in summer. I made damn sure our cottage was ship-shape well before the winter came.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Murray opened the door to the cottage’s second room and saw the sleeping bag and extra blankets neatly folded on top of the camp bed. An upturned wooden box sat beside it, ready to serve as a bedside table. Something about the Spartan neatness of the arrangement made him wonder if Pete had been in the army. ‘I think you’ve thought of everything.’
‘I doubt that,’ the crofter grinned. ‘It’s been a bit of a rush job. But if there’s anything missing, you can let me know.’ He went out to the trailer and returned with a carton of supplies. ‘The plan’s always been to eventually turn this place into a summer let, but it’s got sidelined over the last couple of years. I’m afraid it’s not exactly tourist board standard.’ He set a car battery in a corner, then went back out and returned with another, which he placed beside it. ‘Okay, that’s you got one and one spare. I’ve another charging at home. I reckon they should last you a week at least, but if they don’t, drop round and I’ll swap them. I’ve set up the chemical toilet in the shit box, as Martin liked to call it.’ Pete laughed. ‘You know what teenage boys are like.’
Murray didn’t, but he forced a smile.
‘I take it that’s the outside lav.’
‘Got it in one. There’s a rain butt by the door that you can use for washing, and it’s okay for drinking if you boil first. Sheila says to come down to the house if you feel like a bath or a hot shower.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you’re all right with this? I feel a bit guilty charging good money for something so basic.’
Murray wished the small man would go, but he knew that he needed to endure the rigmarole before he would be left in peace. He forced a smile onto his face.
‘Don’t worry, it’s ideal.’
‘Good.’ The crofter’s grin looked relieved. ‘I’m hoping the place is still watertight. I put the roof on myself before I moved the family in.’ He shone the beam of his torch up into the eaves. ‘I had a look this afternoon when I brought the camp bed down, there doesn’t seem to be any ingress of water.’ Pete clicked the torch off. ‘Time will tell.’ He reached into one of the boxes he’d brought and pulled out a half-bottle of Famous Grouse. ‘A dram to welcome you.’ He opened it and poured a little of the whisky onto the floor. ‘The old bloke that helped us move made me promise to always do this in a new house. The faeries like a drink too, apparently.’ Pete shook his head at his own foolishness. ‘It’s probably a joke he plays on all the English wankers.’ He took two glasses from the top of a box, poured a large measure into each and handed one to Murray. ‘Cheers.’