Free Strip the Willow by John Aberdein Page A

how many million of which marine species he was currently murdering, that he did have a knack for. Envy of man-of-action by full-time wimp, I suppose, simple as that. Spermy had pained him before, and would be instrumental in savaging him again. No doubt you do well to develop a sixth sense for the swerves and shifts of a man like that. (Did it verge on hero-worship? Because that’s dangerous ground, as the moth finds out every time it shuns moon and worships incandescence. Though are moths drawn by moonlight? I have to admit I’m guessing here.)
    The third of those to get seriously under Jim’s skin, so to speak, was Julie. Julie Swink. Only the Lord Provost’s daughter, so help me. Scientist, toughhead. About as sentimental as a barnacle. (Mind you, apparently Charles Darwin, I nearly said Dickens, Charles Darwin spent about eight years studying them. Nora Barnacle, who was that again? Sometimes I wish I had more time for research, instead of wandering around sticking microphones under chins. Transcribing? It takes so long ! No way you can skate it: it’s all in real time.) As I say, Julie got under Jim’s skin. But whether it was empathy or something less exotic, it sure turned out a stormy time. Hang on to your hats, gentle readers. Julie Swink was either a scientist fallen amongst rogues, or she was a diver and she took him down. For the moment let us leave it at that.
     
    Marilyn knocked and came straight up to her desk.
    – Bundle of stuff for signing-off. UbSpec want a meeting tomorrow, they’re open as regards time. Are you okay?
    – Oh, fine, she said. I think so, yes fine. She had been careful not to bundle up the papers guiltily when the Admin Sec came in. When did you say?
    – The time’s not decided yet. Marilyn looked over the typescript briskly and back at Lucy.
    – Research, said Lucy. The Civil War. I understand we might do it after all.
    – Never heard that, said Marilyn. I think they want something far, far bigger. Do you want coffee bringing? You’ve been in here a while.
    – No, no, I’m awake. It’s fine.
    – Suit yourself. We can check timetables for tomorrow later. Come past my desk.
     
    Well it was a draughty hall the wind blew through, rocking the portraits. Ludwig, Amande, Lucy, Spermy, Julie. The way I’ve set it out in the final text, they’re hung in that order. There were, of course, quite a few more.
    His father, Andy. Andy was upstanding, integrity carried to an annoying degree, that nobody (not Jim for sure) could hope to live up to. Sober, practical, pretty selfless (not that Jim thought so), Andy was one of those Communists who resigned on principle after the Russians invaded Hungary. Jim’s sister Annie, a bright spark, was briefly present, but if there were other siblings, brothers perhaps, they didn’t appear in the audio record. (Mind you, it was Hogmanay, they might just have been out, carousing the night away, in other houses.) Then a professor from Crete, Zander Petrakis, and a caterer from Shanghai, Bing Qing, that he bumped into. Though the longer I go in this game, the less I believe in random coincidence. Then Iris, I’ve mentioned already, my second wife Iris. Jim and her went back a long way, in the school chum sense. Iris knew Jim’s real name, of course, though by the time I met her, I’d just about finished typing this. Thanks, Iris, I said. It was just after she came out of prison, I wanted to do an audio-feature on her, but she refused. Then, in the course of our increasingly warm discussions, Jim came up in some context or other. They both wrote plays at school. Such a detail by this stage was not even ironic.
    Anyway, let’s gather this. All the time, as Jim spewed out his trance on tape, and as I transcribed it, then shaped it up in the way you’ll soon read, I had been trying to piece together who this piece of wind, this part-time harp, this draughty portrait hall could be. By could be I didn’t mean just his name. Names are a bagatelle: