Complicity

by Iain Banks

  I get to the fence leading downhill and follow it, stumbling now and again on the rocks and stones left at the side of the field; my eyes are still adjusting to the darkness. The ground underfoot is fairly firm, not too muddy.

  At the hedge marking the foot of the field I have to look for a minute to find a way through. Finally I have to crawl through and underneath it, snagging my polo-neck. Trees heard but barely seen in the darkness make a great rushing, crackling sound above me.

  I scramble down a muddy, leaf-littered bank and into a chilly stream at the bottom; it flows over one boot and I whisper, "Shit," and squelch up the far bank, holding onto the cold branches of bushes and the mud-slimy roots of trees. I force my way through some bushes at the top. I can see street lights ahead, and the geometric shapes of darkened houses. I keep crouched and make my way through the low bushes, heading diagonally through the wood towards the estate. I trip over a log and fall but don't hurt myself. I come to the two-metre-high brick wall which surrounds the estate and feel my way along it, stumbling over piles of earth and building debris until I get to the corner.

  I measure sixty paces along the wall and then walk away from it to the nearest tree. A patch of moonlight means I have to wait nearly five minutes for the clouds to cover the moon again before I can climb the tree. I get far enough up to see the house and identify it by its position and the garden furniture, then I climb back down, go to the wall and jump up, catching hold of the concrete ridge tiles on top of the wall and pulling myself up. I rest on the top of the wall, my hands shaking, my heart pumping hard. I look at the dark house in front of me and the screens of tall shrubs and young trees on either side concealing the two neighbouring villas.

  The moon threatens to come out from behind the clouds again and I have to jump down to the paving stones of the patio beneath. There is a small wall beside the greenhouse which rises to within a metre of the top of the estate wall; that's my escape route. There are infrared-sensing security lights on the wall of the house and if they go on then the whole thing's off; I'm up and over the wall and back into the woods and away.

  I walk quietly over the patio, onto the grass and towards the house, just waiting for the blaze of light from the security lamps. It doesn't happen. I reach the lower patio where the garden furniture stands by the side of the tarpaulin-covered pool and crouch down by the ghostly perforated shape of the cast-iron bench. I feel up inside the overhang where the back of the bench joins the arm, the leather of my gloves catching on rough splinters of metal. I can't feel enough. I take my glove off and try again, the metal cold and edges sharp against my skin. I feel the putty, then the embedded key and its short length of string. I take hold of the string and pull gently. The key comes out, clinking quietly once. I put my glove back on.

  I walk carefully past the conservatory to the back door of the house, slide the key into the lock and turn it. The door opens silently. The house is warm inside and smells of washing powder. I lock the door; as I move away from it, a small, faint red light comes on with a tiny clinking noise, high up in one far corner of the room. The sensor doesn't set the alarm off; the system isn't armed.

  I move very slowly through the utility room and into the kitchen (another little red light clicks on). My boots squelch and squeak on the tiles. I hesitate, then kneel and quickly take the boots off, leaving them by the dishwasher. When I stand up I see the wooden block full of knives on the work surface, just visible by moonlight next to the gently gleaming stainless steel of the sinks. I pull out the largest of the knives, then turn and leave the kitchen, heading down the corridor past the dining room and the study to the stairs. Beyond and to the side is the split-level lounge; a shaft of orange street light sifting through the trees round the front garden shows leather settees, chairs, bookcases full of videos, CDs and books, a couple of coffee tables and a big metal hood over a raised central fireplace. Another sensor high in one corner glows red as I move towards the foot of the stairs.

  The carpet on the stairs is thick and deep and I make no noise as I climb to the top, then pad along towards the master bedroom, tripping one more sensor. The bedroom door opens with only the softest of creaks.

  At the head of the wide double bed there is a weak green glow. As I move round I see the numerals of a digital clock. The lime-coloured light spills faintly out onto white sheets and a single, sleeping face. I go closer, very slowly, the knife held in front of me. I watch her breathe. One of her arms lies outside the covers, hanging out pale and naked over the edge of the bed. She has short, dark hair and a slim, slightly boyish face; thin, dark brows, thin nose, pale lips with the hint of a pout, and a sharp triangular chin matching sharp, high cheekbones.

  I creep closer. She stirs. I reach forward, the knife in one hand, the other glove touching then gathering and balling a fistful of duvet and then pulling it sharply, throwing it away behind me as I leap forward, seeing her pale nakedness in the same instant as I slap my hand over her mouth; her eyes open wide and she starts trying to push up; I force her back down into the bed, hand still over her mouth. I raise the knife so she can see it. She struggles, eyes widening further, but I pin her to the sheets with my weight and keep the glove firmly over her mouth even though she isn't making any noise. I rest the blade of the knife against her throat and she goes still.

  "Make a noise and you're dead, understand?" I say. She seems not to hear, staring up at me. "Understand?" I say again, and this time she nods quickly. "Warning you," I tell her as I slowly take my hand away from her mouth. She doesn't call out.

  I push myself up, still keeping the knife near her throat. I undo the zip on my jeans. I'm not wearing any underpants and my cock falls out, already hard. She's staring into my eyes. I see her swallow. A pulse beats at the top of her long, white neck, under her chin. Her hand is creeping to the side of the bed. I look at it, and it stops. Her eyes look terrified now. I put the blade of the knife against her neck again and look down to the edge of the mattress. She's trembling. I feel under the edge of the mattress, above the wooden frame of the huge bed. I feel a wooden handle; I pull out a ten-inch hunting knife with a serrated blade. I whistle softly, then throw it across the carpets towards the windows. She's staring at me.

  "On your front," I tell her. "On your knees, like a dog. Now."

  She starts to breathe raggedly, mouth open. Her whole body is trembling.

  "Do it!" I hiss.

  She rolls over, onto her front, then gets up onto her knees, taking the weight of her upper body on her hands.

  "Face on the sheets," I tell her. "Hands up here."

  She rests her face on the sheet and puts her hands behind her. I take the handcuffs from my pocket and snap them over her wrists. I stop to put a condom on, then climb onto the bed behind her, put the knife onto the sheets just within reach, grip her hips with both hands and pull her onto my cock.

  She shouts as I enter her. She's soaking wet and within a few thrusts I'm ready to come and she's panting, then grunting then calling out, "Oh, fuck, yes!" and then it's all over and I collapse over her and then fall off her and almost cut my ear on the cool blade of the kitchen knife lying on the sheet.

  She lies there on her side, facing me, watching me, still panting, hands still trapped behind her back, a strange, charged expression on her face, and after a bit she says, "Is that it?"

  I breathe deeply and say, "No."

  I haul her roughly back up onto her knees with her face down on the sheets again and spread her buttocks and stick an index finger into her anus, sliding it quickly half into her. She gasps. I position my head above her backside and let some spit fall down onto where the knuckle is caught on the ring of muscle, then push my finger fully into her. She gasps again; I start to move the finger in and out, stroking her clitoris with my other hand. I use two fingers after a while, then I'm hard again; I pull the first condom off and put on another one, then I spit onto my rubber-sheathed prick and, guiding it with my fingers, ease it slowly into her rectum.

  Sh
e comes screaming; I don't think I'm going to but then I do.

  We collapse together onto the bed, breathing in time. I pull myself out of her. There is a faint smell of shit. I undo the handcuffs and lie there, holding her. She pulls the ski-mask from my head.

  "Where are your shoes?" she whispers after a while.

  "In the kitchen," I tell her. They were muddy. Didn't want to make a mess."

  She laughs quietly in the darkness.

  "But I was in control," she says, over the noise of the streaming water as she soaps my shoulders and back. "All I had to say was your name, and it was all over. That's what we agreed; I trust you."

  "But what's the difference?" I ask her, trying to see her over my shoulder. "Anybody watching that would have said I was a rapist and you were being raped."

  "But we knew different."

  "But is that all it is? I mean just thinking that? What if it had been a real rapist?"

  "What if it had been the wrong house?"

  "I checked the furniture."

  "And you were just you; you moved like you, spoke like you; smelled like you."

  "But-"

  "Look; I enjoyed it," she says, soaping the small of my back and my buttocks. "I don't think I want to do it again, but it was interesting to live it out. But what about you? How did you feel about it?"

  "Nervous as fuck — I was certain I wouldn't be able to get it up, I mean just certain, especially as I'm still feeling the effects from getting pissed yesterday — and then, well… aroused, I suppose, when… when I realised you were."

  "Uh-huh. Not before."

  "No!"

  "No."

  "I mean, I felt awful for long enough; I felt like a rapist."

  "But you weren't." She slides her hand between the cheeks of my bum, then soaps my thighs and down my legs. "You were doing something I'd always fantasised about."

  "Oh great, so that old fuck Jamieson was right and all women secretly want to be raped."

  Yvonne slaps my calves. "Don't be stupid. Nobody wants to be raped, but some people have fantasies about it. The control isn't some detail, Cameron… knowing it's somebody you can trust isn't just by-the-way; it's everything."

  "Hmm," I say, unconvinced.

  "Men like Jamieson hate women, Cameron. Or maybe they just hate women who aren't totally in awe of men, women who aren't under their control." She runs her hands up my legs to my buttocks again, sliding her fingers between my cheeks, touching my anus and making me go up on the balls of my feet, then her hand runs back down my legs. "Maybe men like that should have it happen to them," she says. "Rape; assault. See how they like it."

  "Yeah," I say, shivering suddenly despite the heat because we're getting into dodgy territory here. "All those wigs and garters and funny gowns; fuckin askin for it, in't they? Know wot I mean?" The steam gets to my throat and I cough.

  I'm wondering whether I should say anything to her about the police, and about the retired Judge Jamieson being "assaulted', whatever that means. After my drunken afternoon with Al I don't feel the same need to offload as I did before, and I can't decide whether I ought to involve Yvonne or not.

  She washes my feet. "Or maybe," she says, "the Greers and the Dworkins are right, and the Pickleses and the Jamiesons are right too, and all men are rapists, and all women want to be raped."

  "Bullshit."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "But I still didn't like being made to feel like I was a rapist."

  "Well, we won't do that again."

  "And I still find the idea of you wanting me to do it… unsettling."

  She's silent for a while, then says, "The other day" — she's soaping the front of my legs now, from behind — "when you had to sit through Eldorado in that really uncomfortable position; you enjoyed that, didn't you?"

  She's smoothing her sappled hands up and down my thighs.

  "Well… eventually," I concede.

  "But if that had been somebody else doing that to you…" she says softly, so that I can hardly hear her over the quiet thunder of the shower. She's soaping my balls now, gently palping them, massaging them. … Somebody you didn't know — male or female — tying you up, leaving you helpless, somewhere where shouting couldn't help you, and there was a big sharp knife under the bed… how would you have felt then?"

  She stands up and rubs her body up against me, stroking my still mostly limp cock. I gaze out through the steam and the rivulets of water running down the glass of the shower cabinet. I'm looking out at the moodily lit bathroom and wondering what I would do if I suddenly saw William appear out there, flight bags in hand, a Surprise, honey, I'm home! look on his face.

  "Petrified," I admit. "I'd be scared stiff. Well, scared soft."

  She's gently pulling on my prick. It doesn't really want to and I find it difficult to believe and I'm not sure I want to because I feel so fucking drained and sore, but the thing's actually responding, fattening and firming and rising in her kneading, soap-slick hands.

  She puts her chin on my shoulder and a sharp fingernail against my jugular. "Turn round, bitch-boy," she hisses.

  "Oh ha-bloody-ha."

  Yvonne wakes me up after an hour's sleep and tells me I have to leave. I turn over and pretend I'm still asleep but she pulls the duvet off me and switches the lights on. I have to dress in my sweaty, dirty clothes and go back down to the kitchen, grumbling while she makes me a coffee, and I complain about my wet boots and she gives me a fresh pair of William's socks to wear and I put them on and drink my coffee and whine about never being allowed to spend the night and tell her how just once I'd like to wake up here in the morning, and have a nice, civilised breakfast with her, sitting on the sunny balcony outside the bedroom windows, but she makes me sit down while she laces my boots up, then takes my coffee cup off me and sends me out the back door and says I've got two minutes before she arms the alarm and puts the infrared lights on stand-by so I have to go back the way I came, over the estate wall and through the wood and down into the stream where I get both feet wet and cold and I fall going up the bank and get all muddy and eventually drag myself up and through the hedge, scratching my cheek and tearing my polo-neck and then trudging across the field through heavy rain and more mud and finally getting to the car and panicking when I can't find the car keys before remembering I put them in the button-down back pocket of the jeans for safety instead of the side pocket like I usually do, and then having to put some dead branches under the front wheels because the fucking car's stuck and finally getting away and home and even in the street light I can see what a mess of the pale upholstery my muddy clothes have made.

  I feel too tired to sleep so I play some Despot when I get home but my heart's not in it and the Empire is still in a tattered-looking state after all the earlier disasters and I'm almost wondering if I should start again but that would mean going back to the fucking dawn of civilisation and the temptation in Despot is always to swap PoV, which people who don't know the game always think sounds sort of innocent, like some detail, but it isn't: you're not just swapping Point of View, you're swapping your current Despotic Power Level for something less, even if it's a regional lord or other king or a general or royal relation close to the throne, and it is not to be done lightly because as soon as you renounce the current Despot's PoV the computer takes over and it's a smart fucking piece of software. Try to swap too late, hold on too long and you get assassinated and that's it; that's you back to the cave with twenty other flea-bitten reduced-statures and the bright idea of bringing some fire into the cave! Swap too soon and the program takes over and performs some miracle that pulls the ass of the Despot you just abandoned out of the fire and next thing you know the secret police are banging down the doors and hauling you and your family off into the night and oblivion; the machine thereupon promptly declares itself the winner and it's back to that fucking cave again.

  I give up after an hour of civilisational water-treading, hit Store and slope off to bed. I've smoked six fags without really meaning
to.

  I'm still heading for the hills. I get up bright and late. I phone Andy and confirm it's still all right to visit, then I ring Eddie and get the next three days off, tell the cops — they're based at Fettes, though the DI has gone back down to London, and no they're still not giving me back my new portable yet — and (after I've cleaned the car up a bit) head out of the city and across the grey bridge in a day of squally, buffeting rain that has the bridge's 40-limit signs on, high-sided vehicles banned and the 205 dancing its Dunlops sideways as the gusts hit.

  Then it's up the M90, skirting Perth and heading northwards on the A9 with its frustrating mix of dual and single carriageways and its dire-warning signs about unmarked police cars before the fun begins at Dalwhinnie. Nirvana, Michelle Shocked, Crowded House and Carter USM provide the sound track. The rain eases as I head west; I catch the last of a wide, bloody-looking sunset over Skye and the Kyles and the floodlights turning Eilean Donan's grey stones green; I make it to Strome in four hours twenty minutes from home, arriving just as the stars are coming out above in the purple spaces between the dark, heavy clouds.

  "You total bastard! You total utter and complete bastard! That's how you fucking do it! Bastard!"

  Compensation and redemption; education, even. I'm in the dark hotel at the side of the black loch and it's close to midnight and I'm drunk but not stoned and so's Andy and his pal Howie and I'm sitting in the old ballroom on the lower ground floor, looking out over the waters to where grey ghostly moonlit mountains rise, tops glowing softly, capped with snow, and I'm playing computer games. In fact I'm playing Xerium, of all things, and blow me down, blow me up if I haven't just found out how to get over the Mountains of Zound at long, long last.

  It's easy but sneaky; you ferry a dump of fuel, shielding, a nuke and a missile, load up on fuel and a nuke, fly out and up eight clicks, drop the nuke at the foot of the mountains, power-dive back down to base, load the shielding, fuel to the max with just one missile aboard (meanwhile the nuke explodes, shaking the ground; you don't want to be fueling at this point), then you climb like fuck, get to ceiling and then hover in the air above the rising mushroom cloud! The cloud comes up beneath you and carries you up with it over your normal ceiling. The shielding protects you — though you still need to do some fancy flying to stay stable within the radioactive thermals — then as the cloud dissipates you cut out and down, across the mountains — they look tiny! — swoop across the closed valley, loose the missile when the base's defence radar picks you up and use the last of your fuel to escape over the far side while the missile takes out the base. Simple!