Whit

by Iain Banks

  At any rate, although the original monumental hammock was left behind in Luskentyre when the Community moved to High Easter Offerance, and Salvador and the sisters thereupon enjoyed more normal sleeping arrangements in the shape of a couple of beds shoved together, that is why hammocks are sacred to us and why an Elect is expected to sleep in one at least every now and again, and whenever they are away from the Community (and preferably with their head pointed towards the Community, to show their thoughts lie in that direction). Personally I've always liked hammocks and never really felt comfortable in ordinary beds, so I rarely sleep in anything else.

  * * *

  I lay in my hammock. The loft was spinning. I suspected I had put away too much of the Litening Stryke cider over the course of the evening. At home, when we wish to partake of alcohol we almost invariably drink our own ales, produced in the brew house at the farm. There are certain ceremonies in which small amounts of a special Holy Ale are used, and generally the fact that fermented or distilled fluids have a certain effect on the human brain is taken as being at best a benediction and a gift from God, and at worst an example of Their irritatingly inventive sense of humour which it would be dangerously unwise as well as distinctly unsporting not to be a willing party to. At the same time, however, while a degree of tipsiness is welcomed and indeed even encouraged at certain social events in the Order, extreme inebriation and loss of control of one's mental and bodily functions is very much frowned upon.

  Community beers tend to be relatively heavily flavoured but mild in strength, whereas the cider we had consumed with the evening meal had been just the opposite, and I was suffering the effects of having treated one like the other.

  The evening had passed very pleasantly; the others in the squat were Dec, the Irishman who'd walked in as Brother Zebediah had been washing my feet; Boz, a most sizable and lustrously black Jamaican man with a fabulously deep, slow voice; Scarpa, his interestingly pale south London girlfriend; and Wince, a smaller version of Boz but, confusingly, with an Irish accent.

  They had been a little wary of me at first, but things had gradually become more convivial, first over the meal of vegetable curry, sweet potatoes and chicken (the last of which I couldn't eat, of course, and was glad to see Brother Zebediah passed on as well) and later while watching a videotaped film in the squat's living room, which was bare but functional and - in terms of new-looking electrical entertainment equipment - surprisingly well-equipped. I was, especially initially, distinctly uncomfortable sitting in the presence of all this cluttering technology, but felt that it was my duty to be sociable; I was, after all, the ambassador for my Faith amongst these people, as well as owing them the normal courtesies a guest owes hosts.

  Partly, no doubt, the feeling of relaxation I experienced was due to the effects of the Litening Stryke as well as the 'blow' drug cigarettes they smoked, but partly too it was thanks to my somewhat playing the holy fool, regaling them with tales of our life at High Easter Offerance, our history, Revealed truths, commandments and rituals.

  They all appeared to find this most entertaining, and there was much laughter and giggling. Dec wiped tears from his eyes at one point and asked me, 'Jayzus, Is, what are you on?'

  'A mission,' I informed him, to further hilarity.

  I think Zeb was a little embarrassed in places, but I counted it no disgrace for our Order to be the cause of such enjoyment in others, and it is anyway the case that what one initially laughs at and finds quite ridiculous can often, on more sober reflection, come to seem quite sensible and latterly even wise. There are more ways than one in which to spread the good word!

  I had managed to have a quiet word with Zeb at one point, helping him to do the dishes after the meal. I briefly explained the nature of my mission and told him I expected his full cooperation in the search for our cousin Morag, which would start promptly on the morrow.

  'Well, I. Never heard. Her. Being. Internationally famous,' Zeb muttered towards the suds.

  'Well, she is, Brother Zeb,' I told him. 'Are you in the habit of attending classical concerts or mixing in that sort of circle?'

  'No. But.'

  'Well, then,' I said, emphatically.

  Brother Zebediah looked as though he was going to argue about this, but I looked sternly at him, and he smiled meekly and looked down, nodding.

  We were watching one of the videotaped films - it appeared to consist largely of cars chasing each other, lots of large colourful explosions and American men becoming angry and sweeping coffee tables, mantelpieces and so on clear of breakables - when I realised I was getting overly intoxicated. I stood and made my goodnights, requesting only a pint glass of water to take to my hammock-side. I tried to read a few passages from the Orthography by candlelight but confess that my vision, even with one eye determinedly closed, was not really up to the task. I closed the word of the Creator and vowed to read twice as much the following evening; I disrobed to my underwear and climbed into the hammock with a practised ease that even my sobriety-compromised state could not endanger.

  It occurred to me, as I lay there, swinging in my hammock and trying to ignore the pressure in my bladder, that we were all abbreviated: I from Isis to Is, Zebediah to Zeb, Declan to Dec, Winston to Wince… I wasn't sure about Boz or Scarpa but one certainly sounded contracted, though both could have been nicknames.

  I got up to relieve myself, donning my jacket for modesty. As I left the toilet, I heard somebody say something like, '-got the bucket!' and Brother Zebediah barged out of his and Roadkill's room wearing only his trousers and an amulet, dashed past me holding his mouth and was sick in the still-flushing toilet. I hesitated, looking from the toilet to the wooden ladder which led to the loft, uncertain whether to offer to help my half-brother or not.

  Zeb came out of the toilet a few moments later, sighing and smiling.

  'Are you all right, Brother Zebediah?' I asked.

  'Yeah,' he said, and smiled broadly. 'Yeah,' he nodded, and took me by the shoulders and then hugged me. 'You're beautiful, Is,' he said, and sighed again, then walked off, smiling, back to his room.

  I climbed back to my hammock in the loft, somewhat bemused, but thankful that Zeb seemed able to shrug off minor maladies with such alacrity.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'What about kangaroos?'

  'Kangaroos ?' I said, wondering what Brother Zebediah was talking about.

  'Kangaroos,' he confirmed as we boarded the Underground train at Kilburn Park. There were seats free and I thought I detected Zeb making to head for one and sit, despite the fact he did not have his Sitting Board with him. He coughed and made a show of walking past the first free seat to look at a newspaper lying on a more distant seat, then came back to where I was standing near the doors, which closed. The train moved off.

  'Kangaroos?' I reminded him.

  'Oh. Yeah,' he said. He shrugged in a quizzical manner. 'Eat them?'

  'I see,' I said, and thought. The train charged through the dark tunnel, shaking and rattling.

  It was mid-morning. It had taken an unconscionably long time to rouse my half-brother from his slumbers but I had been loathe to embark upon such a crucial part of my mission alone. I had been happy with my navigation through London the previous day; considering that I had not visited the British state's capital before, and while admitting the relative failure of my Back Bussing ploy, I thought I had done reasonably well in coping with a city of such - in my own experience - unprecedented size. Nevertheless, I did not imagine myself to be 'streetwise' and - suspecting that today's expedition would be more complicated in nature - I believed that I would therefore benefit from having Zeb's considerable local knowledge, built up over a number of years of capital living and the subject of obvious if quiet pride in his all-too-occasional letters home.

  Extracting Zeb from his room or even his bed at a decent hour mat morning had proved to be the most demanding and frustrating task of my mission so far; my gentle cajolings, offered cups of coffee, eulogies on the beaut
y of the day, waitings of toast under the nose, admittedly jocular threats of excommunication, and even an invigorating reading from a particularly stimulating passage of the Orthography all failed to elicit more than low groans from the narrow crease in the covers that was all I could see of my brother in faith. (Zeb was alone in bed at this point, Roadkill having already left.)

  Finally, it took a graduated series of containers - a thimble, an egg cup, a tea cup, a pint glass and a bucket - to convince him that I was serious and that he was getting no more sleep that day, no matter how much he was 'hurting'. People usually give in after having the thimble of water poured over them but Zeb held out until the tea cup, which indicated either a remarkably violent hang-over or admirably steely determination. I knew which one I'd have put my money on (if we were allowed to do such things).

  He certainly didn't look well, and seemed to have developed a cold overnight; he spent so long in the toilet I suspected he was trying to indulge in some more sleep, though when I banged on the door he sounded already awake. He did eventually succeed in what he colourfully described as 'getting his shit together' and we finally left the house at the disgracefully late hour of ten o'clock.

  Zeb wore grubby training shoes with no socks, the same flayed jeans he'd worn the night before, a shirt, a holed jumper and an old parka. I looked through one of the holes in his jumper as we walked to the Underground railway station. 'Brother Zebediah,' I asked suspiciously, 'is that shirt reverse-buttoned?'

  'Aw,' he said. 'Shit. Is. Please. Look. Christ. Come on.'

  'Brother Zebediah, this back-sliding has to stop. Come on; off with the jumper.'

  'Aw. Fuck. Shit. Come on. No. Is…'

  I stood in front of him and helped him off with his jacket, then pulled the jumper over his head.

  'Christ. I don't. I mean. This. Fuck. Unreal.' We were outside a newsagent's, and I did not wonder at the looks we were getting, what with this stream of profanity. Zeb held his parka and jumper while I undid his shirt buttons one by one and did them up properly.

  'Fuck. Is. What. I mean. Roadkill. I mean, she. We. Share. Both. Fuck. Whatever's. You know. Lying about.'

  '"Reverse-button your shirts, that the Saved shall know each other."' I quoted him.

  'Yeah. But. Fuck.'

  Reverse-buttoning apparently started because Salvador was ashamed of having mismatched buttons on his shirt one time when he had to go to Stornoway. It became one of our rituals when it was realised that it could be a way of recognising other Orderites, as well as acting as a constant reminder that we are Different. Reverse-buttoning consists simply of pushing a shirt button through from the outside of the button-hole, so that the button is hidden, and faces in towards the skin. 'There,' I said, pushing Zeb's shirt back into his jeans and patting his concave belly. 'Heavens, Brother Zebediah, there's nothing of you.'

  Zeb sighed and put his jumper back on, then shrugged his jacket over his narrow shoulders. He made to move off. 'Ah!' I said, and pointed at his forehead.

  'Jeez. Is. Fuck. Hell.'

  'I don't expect you have any of the blessed mud,' I told him, 'but you may use mine this once, and luckily I have brought some spare vials from the Community, one of which I can leave with you.'

  'Shit,' Zeb said, but let me make the little V on his forehead with the mud-ointment. I pocketed my jar. 'There,' I told him, taking his arm and continuing towards the station. 'Now we are indeed ready to face whatever the city will throw at us.'

  Zeb had gone very quiet after that and only spoke again once we had our tickets, when he asked about eating kangaroos.

  'Tricky one,' I admitted. 'Could kangaroos' fore-legs really be said to be legs at all, given that they seem to be used more as arms?'

  'Yeah,' Zeb said. 'See? 'Zactly.'

  'Could go either way,' I said, nodding grimly. 'Sort of thing one might have to ask the Founder.'

  'My pal,' Zeb said. 'Ozzie. Had some. Said. Like. Great. Best meat. Ever tasted. Lean. Delicious. Totally. Brutal. Brilliant. Really.'

  'Hmm,' I said. 'In that case I'd probably err on the side of generosity; I have always been of the opinion that God does not normally make things appetising for no good reason.'

  'Right. Good. Thought so. Yeah.' Zeb looked relieved for a moment and then oddly thoughtful, as though some aberrant brain-state had succeeded in troubling him.

  'Orwell?' he said, tentatively.

  'Orwell?' I echoed, puzzled.

  He shrugged. 'Four legs good.'

  I stared nonplussed at him for a moment, then understood. 'Ah!' I exclaimed, clapping him on the back and causing him to stagger. 'Two legs bad!' I laughed. 'That's quite funny, Brother Zebediah.'

  He still looked confused.

  Our train terminated at Baker Street. We returned almost to the surface; I stood to one side while Zeb queued at the ticket office, it being a frustrating property of the London Underground system that the techniques of Back Bussing cannot be applied.

  I looked around. Such crowds of people! I was conscious of the complete reversal of the situation one experienced living in the Community, where for days, weeks, and even in certain cases months at a time one would know, and know fairly well, every single person one came into contact with; to see a stranger was an event. Here the opposite was the case; one assumed that everybody one bumped into was a stranger, and meeting a familiar face was generally a cause for joy and celebration.

  'Excuse me. Can I help you?' said a quiet spoken, middle-aged man in a grey coat. He put one hand gently on my elbow. His other hand held a black briefcase. 'Are you lost?' he asked me.

  'Far from it,' I told him, looking down at his hand. 'I am one of the Found. I suspect it is you who are one of the Lost, sir.'

  'What?' he said, looking confused.

  'Friend, you see before you one of the most fortunate and favoured people to walk the sorry soil of earth, for I walk in the sight of God. I have the joyful honour of-'

  'Oi,' Zeb said, walking smartly up to us.

  The man muttered something vaguely apologetic and moved away into the crowd, head down.

  'Brother Zebediah, I was engaged in missionary work just there,' I rebuked him as we returned to the train tunnels.

  'Like. Shit. Fuckin'. Pervert. More like. Got. Be careful.'

  'Zeb, I am not totally naive concerning the ways of the world and the vices of the city,' I told him. 'Quite possibly that gentleman did have some nefarious and even sexually predatory motive in talking to me, but I ask you: what other sort of soul is more in need of being saved? I have a duty as an Officer of the True Church and especially as the Elect to spread the good word wherever and whenever possible. I am grateful for your concern but you must not assume that I am being gulled when in fact I am evangelising. I am perfectly capable of requesting help should I happen to need it.'

  This seemed to send Zeb into something of a huff, and I reflected that perhaps it was as well that I hadn't gone on to point out that, as I was an inch or so taller than he, not to mention better and more sturdily built, his intervention in such circumstances might not always be as decisive as he seemed to imagine. Zeb's pique continued onto the train, and even my attempt to jolly him out of the mood by suggesting that we repair to the buffet car for a cheering cup of tea was met with a roll of the eyes and a 'Huh!'

  Still, I hoped I had proved something regarding my resourcefulness and general urbanity just by revealing that I knew of the existence of such civilisational complexities as buffet cars on trains.

  Our next change of line came at Green Park station, where we ascended to buy tickets for Covent Garden.

  'Are you sure this is the quickest way to travel?' I asked my half-brother as - clutching another couple of tickets - we descended underground once more.

  'Buses,' Zeb explained. 'Slower.'

  'Yes, but it seems wasteful to have to keep buying separate tickets for each leg of the journey; all this extra to-ing and fro-ing from platforms to ticket office and back cannot be efficient.'


  'Yeah,' Zeb sighed. 'Crazy, innit?'

  Once we had established ourselves on the correct platform for Covent Garden, I stared suspiciously at an illuminated sign which read, 'Jubilee Line Southbound'.

  'Hmm,' I said.

  * * *

  Yet another change of line, and a concomitant return to the surface for another pair of tickets at Finsbury Park station took us at last to Finchley; it was a short walk from the station to the block of flats off Nether Street which had been my cousin Morag's last address. I was unprepared for the opulence of the building; I suppose I have always associated flats with council dwellings and even slums, and had rather assumed that to her credit Morag was putting up with cramped conditions during her stay in London so that she could save money. However, from the size of the cars parked in the block's car park and the general look of the place, this was no rookery for the poor.

  Marble steps led to glass double doors revealing a foyer lined by sofas and pot-plants. I shook the door handles but the doors appeared to be locked.

  'Riff raff,' Brother Zebediah said. 'Keeps out.' He was looking at a sort of grid in the marble wall composed of small boxes with buttons and little illuminated labels. There was a grille to one side. 'Number?' he asked.

  'Thirty-five,' I told him. He ran his finger down the little plastic windows. His fingernails were long and soiled. However, I thought the better of saying anything.

  'Here,' he said. 'Thirty. Five. Says. Mr. Mrs. Coyle.' He pressed the button.

  '… Yes?' a female voice said from the grille after a short delay.

  'Excuse me, Brother,' I said to Zeb, taking his place. 'Good morning, madam,' I said into the grille. 'I am sorry to disturb you but I am looking for Ms Morag Whit, the internationally renowned baryton soloist.'