by Iain Banks
'Mary,' she said.
There you are. Meaning to say Bernadette, it comes out Mary. There you are. So. Now. Are you both well? How is everybody?'
'Fine,' Bernadette said as I picked up Uncle Mo's bag. Bernie looked annoyed, as though she should have thought of doing that.
'Niece,' Uncle Mo laughed, holding out both hands to the bag in my hands. 'Please; I am not yet so old as to be totally incapable.'
'Let me carry it, Uncle,' I said. 'It would be an honour.'
'Well. Well, if you… yes, well, there you are. Why indeed not?' He cleared his throat. 'So. Isis. I hear you've been on your travels.'
'Yes, Uncle. I saw the Fossils in Edinburgh and Brother Zeb in London.'
'Zeb!' Uncle Mo said, nodding. 'Yes. Of course. I remember. Why, I haven't seen Zeb since he was this high.' He held out a hand at waist level. 'And so, how is Zeb?'
'Oh, he's just shooting up these days, Uncle,' I said.
'Excellent. Excellent. So; we are all well.'
'Yes, everybody's well, Uncle,' I told him as we walked towards the little gate. 'Though to be honest with you I'm having a few problems myself just at the moment, but I'm keeping well. How are you?'
'Most hale and hearty, thank you, Isis. But what are these problems you talk of?'
We were at the gate. 'Well, Uncle,' I said, holding the gate open for him. He stood to one side to motion that Bernadette should go first. She nodded and walked through. I let Uncle Mo follow, then with an expression of innocent surprise on my face said, 'Sister Bernadette?'
She looked at me. I looked back out at the road then back to her. 'What about the delivery van?'
She frowned. 'The- ?' She went crimson. 'Oh… I'll…' She looked back down the drive. 'It can… ah…"
'I know,' I said. 'I'll accompany Uncle Mo to the house; then, if you want, I'll come back and help you with the delivery.'
'Ah…' She shook her head in frustration. 'Oh, never mind it!' she said, and turned away. When she looked back she was smiling desperately again. Uncle Mo and I looked at each other and exchanged that momentary lifting of the eyebrows that is the face's equivalent of a shrug. Somebody not quite knowing all the details of what was going on might have thought we were acknowledging that of the three of us there were only two half-decent liars and one total incompetent, and perhaps in a way that's just what we were doing.
'Let's both go, then,' I said.
'There you are. I shall have a beauty on both arms,' Uncle Mo said, with some satisfaction.
'This is a surprise, Uncle Mo,' I said emphatically as we walked.
'Yes,' he said. 'Yes; but there you are; the moment has always been my spur!'
'I bet that delivery comes later, anyway,' Bernadette blurted. 'I'll go back and get it later.'
'Good idea, Sister.'
'Quite so. There you are.'
And so with our various lies, we walked down the drive to the farm. I told Uncle Mo the quick version of my travels and explained about the zhlonjiz. I made an exception for him, despite the fact he was a man, by including the coy line about Grandfather becoming a little over-affectionate the previous night. He gave a small frown, then looked surprised, then finally seemed to dismiss it with a slightly puzzled smile, as though we obviously had misunderstood each other. Bernadette looked startled; she tripped on the drive's pitted surface, saving herself with the umbrella, which bent.
'I think your umbrella will have seen better days,' Uncle Mo said. She looked disconsolately at it and nodded.
Uncle Mo took a half-bottle-sized hip flask from a coat pocket and took a long drink as we approached the Community buildings. 'Medicine,' he explained to us.
He took his bag from my hand as we entered the farm courtyard; Bernadette seemed to want to head for the mansion house at first, but changed her mind. I saw her and Uncle Mo to the door of the kitchen, then wished him well.
'You're not coming in?' he asked, on the threshold. I could smell cooking and hear a babble of talk turning to a chorus of loud and friendly Hellos.
I lowered my head and smiled sadly. 'I've… been asked not to,' I admitted.
Uncle Mo put his hand on my elbow and squeezed. 'You poor child,' he said, looking and sounding most serious.
'Not to worry, Uncle,' I said. I brightened. 'Anyway; I'm sure there'll be a place free for you. Have a good meal; I'll see you later.'
'I'll see what I can do, Isis,' he said, projecting quietly.
'Thank you,' I whispered. I stepped back then turned and walked away. I kept my head down for a few smaller, slower than normal steps, then brought it proudly up as my stride lengthened and I pulled my shoulders back. How much of this little performance Uncle Mo was able to appreciate I really don't know, but I was reasonably pleased with it myself
I heard a door close and then the sound of footsteps behind me as I got to the gateway. I looked back and saw Allan appear from the mansion house and hurry across the courtyard to the farm.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
'So, Isis, it seemed to me that, all things being as they are, and with your best interests to heart, you might wish to come with me to stay in Spayedthwaite, just for a while. What do you think?'
'Hmm.' I crossed my legs and clasped my hands. We were in the office again, Allan, Erin, Uncle Mo and I. It was late, and the lamps were burning. I had been called here from my room by Sister Bernadette.
'Obviously you might want to think about this,' Allan said. 'But if you did want to take up Uncle Mo's offer, well, you could always return at any time. I'm sure we can stretch to a return ticket,' he smiled.
'Yes, I see,' I said.
I was only making the pretence of thinking about this. I'd guessed why Uncle Mo was here, conjectured upon what might be suggested, thought about what I ought to do and so already knew what I was going to say.
'There is a friend of mine in Spayedthwaite who has a theatre,' Uncle Mo said.
'Really?' I said. 'A theatre?'
'Indeed; a theatre,' Uncle Mo said. 'Well, it became a cinema, later.'
'Ah.'
'Mostly it is used for the playing of bingo, nowadays. Well, entirely, actually,' Uncle Mo admitted, but then brightened. 'However, it has an organ. A very splendid one, I might say, which rises from the beneath of the screen. I have heard that you are interested in playing the organ, Isis.'
I forbore to make any smart remarks about Morag, and just smiled and said, 'Hmm,' again.
Apparently thinking that he hadn't thrown enough organs into the battle to convince me to accompany him home, Uncle Mo snapped his fingers and hoisted his eyebrows dramatically. 'I have another friend, a colleague, who also has an organ, in his home!' he said.
'Really?' I asked.
'Yes; it is free-standing, and has two keyboards.'
'Two? Good heavens.'
'Indeed.'
'Perhaps Isis would rather stay here,' Erin suggested, patting her bunned hair, as though a single filament would have dared stray.
'Well,' said Allan reasonably, 'yes, she could. Of course. Of course.' He tented his fingers, brought his forefingers up to his mouth and tapped them against his lips, nodding. 'Certainly.'
I had learned to appreciate the finer side of Allan's phrasing and body language many years before, and had rarely if ever heard him say No quite so decisively. It suddenly struck me that my brother could probably say Hello with a note of finality.
'That is true,' he said, holding out one hand to Erin. 'On the other hand,' he said, holding his other hand out flat in balance. 'Salvador does seem… rather upset with Is. To the point of not wanting to see her, sad to say,' he said, looking at me sympathetically. 'Now, with him staying in his quarters so much of the time, this need not be such a terrible obstacle, but obviously when he does want to do something like lead a meeting or come along to break bread with us, there is a problem, and we have to ask Is to stay away, and he's aware that we have asked her to stay away, and that… distresses him by itself. Similarly, he may even feel slightly t
rapped, one might say, in his quarters, as he doesn't want to leave on the off chance he might bump into Is, and so that too keeps what's happened at the front of his mind a lot of the time… Obviously,' - another look at me - 'not a good thing. So…' Allan tented his fingers again and studied the ceiling. '… So there does certainly exist an argument that the best thing to do would be for Isis to depart briefly and let Salvador relax a little, maybe get this whole sorry thing sorted out, certainly let him think and, let us be frank,' - he looked from Erin to me and back - 'let us work on him, so that perhaps we can, well, finally get this… sorted out,' he said and coughed, as though using the sound as a way of covering up the repetition.
'I see,' I said.
'And it would be a holiday, as well!' Uncle Mo put in.
'Well, of course,' I said, agreeably.
'Still,' Erin said. 'Sister Isis has only just come back from her travels. Perhaps she is tired.' She smiled at me.
'Not in the least,' I said.
'Well, then,' Uncle Mo said, as though it was therefore all settled.
I nodded. 'Well, I can see it might be a good idea to go away for a while, but I'd like to think about it.'
Allan nodded. 'Good idea; sleep on it.'
'Jolly good!' Uncle Mo said.
Erin glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece behind Allan's desk. 'Well, it's late,' she said.
We all agreed it was late, and time for bed. As we left the room I took another look at the desk by the door where I'd seen the list of names and addresses earlier, but the desk had been tidied and was bare of paper,
After we'd all left the study, Allan locked the door behind us.
* * *
I lay in my hammock in my room in the farmhouse, my mouth dry, my hands sweating and my heart thumping. I had waited in a state of increasing dread and excitement for what I hoped was about two hours, but now I had to act, and I felt as nervous as I think I've ever felt in my life.
'God,' I whispered into the darkness. 'Forgive me and help me in what I'm going to do.'
I still had not heard the Voice. I knew that God was still there, still talking - or at least able to talk - to me if only I could calm my troubled soul. I was not sure there was any point in asking God for help - They do not tend to interfere at such a level of events - but if it kept Them trying to talk to me, perhaps I would hear something that might help me over the course of the next hour or so. It could do no harm.
My Grandfather once compared the Voice of God speaking to a human soul to the reflection of the moon on water; if the water is perfectly calm, the moon is seen clearly, undistorted. If the waters of the soul are slightly disturbed, the moon will still be visible and recognisable, but it will seem to move and shiver and it may not be possible to make out any features upon it. If the waters of the soul are in torment, tossing stormily about, then the moon's single bright face will be broken into a million sparkling points of light, casting up a meaningless clutter of scattered light which an observer might not even be able to identify as moonlight.
Well, the surface of my soul just then was riven and agitated indeed, and I should not have been surprised that I could not detect the Voice. Still, I felt the loss keenly, and one petulant, childish part of me interpreted it as just another abandonment. I sighed.
'Here goes,' I whispered (though not, this time, really to the Creator), and got up.
I dressed, used my penknife to cut an inch of candle, then pocketed the knife, the stub of candle and a box of matches. I had a pencil and a sheet of paper in another pocket. I put on an old flat cap I hadn't worn since I was about fourteen - it was slightly too small for me but that meant it wasn't likely to fall off, and it did cover my fair hair quite effectively. I put my ear to the door, listening, but could hear nobody about. I left the room and went to the toilet; I had meant to, using the noise of the flush to cover my footsteps heading further along the corridor, but in the event I would have had to have gone anyway, so affected by my trepidation had my entire system become.
I knew from long experience where each and every loose floorboard was along the corridor, and could avoid them easily even in the total darkness. On the stairs I hugged the sides of the steps, and near the bottom - to avoid five noisy stairs without the noise created by jumping - I slid down the banister rail. The farm's back door is in the old kitchen, now used as a washroom; it has the quietest door. I closed it gently behind me, and was out into the cool night and the smell of freshly moist foliage, the south-facing greenhouse to one side. The sky was three-quarters clouded and the wind smelled damp, but the rain held off.
I kept near the wall as I crept away, heading north, clockwise round the buildings of the Community, round the outside of the orchard. I climbed over a wall into the formal garden behind the mansion house, glanced up at the sky and hid behind a bush. The moon came out from behind the clouds for a few moments and let me see the route ahead. As the darkness returned I padded along the grass beside the path until I got to the dark bulk of the house.
The blocks of sandstone which line each window space of the house have little horizontal notches cut into their top and bottom edges, creating a channel it is possible to wedge fingers and the welts of boots into. I climbed until I could reach the window-ledge of the storeroom behind the office, then hauled myself up and kneeled on the narrow shelf of stone, pulling out my penknife. I slid the blade up between the top and bottom parts of the sash and felt it connect with the window catch. Bless us for our happy indifference to security.
The bottom section of the window proved reluctant to move; the top slid down easily enough, however, and I stepped over and was inside. I pushed the window back up; it made a tiny squeak and a faint rumbling noise at the same time, but was probably not audible outside the room.
The storeroom's curtains hadn't been drawn, but the minuscule amount of light coming from outside wasn't enough to give me any idea of the room's layout, though I knew roughly where the door to the office must be and had the vaguest impression out of the corner of my eye of bulky, shadowy shapes. I crossed to the door, walking backwards, slowly. My left leg collided with something on my second step; I felt down and around and sidled past what felt like a desk. I bumped into another couple of obstacles with my calves, and hoped my shins were appreciating such thoughtfulness. Then my bottom connected softly with a shelf, which I felt wobble. There was a faint rattling sound from above and I grimaced, hunching instinctively and putting a hand over my cap, waiting for something to fall on my head. The rattling subsided; I relaxed and felt along to the door which led to the office.
I didn't imagine it would be locked like the door from the office to the corridor but it did occur to me it might be, and then what was I to do? I got down on all fours to look under the door and make sure there was no light coming from the office beyond. The door was not locked; it swung open. The office was even darker than the storeroom, the curtains drawn over the tall bay windows. I closed the storeroom door, took out my inch of candle and lit it, quickly waving the match out.
I went over to the desk by the door. The drawers were locked. I ground my teeth, screaming curses inside my head. I looked around the desk. There was a recessed handle above the top right-hand drawer; I pulled it out to reveal a shallow plastic tray whose various compartments held pencils, pens, paper-clips and rubber bands. In one small compartment there were two keys. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks, pointless or not.
Each key opened all the drawers on one side of the desk. There were various bundles of unused envelopes, a box of typing paper and a cardboard folder of carbon paper; in one deep drawer there were lots more cardboard folders, many of them stuffed with what looked like correspondence, and in another drawer there was a promising-looking bundle of loose papers. I set the candle on top of the typewriter case and started going through all the various papers and folders.
Footsteps. On the stairs, coming down.
I froze. Instantly, I realised I should have opened one drawer at a time, no
t left them all out and open. I started stuffing the folders and papers back into what I hoped were the right drawers in a frenzy of silent desperation, feeling my hands shake and my guts clench.
Somebody was at the door. I slid the drawers back in as quickly as I dared, once again howling imprecations at myself inside my head. One drawer stuck momentarily. I pulled it back out and slid it back in at a slightly different angle, my whole body quivering with fear.
I heard the sound of a key in the lock. I grabbed the candle stub off the top of the typewriter; the flame flickered and nearly went out. Hot wax spilled over my fingers. I almost cried out.
The door handle squeaked. I moved in two long strides to the nearest bay window and slipped behind the curtains, blowing out the candle as the door creaked open.
I put out my hand to stop the curtains waving from side to side and realised - as I saw light come into the office - that I'd left a small gap between the curtains as I'd moved between them. I stared in horror, not daring to close them properly for fear the movement would be seen by whoever was coming to investigate (Why had they come? Had I made a noise? Was there some silent alarm system I'd never heard about?). I held on to the curtain, the wax cooled and hardened on my fingers while my poor bowels felt they were doing exactly the opposite, as if in recompense.
Through the finger-wide gap between the curtains, I saw Allan come into the room, holding a small paraffin lamp. He wore the same simple robe he had on earlier, and carpet slippers. He locked the door behind him and went towards the desk, yawning. I relaxed a little; he didn't seem to be here because he'd heard something. I carefully let go of the curtain and stepped back, so that my face was further away from the lamp-light coming through the gap in the curtains. I felt the cool glass of the window behind me. I could still see Allan; he felt for the small chain round his neck, bringing it out and slipping it over his head, then held something small on the end of it and bent to the top drawer of his big desk in front of the fireplace. It must have been a key. He opened the drawer and brought out something that looked, I thought, like an electronic calculator or a remote control unit for a television set. He yawned again and moved towards the door to the storeroom I'd made my entrance through. Then he stopped, turned round and looked almost straight at me, a frown on his face. I thought I was going to faint. He sniffed the air.