Whit

by Iain Banks

  There was a train like ours pulling into Newcastle station from the south just as ours arrived from the opposite direction. I talked to an official on the platform who told me the other train was a delayed Edinburgh-bound service. I sprinted over the footbridge and was back heading north even before the train carrying Uncle Mo set off again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

  I arrived back in Edinburgh with an hour to spare. It was a pleasantly mild day under high, patchy overcast; I went to the main Post Office, purchased a padded bag and posted Uncle Mo's telephone back to his address in Spayedthwaite, then I walked to the Royal Commonwealth Pool, stopping at a bookshop en route to search a motoring atlas for the town of Mauchtie, in Lanarkshire. It was there, indeed, not far from the town of Hamilton.

  I continued on to the pool, in the shadow of Arthur's Seat. I took a walk round it and saw what had to be the flumes, at the back of the building; huge coloured plastic pipes which looked a little like the rubbish chutes one sees on buildings under renovation. There were four of these tubes: a broad meandering white one with an upper section which was either transparent or opaque, two steeper convoluted flumes in yellow and blue, and an abrupt black example which looked almost as steep as a rubbish chute.

  I sat on the grass on the slopes of Arthur's Seat for a while, looking out across the buildings and soaking up a little soft, cloud-filtered sunlight, then presented myself at the ticket office of the pool, descended to the changing rooms, squeezed carefully into my tired and tight old costume (it was once yellow, but after years of swimming in the silty old Forth it had long since turned oatmeal) and - after some difficulty stuffing my kit-bag into the narrow locker I had been assigned - spent the next twenty minutes swimming lengths, admiring the sheer size of the place and taking an interest in the flumes, the four of which were entered via a tall circular staircase and three of which decanted into their own small pool. The fourth flume - which appeared to the one with black tubing I'd seen outside earlier - deposited its patrons into a long water-filled trough. Judging from the occasional shrieks and the speed with which people were ejected from the black mouth of this last flume, I gathered that this one was the most thrilling.

  I'd been keeping an eye on the exits from the changing rooms, and after twenty minutes saw somebody I was reasonably certain was the young man Cousin Morag had called Ricky, whom I had met at La Mancha a week earlier. His trunks were brief and he presented a fine figure of a man: he was tanned, blond and muscled, and I was far from the only female looking at him. I imagined a fair few males were sizing him up too, most with jealousy. He walked halfway along the edge of the pool and stood at the side, his feet spread, his arms crossed bulkily beneath impressive pectorals. There was a frown on his face as he stared round the pool. I did the backstroke past him a couple of times but he didn't seem to notice.

  Cousin Morag appeared five minutes later, and drew even more stares. She wore a one-piece, as I did, but there the resemblance ended. Her costume was glossy black. It rode high on the hip and featured sheer-looking black mesh side panels which rose from hip-hem to armpit, huggingly displaying her narrow waist. The swimsuit possessed what was technically a high neck, the concealing effect of which was, however, entirely undone by another deep and wide see-through panel which exhibited the swelling tops of her considerable breasts.

  She joined the young man at the side of the pool, gods amongst mortals. They both looked out over the swimmers and those walking or sitting around the side; Morag glanced up at the flumes. She wore her long chestnut hair gathered up into a bun held with a black band. I raised my hand and waved as her gaze swept past me.

  She waved back, an uncertain smile on her face. I turned onto my front and swam over to them, reckoning that - if she still believed herself to be in some way threatened by me - Morag would feel less so if I was in the water and beneath her and the young man.

  I pulled in at the side; Morag squatted; the young man remained standing, looking down, frowning.

  'Hello,' I said, nodding and smiling at both of them.

  'Hi, Is. You've met Ricky, haven't you?'

  'Yes. Hello again,' I said cheerily. 'How's Tyson?'

  He scowled, and appeared to think. 'All right,' he said eventually.

  'Good. I'm sorry if my friends and I alarmed you, back at La Mancha.'

  'Wasn't alarmed,' Ricky said indignantly.

  'I should have said annoyed,' I said, apologetically. 'Sorry if we annoyed you.'

  'All right,' Ricky said, apparently appeased.

  'So, how's things, cuz?' Morag asked with a small smile.

  'Oh, pretty traumatic,' I said, smiling bravely. 'But I'm surviving.'

  'Good,' she said, standing. She nodded across the pool to where the circular stairs led to the flume's entrance. 'Shall we flume?' she asked.

  'Why not?' I said.

  Morag dived gracefully overhead, entering the water behind me with a dainty splash. Ricky launched himself a moment later, creating a disturbance hardly any greater. I kicked away from the side and splashed inelegantly after their sleek shapes.

  * * *

  'Flumes are like life, see?' Cousin Morag said, as we neared the end of the queue on the spiral steps and approached the platform which supported the entrances to the four flumes. An attendant in white shorts and T-shirt was supervising the people - mostly children, already damp - who were queuing for the fun.

  'Like life?' I said, shuffling forward and talking round Ricky's bulk. He had insisted on standing between Morag and me, seemingly not yet content that I wasn't in fact a stalker with murderous intent, though quite where he thought I could have secreted a weapon I couldn't really see. Perhaps he suspected I was going to up-end Morag over the side of the spiral railings and send her hurtling to the tiles below.

  'Yes,' Morag said, round Ricky's impressive biceps as she came to the front of the queue. 'You can take the short fast fun route, like the black chute here, or the long slow leisurely route like the white one, or something in between, know what I mean?'

  'Sort of,' I said.

  Morag got the nod and padded over to the mouth of the black tube, watched all the way by every pair of eyes within range. She lifted herself athletically into the gaping mouth of the black hole. Lights above the tunnel mouth changed from red to green. She pushed herself away and down, disappearing with a joyous whoop.

  Ricky turned to me, grinning. 'She always does that,' he said. Then he strode across the moist tiles to follow her, hurtling silently down into the blackness a little later.

  I thought it would seem churlish not to take the same route. I settled myself in the mouth of the drop, grabbing the chrome handles at the side of the flume entrance. When the red light went off I let myself go.

  Terror. It only lasted about three seconds, but for those moments I felt scared witless. Air rushed around me, one shoulder burned with friction, water rushed up my nose, I was twisted this way and that and then hurtled from near vertical to perfect horizontality in a single body-jarring thud and blasted into the water-filled trough I'd observed earlier. I skidded to a stop near the end of the trough, coughing and spluttering and with a chlorine-burned nose. My swimming costume had tried to insert itself into my womanhood. I also suspected I now knew what receiving an enema felt like. I waved my arms around, red-faced and coughing.

  Morag and Ricky pulled me out, laughing.

  I thanked them, stood, stooped, spat out a little water and pulled my swimsuit into a more modest configuration.

  'Wow!' I said, beaming at them.

  'Again?' said Morag.

  'Again!' I cried.

  * * *

  'In most flumes, just sit up to go slower,' Morag said, explaining how to apply the brakes. 'Though that wouldn't really work in something like the black run here.' She giggled. 'Also, you can put out your arms, or there's a way of lying down but arching your back so you get a vacuum between your back and the flume floor. But going slower isn't the point, is it?' She shook her head at me. 'If
you want to go faster, you cross your ankles and put your hands round the back of your neck, forcing down your shoulder blades. That way you've got one heel and both shoulders in contact: minimum friction. There's more to it than that, naturally, for really fast runs; you have to throw yourself into the curves, know what I mean? Flex into the right shape, try to minimise collisions. You've got to think yourself down it. That's how to score really low times.'

  'You carry a stop watch?' I asked as we moved spasmodically up the spiral steps.

  'Not allowed any jewellery,' Morag said, displaying elegantly naked wrists in front of me. Ricky was ahead of us, content that I was not such a bad egg after all. 'A lot of fast flumes have a button you hit as you set off; you go through a beam or something at the bottom and your time's displayed on a clock at the exit pool. Really good fun, it is.'

  'Oh.' I watched over the edge of the railings as somebody exited into the splash pool beneath us. 'Do you do a lot of this sort of thing?' I asked her.

  'Oh God, yes; I've been to all the major flumes in England, the Costa del Sol and the Balearics. We were due to go off to the Canaries last week; I've heard there are some good ones there, but then this thing with Frank's VAT came up.'

  'Hmm,' I said. 'I take it Allan knew you were supposed to be going on holiday?'

  'Yeah. He knew.'

  Of course; and if all had gone according to plan I'd have got to London, finally found out that Morag was away on holiday, and - if I hadn't decided to wait on my own initiative - would doubtless have received instructions to do so from High Easter Offerance when I reported back by phone-code. 'How long were you going for?' I asked.

  'A month,' Morag said. 'But then Frank had to talk to the Customs and Excise guys and I thought, well, I'll do the Scottish flumes then, except I was a bit worried about you. I was going to give Stirling a miss; reckoned they were a bit too close to home for comfort.'

  'So there's lots of places with flumes, then?'

  'God, yeah; hundreds. I mean, these ones here are all right, but you should see some of the big ones they got abroad, the big outdoor ones; fuckin' brilliant, they are…'

  'Right, goin' for the Black Hole again, right?' Ricky said, getting to the front of the queue.

  'Right, lover,' Morag said, holding him by one shoulder and then patting his behind when his turn came.

  'So Ricky's your boyfriend?' I asked her.

  'Yeah,' she smiled broadly. 'Hunk or what, eh?'

  'Oh, a hunk,' I agreed. 'How does he feel about you… you know, in the films?'

  She put her head back and laughed. 'Is he jealous? Na; I think he's proud, and he likes watching, anyway. Besides,' she lowered her head to mine and dropped her voice. 'Don't tell him, right? But sometimes, right, doing the porn? I just pretend I'm faking it.'

  She giggled, winking at me.

  I looked at her, frowning. 'You mean you fake faking an orgasm?' I said, confused.

  'Yeah,' she said, nudging me. 'Don't want to hurt his feelings, do I?' She glanced round. 'See you at the bottom.'

  * * *

  Terror, again. But this time I kept my legs crossed and hence avoided any orificial invasions. I was starting to appreciate how, for Morag, fluming might present a refreshing contrast with her day job.

  * * *

  'How did you become a porn star?'

  'I was giving a concert-'

  'The baryton?'

  'Yeah; of course. I was doing all right with that, too, though it wasn't like you could get many people to come along; very small scale and select it was… but I was on the tube train going there, kind of dolled up, I suppose, when this guy came up and gave me his card and asked would I like to have some photos taken for a magazine? And I said, What sort of magazine? And he said a men's magazine, but one of the class ones, like. Well, I wasn't bothered one way or the other, but then he mentioned the money and I said, well, I'd have to think about it. Thought about it, called him next day, said okay, went to this stately home a week later where they were doing the shoot, took off me togs, the photographer recommended Frank as a manager and he got me into the films. Simple as that, really. I know I should have said something, written or something, but the communal letters kept telling me how proud everybody was of me playing the baryton and I felt I'd be letting people down, and I mean after all I had started off doing what I'd said I'd do, and I still do the occasional concert, every few months, like, and so I reckoned it was sort of all right and maybe even kind of ordained, anyway, because if it hadn't been for the baryton and me going to that concert and meeting the guy on the tube train then I wouldn't have got into porn in the first place, would I?'

  'Hmm,' I said. Obviously, formulating elaborate justifications for deceit was not an area in which I held a monopoly. 'Do you enjoy it?' I asked, frowning.

  'What, the porn?'

  'Yes.'

  She looked thoughtful. 'You know what?' she said, nodding at me. 'I love it.' She shrugged. 'I like lots of sex, I like being admired and I like the money. Sure beats working for a living.' She laughed. 'I'll give it another few years, then I think I might open my own chain of exotic lingerie shops.' She looked thoughtful, her gaze directed far away. 'Or go into flume design or something.' She shrugged again and went on filing her fingernails. 'I mean, it's kind of technical and cluttered, right enough, but it's very pure, really.'

  We sat wet-haired in the cafe, watching the pool and the swimmers. I am sure I looked bedraggled. Morag looked like some fresh, glowing, blue-jeaned mermaid. Ricky was at the counter, queuing to fetch us our drinks.

  We had each tried the other three flumes, though Morag and Ricky both kept going back to the Black Hole. I didn't, preferring the two convoluted medium tubes because they gave you time to appreciate the ride rather than just be terrified by it. I even liked the broad, shallow white tunnel, the slowest of the lot, which Morag and Ricky tried because they felt they had to for completeness' sake but declared was really there for wimps and sportive old-age pensioners, but which had the additional attraction of having a view for the first, half-transparent section, and a damn fine view at that, of Salisbury Crags and Arthur's Seat rearing up all green and brown against the blues and whites of the sky.

  After a couple of hours of intense fluming, producing raw heels, shoulders and other pointy bits, we did a few lengths of the pool for exercise, and then decided to call it a day. Once we'd changed we'd headed for the café.

  Morag put away her nail file in her little shoulder bag and sat back in her seat, stretching with lithe magnificence, her hands at the back of her neck pulling her damp hair away from her blouse. Lifting her arms like that had a dramatic effect on her bosoms; the effect it had on those present, however, seemed to obey a sort of inverted inverse square law; she gave no sign whatsoever of noticing. I wasn't about to, either, but men sitting at nearby tables stole furtive glances, males further away looked on with appreciative directness, and those surrounded by toddlers and damp towels twenty yards off across the cafe floor suddenly sat up straight and adjusted the position of their little plastic seats for a better view.

  I gave a small laugh, leaning over the table. 'So, cousin, do I take it you've absolved me of being a stalker or an obsessive or whatever it was you thought I was?'

  'Yeah,' she said, looking a little bashful. 'Well, I'm sorry about that, but it wasn't my fault, right?'

  'No, I know,' I said. 'I think I know who's to blame.'

  Ricky returned from the counter with a tray. I had a little pot of tea, Morag a black coffee and a mineral water, and Ricky a cola and a cheeseburger.

  'So, what do you think's going on, then?' Morag asked me in a business-like manner.

  'At the Community?' I asked. She nodded. 'I'm not certain,' I admitted. 'But I think Allan wants to take over.'

  She frowned. 'But he's not a Leapyearian; how can he?'

  'He's the one helping Grandfather with the revisions at the moment; that might even be the whole reason for getting me out of the way in the first place
. I can't see how he can remove Leapyearianism from the Faith entirely and leave anything worth believing in, but he might be able to persuade Salvador that a real Leapyearian is male and so I don't count, or that there should be a division between the Elect of God, who'd be just a… a sort of figure-head, and the… executive, I'd suppose you'd call it - whoever actually runs the Order and the Community. They'd hold the reins.'

  I looked over at Ricky, who was staring at me over his cheeseburger, his jaws wrestling with the food.

  Morag saw me looking and glanced at him too. 'It's all right, Rick,' she said. 'Just God talk.'

  He nodded, mollified, and redirected his concentration back to the cheeseburger.

  'Maybe it's just me,' I said, shrugging. 'Maybe he feels I've wronged him somehow and he wants to destroy me personally…' I shook my head. 'No. No; I think he's doing it for himself, and for Mabon, his son.'

  'Maybe he's frightened of you.'

  I opened my mouth to protest that this could not be the case, but then thought of Allan's face and the expression I had seen on it too many times to count, the first time on the day I brought life back into the fox lying dead in the field by the road. I closed my mouth again and just looked down, shrugging.

  'Or what about Salvador?' Morag asked. 'Sure it isn't the old man behind it all?'

  'Not sure, but… fairly so. I think he just took advantage of the situation.' I laughed bitterly. 'To try to take advantage of me.'

  'Old bastard,' Morag said. Ricky looked up again.

  'Please, Morag,' I said. 'He is still the Founder, still my Grandfather. It's just the man… and the drink, maybe, got the better of the prophet in him.'

  'That's crap, cuz,' Morag said.

  'He gave us everything, Morag,' I told her. 'Our whole way of life. I'll not deny the treasure he found just because the hand that opened the chest was human and soiled.'

  'Very poetic,' Morag told me, 'but you're too bleedin' generous, that's your problem.' It was probably the least perspicacious statement she had made that afternoon.