The Business

The Business Page 9

by Iain Banks

  (i) an alien conspiracy run from a spacecraft buried under the New Mexico desert, sent to bring about the collapse of (well, see any or all of the above) or

  (j) just Bill Gates' retirement fund.

  * * *

  Heck, we've all been there; you've reinstated the underwater night-time flare-path and cleared the weeds out of your mile-long landing lake, some enterprising pilot's skimmed a dinky-looking dove-white Ilyushin seaplane successfully down over the hills and trees, kissed it on to the water and taxied noisily to the far end of the waterway to considerable applause from all those sports fans who've managed to prise themselves out of bed for the crack of noon, and then your steam catapult — guaranteed repaired by the best technicians money can buy just yesterday — suddenly goes on the blink. Hellish, isn't it? Actually I thought the pilot — a dashing Iranian — looked relieved.

  'Bugger and blast!'

  'Don't take it personally, Uncle Freddy.'

  'Dammit, bugger and blast!'

  Uncle Freddy's shepherd's crook decapitated two urns' worth of Michaelmas daisies and hydrangeas with one swinging swish.

  Well, we missed the spectacle of an ex-Soviet navy seaplane being catapulted across the valley at the hills on the far side — if you looked carefully you could still see the craters where the engineers had fired old trucks loaded with steel plate into the woods to calibrate the catapult's throw — but we did get to play dodgems.

  Being battered on all sides by over-enthusiastic revellers without either a decent hangover or the rudiments of driving ability while sitting in a small car resembling a garishly tin-plated slipper beneath an electrified metal grid is not necessarily my idea of the best way to ease myself back into sober normality, but it seemed only polite to Uncle Freddy to join in, after the disappointment with the catapult.

  Re CW.

  Who what where?

  C Walker. Pay attention.

  What about him?

  Said Hi to him yesterday at Unc F's. Maintained he'd just flown in day before (ie Thursday). Does not compute.

  Oh right: more detail on Adrian George's spotting of CW. Original message was garbled (not at my end, obviously). AG saw CW while on way to office, not in it. Glimpsed presence in cab in street. Wednesday, this would be. So? Probably that aspect was garbled too.

  Never mind.

  OK. How's the party going?

  What party?

  You mean you're not @ B'crg @ the moment?

  OK, yes. Party usual low-key affair btw. Where's your ass at?

  Singapore.

  Fun? I always thought it was a bit like the East would be if it was run by the Swiss. (This is not intended as a compliment.)

  See your point. Did you know chewing-gum's banned out here?

  Yup. Lee Kwan U must have sat on a piece once and got all upset.

  Wonder if there's a flourishing smuggling trade?

  Careful, even talking about that sort of thing's probably a crime, or at least a misdemeanour.

  Fuck em! I laugh in the face of their vicious anti-chewing-gum laws!

  Yeah, you're probably safe; they'd never make it stick.

  Ack. - - Goodbye.

  'Kate.'

  'Uncle Freddy.' I had been summoned to Uncle F's large and chaotic study in Blysecrag after lunch, while most people were still recovering from the excesses of one night and preparing themselves for those of the next.

  'Jebbet E. Dessous.'

  'Gesundheit.'

  'Come now, dear girl. He's a Level One.'

  'I know. Isn't he the one in Nebraska? Collects tanks and stuff?'

  'That's right. Made the news a while ago when he bought a couple of them what-d'ye-call-'ems. Rocket thingies.'

  'Scud missiles?'

  'That's right.'

  'Was that him? I thought that was another guy, in Southern California.'

  'Oh. Maybe the other chap got caught, then, and Jebbet didn't. That would be more like Jebbet. I can't remember.' Uncle F looked confused and stared at something long, grey and untidy on the floor, which turned out to be one of the wolfhounds. The beast stretched, yawned with a single echoing snap of its extensive jaws and then — such extreme activity having entirely exhausted it — rolled flopping back over with a long sigh, and fell asleep again.

  Uncle Freddy opened his mouth as though to speak, then became distracted by something on his desk. Uncle F's desk was covered to a depth of several inches with a bewildering assortment of mostly paper-based rubbish. He picked up a long, elegant-looking, Y-shaped piece of metal and turned it over in his hands, a look of intense concentration on his face, then he shook his head, shrugged and put it back again.

  'Anyway,' I said.

  'Anyway. Yes. Fancy paying old Jebbet a visit?'

  'Do I have to?'

  'What? Don't you like the fellow?'

  'No, I've never met him, Uncle Freddy, though his reputation goes before. Why do I have to go and see him?'

  'Well, he's sort of asked to see you.'

  'Is that good or bad?'

  'How d'you mean? For him or you?'

  'For me, Uncle Freddy.'

  'Ahm…pretty damn good, I'd say. Can't do any harm getting to know old Jebbet; very highly respected amongst the other top brass, he is, oh yes.' Uncle Freddy paused. 'Completely mad, of course. Thing is, you know his, umm, nephew or something, don't you?'

  I said, 'Dwight?'

  Now. There is a certain way of pronouncing Dwight's name that I find it hard to resist — sort of Dih-Wight? — when I'm trying to make it clear that the prospect of encountering the lad again has a coefficient of attraction roughly on a par with being invited to chew on a wad of silver paper. I made no attempt to resist that temptation here.

  'Dwight.' Uncle Freddy looked puzzled, staring up at the study ceiling. 'Is that a real name, d'you think, Kate? That Eisenhower fellow was called that too, I remember, but then he was called Ike as well, and I could never work out which was a contraction of the other.'

  'I think it is a real name, Uncle Freddy.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Don't worry. It's American.'

  'Ah, I see. Jolly good. Anyway, Jebbet wants you to talk to the boy.' Uncle Freddy frowned and pulled on one pendulous ear-lobe. 'The nephew. Dwight. He's a playwright or something, isn't he?'

  'Or something.'

  'Thought that was the fellow. Is he any good, do you know?'

  'As a playwright?'

  'Hmm.'

  'From what I've seen, no. But, of course, it's all very subjective. For all I know the boy's a genius.'

  'Modern sort of stuff, is it? He writes?'

  'Almost by definition.'

  'Hmm.'

  'Uncle Freddy, why does Mr Dessous want me to talk to Dwight?'

  'Umm. Good question. No idea.'

  'He couldn't phone, e-mail?'

  Uncle Freddy looked pained and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'No, he definitely wants you to go there. But look, Kate.' Uncle F leaned forward and settled his elbows on the desk, causing a small landslide of papers, envelopes, old magazines, scraps of newspapers, bits of tissue and — by the sound of it — at least one until-then buried glass, which fell to the floor with a thud and a faint chinking noise. Uncle Freddy sighed and spared a glance at the stuff that had fallen. 'I think there is something Jebbet wants you to talk to the boy about; some mad idea he needs talking out of, but I've got a feeling he wants to talk to you himself as well. The nephew thing might be an excuse.'

  'For what?'

  'Well, Jebbet's word counts for a lot with the American people in the Business, from his own level, oh, well down past yours. Lot of these young Turk types, the keen brigade; they think the sun shines out of his behind, frankly. People like that, at the US end of things, they're making up the majority of your level these days, Kate. And the one below.'

  'I know, Uncle.'

  'Exactly. Exactly.' Uncle Freddy looked pleased.

  'Uncle Freddy, you haven't actually answered my
question.'

  'What question was that, dear girl?'

  'Why does he want to size me up?'

  'Oh! For promotion, of course! Old Jebbet can put a lot of words in a lot of the right ears. As I say, the youngsters listen to him. He must have heard about you. You must have impressed him from afar. And good for you, I say.'

  'I'm already at Level Three now, Uncle. I was expecting to wait a while yet before any more promotion. Right now I don't think even I would vote for me to step up another rung.'

  'Think long, Kate,' Uncle Freddy said, and actually wagged a finger at me. 'You can't get a good impression in too early, that's what I always say.'

  'All right,' I said, half elated and half suspicious. 'Would the middle of the week be suitable?'

  'Just about perfect, I should think. I'll check with his people.'

  'You still in York State?'

  'Yorkshire,' I said. It was late afternoon on the West Coast and I'd caught Luce on her way to her shrink. 'At Uncle Freddy's.'

  'Yeah. Uncle Freddy. I was thinking: is this the old guy who used to molest you?'

  'Don't be ridiculous, Luce. He pats my butt now and again. But that's all. He's always been really good to me, especially after Mrs Telman died last year. I cried on his shoulder, I hugged him. If he'd really wanted to try anything on that would have been the ideal opportunity, but he didn't.'

  'I'm just concerned he might have abused you in the past and you're in denial about it, that's all.'

  'What?'

  'Well, you seem to just do anything he tells you to and you jump down my throat when I remind you this is the same guy who's sexually harassed you in the past —'

  'What? Putting his hand on my backside?'

  'Yeah! That's harassment! That'd get you fired from any office, most places. Interference with your fanny. Hell, yes.'

  'Yeah, my American fanny.'

  'Oh, Jeez, if it had been your British fanny he should have been locked up.'

  'Well, call me less than a perfect sister if I let one old guy I happen to like a lot briefly touch my bum through a couple of layers of material, the point is I don't count that as abuse.'

  'But you don't know!'

  'I don't know what?'

  'You don't know whether he abused you or not!'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'No, you don't. You think you know that he didn't but you don't really know that he didn't.'

  'Luce, I think we're in the same boat here; neither of us knows what the hell you're talking about.'

  'I mean, maybe he did much worse things to you in the past and you've repressed all the grisly details and even the fact that it happened in the first place; you're in denial about it all and it's fucking you up!'

  'But I'm not fucked up.'

  'Ha! That's what you think.'

  '…You know, in principle this idiocy could go on for ever.'

  'Exactly! Unless you take some action to discover the truth.'

  'Let me guess. And the only way to find out is to go to a shrink, right?'

  'Well, of course!'

  'Look, are you on commission or something?'

  'I'm on Prozac, so what?'

  'I prefer prosaic. What I remember is what happened. Look, I'm sorry I bothered you, Luce. I'll —'

  'Don't hang up! Don't hang up! Listen, this must have been meant to happen because I was just on my way…In fact I'm here, I'm at the place. Now look, Kate, I just think there's somebody here that you need to talk to, okay? Now, just a second. Just a second. Hi. Yeah, hi. Yeah. Yeah. That's right. L. T. Shrowe. Listen, I got somebody here on the phone I think really needs to talk to Dr Pegging, you know?'

  'Luce? Luce! Don't you dare!'

  'May I? He is? Oh, great.'

  'Luce? Don't you fucking dare! I'm not — I won't — I'm putting the phone down!'

  'Hi, Doctor. Yeah, it's good to see you, it really is. Look, I realise this is kinda weird, but I have this friend, right?'

  'Luce! Luce! Listen to me, goddammit! This had better be a joke. You better be in the fucking supermarket or your manicurist's or something because I'm not going to —'

  'Hello?'

  '…ah.'

  'Who am I speaking to?'

  I looked through narrowed eyes at the far side of my room. Okay, I thought. I said, 'Oh, like, gee, are you another, like, weirdo?'

  'I beg your pardon? My name is Dr Richard Pegging. I'm a psychoanalyst here in San José. And who might you be?'

  'San José? Jeez, isn't that in, like, California or someplace?'

  'Well, yes.'

  'Okay, listen, Doc, like, if you really are, like, a doc, sorta like you said, then, like, I'm really sorry, okay? But, I mean, this woman, that woman who just, like, handed you the phone?'

  'Yes?'

  'Well, she's been calling me now for a coupla months. I mean, the first time she must justa dialled at random or something or got me out of the book, I dunno. Oh, sorry. My name's Linda? Linda Sinkowitz? I live here in Tuna County, Florida? And I'm just, like, here, you know? And then one day I get this phone call and it's this woman Lucy something and she thinks I'm her best fucking friend or something, excuse my language, and I tell her she must have, like, made a mistake only it goes on way too long for it really to be a mistake but so okay she calls off and that's fine but then a few weeks later it all happens again and this is, like, the — Jeez, I dunno — the ninth or tenth time or something, you know? I mean, I guess she needs help or something, right, but if this happens again I'm gonna have to tell the phone company. I mean, you —'

  'That's quite all right. That's fine, that's fine. I think I get the picture, Ms Sinkowitz. Well, it's been nice talking to you. Hopefully you won't be —'

  'Kate!'

  'Ms Shrowe, if you don't mind —'

  'Doc, do you mind? It's my fucking phone! Thank you! Kate? Kate? What the fuck's this about Ms Sinkowitz?'

  'Have a nice session, Luce.'

  * * *

  For the evening, we had a circus to entertain us.

  The word was that during the afternoon — once Suvinder Dzung had been prised out of his bed and sobered up by his servants — Hazleton, Madame Tchassot and Poudenhaut had resumed negotiations with the Prince, his private secretary B. K. Bousande and Hisa Gidhaur, his Exchequer and Foreign Secretary who had arrived that morning. This negotiating party was late for dinner, which was accordingly delayed for half an hour, and then went on without them. This was a little embarrassing as we had to entertain even more rich, famous and titled people that evening compared to the Friday; however, Uncle Freddy made some ridiculous excuse for our absentees, guffawed a lot and told a series of long-winded jokes, which kept everybody entertained in the drawing room until it was decided to go ahead with dinner anyway.

  My beloved was gone: Stephen Buzetski had disappeared after breakfast that morning, called away to Washington DC.

  The circus, in a tent on the lawn, was one of these extreme affairs where people dress as though auditioning for Mad Max IV; they juggled chainsaws, attached heavy industrial machinery to their sexual organs and rode very noisy motorbikes while doing unlikely things with knives and flaming torches. It was all terribly macho and camp at the same time and quite entertaining; however, I'd seen it all before several Edinburgh Festivals ago, so didn't stay long. I wandered back into the main house and took myself off to the snooker room.

  I tend to play quite a lot of pool while trawling the in-play hang-outs in Silicon Valley. Most of the cutting-edge dudes are young and male, and find the idea of playing pool with a mature but well-preserved lady pretty cool. Often they'll drop their guard when they realise they're going to get beaten, or become a little too relaxed and open if I let them win against the odds. Honing potting skills on a snooker or a billiard table is good practice for this sort of thing: if you can regularly make pots from across eleven and a half feet of green baize, switching to a pool table gives you the impression that the pockets have suddenly swollen to the diameter of basketball h
oops.

  Adrian Poudenhaut was there before me, also indulging in some solitary play. He looked tired. He was polite, almost deferential, and gave up the table for me, refusing the offer of a game. He exited the room with a wary but knowing smile.

  I looked at my reflection in the room's tall windows. I was frowning. A tiny sparkle of light way in the distance caught my eye and I moved closer to the window. The snooker room was on the second floor of Blysecrag (third if you counted the American way), the last main floor before the servants' quarters in the attics. I remembered that from here, on a clear night, you could see the lights of Harrogate. Another distant blossom of light rose above the town. Somebody was letting off fireworks; it was two days after Guy Fawkes' Night, but a lot of people held their displays over to the Friday or Saturday after the more traditional fifth of November. I leant against the window-frame, arms crossed, watching.

  'You look sad, Kate.'

  I jumped, which is not like me at all, and turned round. The voice had been male, though I half expected to see Miss Heggies standing there, just re-materialised.

  Suvinder Dzung, looking tired and a little sad himself, was standing by the snooker table, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits, tie undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair less than perfect.

  I was annoyed at myself for not having heard him or spotted his reflection. 'Did I look sad?' I asked, giving myself time to gather my wits.

  'I thought so. What are you watching?' He came closer and stood beside me. I remembered watching our own fireworks the night before, on the terrace, and him putting his arm round my waist. I edged away from him a little, trying to make it look as though I was just making room for him, but getting the distinct impression that he was perfectly well aware of what I was really doing. He gave me a small, maybe apologetic smile, and did not try to touch me. I wondered if he even remembered our early morning telephone conversation.

  'Fireworks,' I said. 'Look.'

  'Ah. Yes, of course. Gunpowder, treason and plot, and all that sort of thing.'

  'That sort of thing,' I agreed. There was an awkward silence. 'Pretty good view, for a billiards room,' I said. He looked at me. 'They're usually on the ground floor because of the weight,' I explained.

 

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