The Business

by Iain Banks

'Well done, Telman,' Dessous said. 'You always so well prepared?'

  'Well, I usually carry a torch.'

  Dessous smiled. 'I've got friends who'd tell you that ain't a torch, Telman. That's a flashlight; a torch is what you burn niggers with.'

  'Would they? And are they really racist scumbags, or do they just enjoy trying to shock people?'

  Dessous laughed and unlocked the door.

  The lights flickered on in the projection building, bright after the blacked-out journey in the four-wheel drives. People flicked more switches, starting fans and heaters and powering up the two big 35mm projectors, which were aimed out through small windows at the distant screen, which was now in place.

  I didn't notice anything odd at first: the place was all very techy in an old-fashioned sort of way, with exposed cables and ductwork and racks of film canisters against the walls and whole boards of clunky-looking industrial switches and fuses the size of your hand. At each of the two big projectors, two guys were loading film into the complicated pathways of rollers and guides. Then I saw what stood in between the projectors.

  I stared. 'What the fff—?'

  'Oerlikon twenty-millimetre cannon, Telman,' Dessous said proudly. 'Single mount. Isn't it a beauty?'

  Dwight, standing on my other side and holding a half-full glass of wine, just chuckled.

  Where a third projector might have stood there was, indeed, a very heavy machine-gun. It stood on a fluted mount bolted to the concrete floor, it had two padded brackets at the rear where it looked like you were supposed to rest your shoulders, and a big, almost circular drum of ammunition on the top. Its charcoal-coloured metal gleamed in the overhead lights. The long barrel disappeared out of a small window into the night, facing the huge screen in the distance.

  The right-hand projector whined up to speed. Somebody handed out bottles of beer, somebody else dispensed ear-protectors.

  The first reel was a Second World War dog-fight. It was black and white and looked like real camera-gun footage. Dessous took his place at the cannon and, after a deep breath, started firing.

  Even with the ear-protectors on and the muzzle of the gun outside the building, the noise was pretty intense. I could see Dessous grinning like a loon and mouthing what I suspected were more yee-has, but his voice was entirely lost in the racket. A duct above the cannon's chattering mechanism sucked most of the smoke away, but the projection room soon stank of cordite and a thin grey mist filled the air. A big limp sack hanging on the other side of the gun from the magazine shook and pulsed as though there were a bunch of scared kittens inside it.

  People were crowded round the remaining small windows facing out to the screen. I squeezed in beside Dwight, who put his arm round my waist. He bent his head to mine and shouted, 'Is this fucking crazy, or what?'

  To my left, the surface of the projection booth was lit by the stuttering muzzle flash of the cannon. Across the gulf of darkness above the abandoned parking lot, the lines of tracer flicked, disappearing into the black and white skies of wartime Europe, where Mustangs and Messerschmitts dived and rolled and formations of Flying Fortresses laboured onwards through the clouds. Smoke drifting from the cannon in the near still air picked out the projector's beam. Then the gun fell silent.

  There was a moment of quietness, then people cheered and clapped and whistled. Dessous, radiant, stepped down from the cannon, rubbing his shoulders, his face slick with sweat. He accepted congratulations and shook Eastil and a few of the technicians by the hand. His wife, silvery sheath of dress topped by a quilted jacket, went up on tippy-toes to kiss him.

  Eastil was next at the cannon, once it had been reloaded, the sack full of spent cartridge cases had been emptied and another reel of film spun up to speed in the other projector.

  We appeared to be progressing historically: this was Korean War footage of MiGs and Sabres. The cannon went crack-crack-crack, fast as a speeding heart. I watched the screen. There were a few small tattered holes starting to appear.

  'You're our latest guest, Telman,' Dessous said, when Eastil had had his turn. 'Care for a shot?'

  I looked at him. I wasn't sure whether I was expected to say yes or not. 'That's very kind,' I said. I watched another reel of film being loaded into the first projector. 'I imagine we're up to Vietnam by now.'

  Dessous shook his big head. 'Not much dog-fighting there. We've gone straight to Yom Kippur.'

  I had a very brief lesson in how to shoot the gun. This basically consisted of hold on, don't close your eyes, and press this trigger here hard. The cannon had a fairly crude sight which looked like the wire frame taken off a dartboard and shrunk to about the width of a hand. The gun smelled of oil and smoke; it gave off heat like a radiator. I settled into the padded shoulder rests and for some reason couldn't help thinking of the stirrups in a gynaecologist's. My mouth, I have to say, was quite dry.

  The image across the drive-in lot flashed 5 + 4 + 3 + 2 + 1 +, with those reverse-sweeping clock roundels in between, counting down. Then we were in full colour above the sands of the Sinai peninsula and the skies were full of MiGs. I squinted through the sights and pulled on the trigger. The cannon shuddered and kicked back at me, nearly tearing my fingers away from the trigger. Tracer bullets lanced towards the screen and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  I tried aiming at the aircraft swirling in front of me, but it was hard. As long as I kept the bullets going through the screen and not into the framework holding it up I thought I'd be doing fine. The gun clattered to a stop. At first I thought it must have jammed, then I realised that I'd used up all the shells.

  I staggered as I stepped down, my ears ringing, my arms tingling, my shoulders aching and my whole body seeming to buzz.

  Dessous grabbed me briefly by one elbow. 'Whoa, you all right there, Telman?'

  'I'm fine.' I laughed. 'Some kick.'

  'Yup.'

  The screen was starting to look a little frayed in the centre when we had our finale. Another three people had taken turns at the gun; both Dwight and Mrs Dessous had declined. Dessous took his place again, the projector powered up, and before the gun started firing I could hear a mixture of cheers and boos from the people clustered round the windows.

  The unmistakable image of Saddam Hussein's face appeared on the screen, monolithically lugubrious, fixed and still. The gun launched 20mm cannon shells at it.

  The rest of the short reel was Hussein in various settings, sitting talking to his military commanders, walking past crowds of cheering people, inspecting troops, and so on. Then it went back to the still of his face, looming a hundred feet high above the deserted lot. Dessous fired into the eyes until the silvery material of the screen there started to fall away and flap and tumble — dark, silver, dark, silver — towards the ground. Holes appeared in the vast nose, the deep brush of moustache and across the broad expanse of forehead. Finally, peppering the line between dress shirt and Adam's apple, Dessous must have hit some part of the framework around the screen's lower edge, because sparks burst out, and two of the tracer rounds suddenly ricocheted upwards into the night in a bright red V. The cannon fell silent again as flames started to lick up around the giant face still displayed on the screen, while flaps and scraps of screen folded and fell or were caught in up draughts and floated skywards.

  More cheering and whooping and laughter. Dessous looked like a child locked in a candy store. He nodded and wiped his brow and took a lot of pats on the back and handshakes and just appeared utterly pleased with himself.

  Across the lot, flames licked up around the huge, frayed, unsteady image.

  Back in the villa, long past midnight, we sat in Dessous' den, just the man himself and me. The walls were covered in swords, hand-guns and rifles, all polished and gleaming and resting in little chrome cradles. The place smelled of gun oil and cigar smoke.

  Dessous drew on his cigar, levered himself back in his giant leather seat with a creak and thumped his shoes on to his broad desk. 'You ever think of yourself as a social
ist, Telman? You sure sound like one.'

  'Briefly, at university. Do I really?' I tried the cup of coffee, which was all I'd felt like. Still too hot.

  'Yup. You know how much you're worth?'

  'Roughly.'

  'Guess you can afford to be a socialist.'

  'I guess I can.'

  Dessous rolled the fat cigar round his mouth a couple of times, not taking his eyes off me. 'You believe in communities, don't you, Telman?'

  'I suppose so. We're all part of communities. All part of society. Yes.'

  'Are we your community?'

  'The Business?' I asked. He nodded. 'Yes.'

  'You're committed to us?'

  'I think I've shown that over the years.'

  'Just because of Mrs Telman?'

  'Not just. That's the sentimental reason, if you like. I have others.'

  'Such as?'

  'I admire what the Business stands for, its —'

  'What do you think it stands for?' he said quickly.

  I took a deep breath. 'Reason,' I said. 'Rationality. Progress. Respect for science, belief in technology, belief in people, in their intelligence, in the end. Rather than faith in a god, or a messiah, or a monarch. Or a flag.'

  'Hmm. Right. Okay. Sorry, Telman, I interrupted you there. You were saying.'

  'I admire its success, its longevity. I'm proud to be part of that.'

  'Even though we're vicious capitalist oppressors?'

  I laughed. 'Well, we're capitalists, sure, but I wouldn't put it any stronger than that.'

  'There's a lot of the youngsters — Level Six through Four — who'd think what you were saying earlier about initiative and drive and success and so on was something close to heresy; something close to treason.'

  'But we aren't a religion, or a state. Yet. So it can't be either, can it?'

  Dessous studied the end of his cigar. 'How proud are you to be part of the Business, Telman?'

  'I'm proud. I don't know of any internationally accepted scientific unit of measurement of pride.'

  'You put our collective good above your own interests?'

  I tried my coffee again. Still too hot. ' Are you asking me to surrender some of my stock options, Jeb?'

  He chuckled. 'Nope, I'm just trying to find out what the Business means to you.'

  'It's a collection of people. Some I like, some I don't. As an institution, like I said, I'm proud to be a part of it.'

  'Would you do anything for it?'

  'Of course not. Would you?'

  'No. So, I guess we're all in it for ourselves, aren't we?'

  'Yes, but we rely on the support and co-operation of everybody else to help us achieve our individual goals. That's what communities are all about. Don't you think?'

  'So what wouldn't you do for the Business?'

  'Oh, you know, the usual stuff: murder, torture, maiming, that sort of thing.'

  Dessous nodded. 'I guess that kind of goes without saying. What about this idea of self-sacrifice? What would you sacrifice something of your own for, if not for the Business?'

  'I don't know. Other people, maybe. It all depends on the circumstances.'

  Dessous grimaced and stared at the ceiling, looking suddenly bored with the whole conversation. 'Yeah, I guess it always does, doesn't it?'

  I woke up. Very dark. Where the hell was I? The air outside the bed was chilly. The bed itself felt…unfamiliar. I heard a chinking noise like something hitting a window. I sniffed the air, suddenly afraid. Not in my house, not in London, not in…Glasgow or Blysecrag…Dessous' place. Big Bend. I was in Nebraska. The cabin on the ridge. The noise came again.

  I felt for the light switch and touched the little netsuke monkey. The light was very bright. I stared at the curtains over the windows. I felt groggy and my head hurt; not badly, but enough to let me know I'd drunk too much. The noise at the window came again. I looked at the telephone on the other bedside table.

  'Kate?' said a muffled voice.

  I fastened the top button on my PJs top and went to the window and drew the drapes. Dwight's pale face stared back at me. I opened the window. Cold air spilled in.

  'Dwight, what are you doing?'

  He was wearing a thick jacket but he looked cold. 'Can I come in?'

  'No.'

  'But it's cold out here.'

  'So you shouldn't have left your cabin.'

  'I wanted to talk to you.'

  'Haven't you got a phone?'

  'No. That's why that cabin's so great. No phone. You can write.'

  'What? You mean a letter?' I asked, confused.

  Now he looked bewildered. 'No, I mean write treatments and shit, without distraction.'

  'Oh. And what about your mobile?'

  'I leave it switched off.'

  'But…never mind.'

  'Please let me in.'

  'No. What did you want to talk about?'

  'I can't talk out here! It's freezing!'

  'I'm freezing too, so keep it brief.'

  'Aw, Kate —'

  'Dwight, I've had your uncle beating my ears all evening. If you have anything to say I'd really appreciate you saying it as concisely as possible so I can get back to sleep. I'm very tired.'

  He looked pained. 'I was going to ask you…if you wanted to come to the première of my play on Broadway,' he said. He scratched his head.

  'Your play?'

  'Yeah,' he said, grinning. 'Finally got my name above the title on something. It's called Best Shot. It's brilliant! You'd love it.'

  'When is it?'

  'Next Monday.'

  'I'll try.'

  'You will? You promise?'

  'No, I can't promise, but I'll try.'

  'Right.' He hesitated.

  I shivered. 'Dwight, is that it?'

  'Uh, yeah. I guess.'

  I shook my head. 'Right. Good night.'

  'Umm. Okay,' he said. He started to turn away. I started to close the window. He turned back. 'Hey, ah, Kate?'

  'What?'

  'Do you, ah…Do you, like, want we should maybe, like, you know, spend the night together? Maybe?'

  I stared at him. I thought of lots of things to say, but eventually I just said, 'No, Dwight.'

  'But, Kate, Jeez, we'd be great together!'

  'No, we wouldn't.'

  'We would! I'm just so admirative of you.'

  'Dwight, that's not a word, or if it is it shouldn't be.'

  'But, Kate, I just find you so attractive, and I mean I never go for women your age!'

  'Good night, Dwight.'

  'Don't reject me, Kate! Let me in. I'm not going to be heavy, I'm not going to aggress on you or anything.'

  'No. Now go home.'

  'But-!'

  'No.'

  His shoulders slumped within the big jacket. His breath smoked down. He raised his head again. 'You'll still come to the play?'

  'If I can.'

  'Aw, come on, promise.'

  'I can't. Now go home. My feet are turning blue.'

  'I could warm them up for you.'

  'Thanks, but no.'

  'But you will try and come?'

  'Yes.'

  'You're not just saying that to get rid of me?'

  'No.'

  'As my guest, as my date?'

  'Only if you can't find somebody your own age. Now, good night.'

  'Excellent!' He turned to go, switching on a flashlight. I started to close the window again. He turned back again. 'You really think my idea about the escape pod inside the Kaaba is that bad?'

  'Not bad, just potentially fatal.'

  He shook his head as he turned away into the night. 'Shit.'

  My feet really were cold; so were my hands. I drew six inches of warm water in the bath and sat on the rim with my PJ cuffs rolled up, soaking my feet and hands to bring some blood back into them. I dried them and returned to bed and slept like a very tired log.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It snowed later on during the night and when I opened the curta
ins the next morning it was still snowing, turning the countryside softer, brighter and silently beautiful. I watched it snow for a while, then showered and dressed. The cabin's phone rang while I was drying my hair.

  'Telman?'

  'Jeb. Good morning.'

  'You want breakfast?'

  'Yes, please.'

  'Okay, dishing up in twenty minutes.'

  'This is at your place, yes?'

  'Yup, the villa.'

  'Right. How will I get there?'

  'Should be a truck in the garage.'

  'Ah.'

  There was: a big Chevy Blazer. I climbed in, it fired first time and rolled out into the snow. The garage door swung down automatically behind me. There was sat. nav., CB radio and a phone but I vaguely remembered the way and only took a couple of wrong turnings.

  We were still in a Mexican groove, food-wise. I sat in the big, bustling kitchen of the villa with everybody else and tucked into my huevos rancheros while Dwight, sitting next to me, boasted loudly about all the famous people he'd met in Hollywood, enthused about his Broadway play and just generally acted like somebody shooting for most-favoured nephew status.

  'You ski, Telman?' Dessous shouted, from the head of the table.

  'A little,' I said.

  'Heading for the slopes in about an hour if the weather clears like it's meant to. Like you to come.'

  'Happy to,' I said, feeling myself slipping into the way of Dessous' clipped syntax.

  'Mind if I tag along?' Dwight asked, with a grin.

  'Wouldn't want to cut into your Muse time there, nephew.'

  'That's all right, I could use a break.'

  'Actually, son, I was being polite. There's only room for one more in the choppers, and Telman's just taken that seat.'

  'Oh.' Dwight looked crestfallen.

  'Still up for it, Telman?'

  'Yup.

  The weather cleared from the west. Two dozen of us flew from the Big Bend airstrip in a British Aerospace 146 into a vast blue space divided perfectly into blue sky and white earth. We landed at Sheridan, just east of the Big Horn mountains. Two Bell 412s were waiting on the tarmac; we loaded our skis into pods attached to the legs and were lifted to pristine snowfields lying beneath the high peaks. The Bells dropped us in the middle of their own little snow blizzard, their skis suspended just a foot above the surface while we jumped out and unloaded ours. Then they lifted away again and clattered down the valley.