The Crow Road

by Iain M. Banks

  ‘Hmm,’ Fergus nodded, still watching his wife, now talking to Shona Watt. ‘Yes, you may be right.’ He knocked back his drink, turned to the bottle-loaded table behind and poured himself another large whisky.

  Antonia clapped her hands, singing out: ‘Come on, you boring lot; let’s all play charades!’

  Kenneth drained his glass, murmured. ‘God, I hate charades.’

  ‘Heniiss ... never liked him either; fat lipped beggar ... queer, y’know; thass wha he’s singing you know; d’you know that? “Scuse me while I kiss this guy... disgussin ... absluley disgussin ...’

  ‘Fergus, do shut up.’

  ‘ “Scuse me, while I kiss this guy” ... bloody poofter coon.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Lachy.’

  ‘That’s okay, Mrs U. You no goin to put your seat belt on, no?’

  ‘No; not for short journeys -’

  ‘Lachy? Lachy ... Lachy! Lachy; I’m sorry about your eye ... really really sorry; never forgave myself, never... here, shake ...’

  Fergus tried to lever himself up from the rear bench seat of the old Rover, but failed. He got as far as lifting his head and getting one shoulder off the seat, but then collapsed back onto the leather, and let his eyes close.

  The car rumbled about him ... even more restful than the noise of train wheels in the old days; he tried to remember the old days ...

  ‘You sure you don’t mind doing this, Lachy?’ Fiona said, swinging the car off the’main road and onto the drive that led to the castle. The headlights made a tunnel of the trees and rhododendrons.

  ‘Na, it’s okay.’

  Lachlan Watt had been about to leave Hamish and Antonia’s party when Fergus had fallen over and Fiona had decided it was time to take her husband home; she had offered Lachy a lift back to his brother’s house, but when they’d got there Fergus had seemed fast asleep, snoring loudly and taking no apparent notice of Fiona shaking him and shouting at him; Lachy had volunteered to come back to the castle to help get Fergus out of the car and upstairs to bed; Fiona would run Lachy back afterwards.

  ‘God that man’s a nuisance,’ Fiona said, as they turned the corner in the drive and the lights of the castle came into view against the coal-dark night. ‘Like I say; I could have got the baby-sitter to help me with him, but she’s just a skelf... not our regular girl. She’s built like a rugby player, could probably put Ferg over her shoulder, but not this girl. Leanne’s her name ... that’s her car there; doesn’t look old enough to drive if you ask me ...’

  Fiona brought the Rover to a halt behind a beaten-up mini, standing on the gravel in front of the castle’s main entrance.

  ‘This really is awful good of you, Lachy.’

  ‘Aye, it’s no problem, Mrs U.’

  Fiona turned to him. She smiled. ‘Lacby; it’s Fiona. You make me feel old when you call me Mrs U.’

  ‘Sorry; Fiona.’ Lachy grinned.

  He had been a thin, light-framed boy, and he had grown to become a lean, wiry man; the years of life on merchant ships, and then in Australia, had left his skin looking well-used, like soft and fine-grained - but slightly distressed - leather. His hair was unfashionably short, and both eyes glittered. It was a spare, uncluttered, characterful face, especially compared to Fergus’s.

  ‘That’s better.’ Fiona smiled. She turned and looked in disgust at the body in the back seat, just as Fergus started to snore again. ‘Well; better get this lump out of the car, I suppose.’

  Fergus had gone back into a deep sleep. They couldn’t wake him. Fiona went in to tell the baby sitter she was free to go, while Lachy tried to rouse Fergus.

  ‘Hoi you; Fergus. Ferg; wake up, man.’

  ‘Aarg ... Henriss, bassard.’

  ‘Fergus; wake up, Fergus.’ Lachlan tried slapping the man’s cheeks; his heavy jowls wobbled like jellies.

  ‘Hhnn...’

  ‘Wake up,’ Lachlan said, slapping Fergus’s cheeks again, harder. ‘Wake up,’ he said quietly. ‘Ye upper class cunt ye.’ He fairly walloped Ferg on one chop.

  Fergus awoke suddenly; arms waving about, eyes wild and bright, making no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Then he rolled off the seat into the footwell and immediately started snoring again.

  ‘Any luck with the sleeping beauty?’ Fiona said, coming down the steps alongside a slim, blonde-haired girl who was zipping up an anorak.

  Lachlan turned round. ‘Na; be’s sound.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ muttered Fiona. She glanced in at Fergus, then turned to the girl. ‘Thanks, Leanne, dear; now drive carefully, won’t you?’

  ‘Aye, Mrs Urvill,’ the girl said, taking out some keys and heading for the mini. ‘Night-night.’

  ‘Bye now.’

  Fiona and Lachy took an end of Fergus each; Lachy held him under the shoulders, Fiona by the ankles. They struggled up the steps, through the entrance hall, rested in the main hall, then took him up to the first floor.

  ‘In here,’ Fiona said, nodding.

  Lachy supported Fergus’s shoulders with one knee while he twisted the handle of a darkly-stained wooden door. It swung open to darkness.

  ‘There’s a light, aye?’

  ‘Just there; down a bit.’

  The room was small and bright; there was a single bed, a dressing table and chair, and a wardrobe. There was a print of a hunting scene on one wall, opposite a small window.

  ‘Guest room’s good enough for him tonight,’ Fiona grunted as they swung him onto the bed and dropped him.

  ‘Shooch!’ Fiona said, collapsing onto the floor. Lachy sat down on the pillow at the head of the bed, breathing hard. Fiona wiped her brow. She got up shakily.

  ‘That was hard work,’ she said. She pulled Fergus’s shoes off and nodded to the door. ‘Come on; let’s break into the old bugger’s best malt before we run you back. You deserve it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Lachy said, smiling. ‘No takin his clothes off, no?’

  ‘Ugh. Certainly not,’ Fiona said. She drew back a little against the door to let Lachy go past her into the hallway. ‘He’s lucky we didn’t leave him in the car.’ She turned out the light.

  Fergus woke in utter darkness, wondering where he was; he felt as though he was falling backwards forever into darkness. For an instant he thought perhaps he was dead, consigned to perdition and gloom until the end of time, his only sensation that of falling back and back and back, head over heels forever. He heard himself moan, and felt with his hands: bedclothes. He was still wearing his own clothes, too. Here was his shirt on his wrist; there his trousers, sweater... shoes off. He flexed his feet, feeling his toes in his socks. His hands found the sides of the bed; it was a single, then.

  It was still totally dark. He tried to remember where he’d been last.

  The party; Hamish and Antonia McHoan’s. Of course. He must still be there, as this wasn’t his own bed. Put to bed. Bit bad, that; probably in the dog-house as far as the lady wife was concerned, too, but then what was new?

  He put one hand out, feeling for a table; he found what felt like one, and then a long cold metal stem. Reaching up, he felt a switch.

  The light clicked on and suddenly everything was white and horribly bright. He shielded his eyes. God, his head felt fuzzy, and sore. He needed a drink very badly; water would do.

  He looked round the white-painted room, thinking that it looked somehow familiar. Perhaps he had slept here before. Or maybe he’d given the McHoans some bits and pieces of furniture.

  He listened but couldn’t hear anything. The door of the room looked familiar, too. Odd to find a door so comforting, somehow.

  He got up, wobbled across to the door. He was quite cold. He opened the door; a dark hall. Funny; the place didn’t smell like the McHoans’ house did. It smelled of wood and a sort of quite pleasant mustiness. This place smelled of stone and polish. Bit like the castle.

  He went out into the hallway, felt along the wall for a light switch; he found one, switched it on. Stairs led up; the w
ood-panelled hall led to another set of stairs going down. There were old paintings on the walls. He felt very dizzy, and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. He was home. This was the castle.

  He got up, walked up the stairs. The door to the short flight of stairs that led to the two topmost floors was locked. He didn’t understand. He searched his pockets but could find no key.

  He pushed at the door again. He gathered a chestful of air to shout at Fiona - dozy bitch had locked him out of his own fucking castle, his own bedroom - but then thought of the children. Might wake the little beggars up. Didn’t want that.

  He went down through the lower hall to the kitchen, drank some water. His watch said it was two o’clock; so did the kitchen clock. There ought to have been keys hanging by the door to the utility room, but they weren’t there. Bloody fishy. Had Fiona hidden them? Did she think he was dangerous, was that it?

  Maybe she thought he would get up in some drunken stupor and ravish her. ‘Huh, that’ll be right,’ he said to himself. His voice sounded rough in the quiet kitchen; he cleared his throat, coughed, and felt the dull pounding of his headache suddenly sharpen.

  Damn it all. Perhaps he was being punished. Maybe she was punishing him for getting drunk. Had he done anything disgraceful? He couldn’t remember, but he doubted it. He usually held his drink well, and behaved like a gentleman even when he did have one too many.

  He looked at his reflection in the window over the sink. He pulled one splayed hand through his hair. Maybe he ought to have a shower or something. There was always the bathroom on the first floor ...

  He felt bloody annoyed, Fi locking him out of their apartments like that.

  Then he remembered the observatory.

  You could get up to it by the stairs to the roof. He’d been up there, in the roof space when the men had been installing the dome. For that matter, he’d seen that loft being put together, knew it almost as well as that self-opinionated young architect had. He’d crawled around in there, him and the builder, with a torch, discussing where the observatory could be built; what joists and supports would have to go, what extra bracing would be needed.

  He chuckled to himself, put down the cup he’d been drinking the water from, wiped his lips.

  He padded through the hall, up the four flights of stairs to the little landing where you either went straight ahead and out onto the battlements, or ducked through the wee door into the observatory.

  It was bitterly cold inside the aluminium hemisphere. He wished he’d thought to put shoes on before he’d started on this piece of nonsense; feet felt like blocks of ice. Still.

  He opened the door that gave into the extended cupboard under the roof. Dark. Damn; should have thought to bring a torch, too.

  ‘Sloppy, Urvill, bloody sloppy,’ he breathed to himself.

  He squeezed inside the little cupboard. Really must lose some weight. Well, festive period well and truly over now; time to go on a diet, or do a bit more exercise. He wriggled to the rear of the cupboard; felt for the wooden battens on the panel at the end of the dark space. The panel came away after a little while; he put it on the floor in front of him, and wriggled through on his elbows and knees into the darkness beyond.

  ‘Getting too old for this sort of thing, ‘he told himself. It was very nearly totally dark in the roof space; only a little light came from behind him, through the cupboard from the dome of the observatory. He felt his way across the joists in front of him, got his legs free from the cupboard and was able to get up into a crouch, balancing on a joist, hands just above his head, holding on to rough, undressed wood.

  He swung one foot out, to the next joist, then put out one hand and felt for the next rafter; he transferred his weight carefully. There; did it. He was aware of the lath and plaster clinging to the bottom of the joists; put a foot through that and you’d be right through the ceiling below; chap could fall slap into the bath from here, probably; or into the twins’ room, maybe; perish the thought; daddy coming crashing through the ceiling, give the little perishers nightmares for the rest of their lives.

  He swivelled from joist to joist, rafter to rafter, feeling horribly like a monkey and getting very cold feet in the process even though he was breaking out in a sweat at the same time. His knees and his neck were making ghastly creaking noises and protesting like hell.

  He looked back at the light coming from the observatory cupboard, now a good twenty feet away, and thought about going back; this whole prank was becoming a bit much, really. But he’d started, ‘so he’d finish.

  He saw the faintest of glows ahead, from between two of the joists. He smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he breathed to himself. With the next joist it came closer; then he could see one edge of the little hatch; then he was over it. A soft light gave away the outline of the door. He heard voices. God, the silly woman had probably left the radio on.

  He got down on his knees again, feet supported on the joist behind; his knees gave sharp twinges of pain, taking almost all his weight.

  He felt for the edges of the square door, found them and lifted it gently. What a locked-room mystery this would present the old girl with, if he could get in without her hearing him, and get undressed and slide in beside her! She’d never be able to work it out. Of course, he thought, as he levered the hatch door open slowly, letting more soft light spill out from underneath, he’d have to cover his tracks in the morning; damn silly to have left the cupboard back there open, and the light on in the dome. But never mind. Fi hardly ever went up there anyway.

  He’d lifted the near edge of the door up about three inches above the top of the joist in front of him. He held it there, lowered his head, peeped into the room, smiling, wondering if he could see Fi from this angle. Voices. Warm air and voices.

  ‘Oh ... God, God, God, God; yes, yes, yes, yes...’

  It took him a moment to work out what was going on.

  But then he realised.

  That was Fiona, in the bed, on the bed, covers half off, the only light in the room coming from a little candle by the bedside, her hair spilled on the pillow (the other pillow was on the floor) ... and that was Lachlan Watt, wrapped round her, body bucking like some horse, his hands at her neck, at one breast, in her hair, cupping her neck; the covers sliding off, Fiona putting her arms wide, clutching at the bottom sheet of the bed at one side, clutching the edge of the bedside table with the other. Her head beat from side to side and she said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ again, then Lachlan - wiry, athletic-looking, skinny shanks ramming back and forth like some skinny bull - reached under her, pulled her up, his legs spreading, kneeling; she hung onto him, arms round his neck, then after a few vertical stabs he threw her down, back onto the bed; she grunted, arms still tight round his back, then she brought her legs up, right up over his thin, plunging, globe-buttocked behind, until her ankles were in the small of his back, rocking to and fro, feet crossed one over the other, locked there; with one splayed hand she held onto his back, pressing him to her, and with the other hand she felt down the length of his body, over ribs and waist and hips, and with another grunt reached round and under, taking his balls in her hand, pressing them and kneading them and squeezing them.

  ‘Aw Christ!’ he heard Lachlan Watt say, body arching. Fiona shuddered, her voice almost a squeal as she took a series of sudden, deep in-rushing breaths, and buried her head in the hollow between Lachlan Watt’s shoulder and neck.

  Fergus let the little door down without making a noise.

  He felt very cold, and he had pissed himself. The urine was warm around his balls and tepid down his leg, but it was cold at his knees. He knelt there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the subsiding passion in the room below, then swivelled silently and with even greater care than before, and feeling far more sober, moved back towards the thin, escaping light at the far end of the chill, cramped roof space.

  CHAPTER 11

  If the year of our folly 1990 had started inauspiciously for me, then the Fates, Lady
Luck, Lord Chance, God, Life, Evolution - whoever or whatever - immediately thereafter set about the business of proving that the entangled disasters distinguishing the year’s first few days were but a mild and modest prelude to the more thorough-going catastrophes planned for the weeks and months ahead ... and this with a rapidity and even an apparent relish which was impressive - if also bowel-looseningly terrifying - to behold.

  Gav and my Aunt Janice got on like a house on fire, a combined location and fate I occasionally wished on them as I lay awake listening to the sounds of their love-making, a pastime I sometimes suspected I shared with people in a large part of the surrounding community, not to say northern Europe.

  I had made the mistake of volunteering to sleep on the couch in the living room on the nights that Janice stayed at our flat; this offer was made with what I thought was obvious sarcasm one evening while Gav and Norris were attempting to develop a technique for cooking poppadoms in the microwave. They were having an intense and appropriately heated discussion on the problems of cold-spots (as evinced by the fact that their first attempts came out looking like braille roundels), and on the unfortunate instability of three poppadoms balanced together - caused not so much by the jerk they received when the turntable started up as by their movements while they cooked and swelled - but eventually my flatmates settled on the concept of standing the things up individually on the glass turntable, and so instigated what they termed a ‘brain-storming session’ in an attempt to find a suitable support mechanism. (I suppressed the urge to point out that the chances of two such patently zephyr-grade minds producing anything remotely resembling a storm was roughly equivalent to the likelihood of somebody called Cohen landing a pork scratching concession in Mecca during Ramadan.)

  ‘An alligator clip with the chrome bits removed.’

  ‘Naw; still metal.’

  ‘Maybe we could shield it.’

  ‘Na; has to be plastic. Yer non thermosetting stuff, for preference.’