The Crow Road

by Iain M. Banks

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I think so.’ I studied the road for a bit, then looked up, disappointed. ‘So it doesn’t really work after all?’

  Rory shook his head. ‘Not the way I thought it did, no,’ he said.

  I frowned, trying to remember how we’d got onto this. ‘What’s that got to do with what we were talking about?’ I asked.

  Rory looked at me. ‘Ah-ha,’ he said, and winked. He nodded at a gate set in the low wall facing the road; beyond were the standing stones. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Here we are.’ The stair-door creaked open; I went to help Helen. She handed me a tray with four pewter mugs. The mulled wine steamed; it smelled wonderful. ‘Mmm, great,’ I said. Helen took my hand and stepped out through the little half-size door onto the battlements. Her broad face was tanned and her body looked lean and fit after some early-season skiing in Switzerland. She wore Meindl boots, an old pair of leather trousers that had belonged to her mother, a cashmere sweater and a flying jacket that looked distressed enough to have seen action over Korea, if not Greater Germany. Her hair was shining black and shoulder length.

  She took a mug. ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘Any sign of him?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. I held the tray out to Lewis and Verity, who made the appropriate noises and took a mug each.

  Helen nodded at the corner of the airmail package inside my jacket. ‘Still incubating that, Prentice?’

  I grinned. ‘Yeah.’

  We stood there sipping the hot, spicy wine, looking north.

  ‘Prentice? Ash. He’s done it.’

  ‘Who? Doctor Gonzo?’

  ‘Yeah; printing it out now; mail you the hard copy tomorrow morning; he’ll E-mail it to me too, I’ll download the files and stick them on a disk your Compaq’ll accept and bring it with me next week when I come up for Hogmanay ... unless you got a modem yet, did you?’

  ‘No, no I didn’t.’

  ‘Okay; that’ll be the arrangement, then. Sound all right to you?’

  ‘Yeah; great. I’ll write back to say thanks. He, ah ... say what the files actually were in the end?’

  ‘Text.’

  ‘That all he said?’

  ‘Yep. Prentice, he hasn’t read whatever he found; well, probably not more than the first few lines to check they were in English, not gibberish. Once he’d cracked it I don’t think he was really interested in what was actually written there. But it is text.’

  ‘Right. Text.’

  ‘Should get to you in a few days, airmail.’

  The big envelope from the States had arrived in the mail this morning, five days after Ash had called; the return address was Dr G, Computing Science Faculty, University of Denver, Co. I’d stared at the thing as it lay there on the front door mat, my mouth gone oddly dry. I had a slight hangover, and had decided - as I gingerly picked the disappointingly slim package up - that I’d open it after breakfast. Then after breakfast I’d thought maybe I should leave it until later, especially when Verity rang and invited me over to the castle.

  It was the last day of 1990; a full twelve months after that fateful party when Mrs McSpadden had sent me down to the cellar for some more whisky. We were all back here for the usual round of parties and visits and hangovers. I was mostly looking forward to it all, even though I was still trying to find reasons not to ask Fergus the things I knew I ought to ask him about Mr Rupert Paxton-Marr. But then, maybe I oughtn’t to ask them at all. Maybe what was in this airmail package would relieve me of the need to ask any questions (I told myself). I kept coming back to the distinct possibility that maybe I was making something out of nothing, treating our recent, local history like some past age, and looking too assiduously, too imaginatively for links and patterns and connections, and so turning myself into some sort of small-scale conspiracy theorist.

  I had been immersed in my studies all term, and everything seemed to be going well. My professor, reading my tutorial papers and essays, had gone beyond noises of encouragement and vicarious complacency to a sort of uncomprehending peevishness that I’d contrived to fail so spectacularly the year before.

  Meanwhile, in the history that we were currently living through, it looked like a war was going to start in just over two weeks, but - apart from a kind of low background radiation of species-ashamed despair because of that — personally I felt not too bad. Mum appeared to be holding out, despite Christmas and New Year traditionally being a bad time for the bereaved. She had actually started building the much talked-about harpsichord, turning a spare bedroom at Lochgair into a workshop which at the moment looked suitably chaotic; James had mostly rejoined humanity, to the extent that several times over the last few weekends before Christmas he’d taken his Walkman phones off long enough to have what could, with only a little generosity, be described as a conversation. Lewis was doing well, Verity was almost disgustingly healthy (apart from the occasional sore back and a bladder that appeared to have become inordinately susceptible to the sound of running water), and I actually looked forward to seeing Lewis and Verity now, much to my own amazement; there was still a distant pang when Verity smiled at me ... but it was more remembered than real.

  I looked at my watch. In four hours I’d be setting off for Glasgow Airport, for Ashley. She was booked on a late flight and I’d volunteered to go pick her up. She’d be working until half-five in London this evening, and it would have been pushing the old 2CV a bit to get to Scotland - let alone here - in time for the bells.

  I scanned the skies to the north, watching for movement. I was looking forward to the drive, even if it was at night and I wouldn’t be able to see the scenery.

  The wind gusted a little and I supped my mulled wine. The woods — evergreen and deciduous-bare - swept down to the fields and then the town; forests rose on the hills to the east.

  ‘Anybody heard the news today?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘Nothing special happening,’ Helen said.

  I guessed she’d got an up-date from Mrs McSpadden, who tended to keep the TV on in the kitchen these days.

  ‘All quiet on the desert front,’ breathed Lewis, taking up the glasses again and looking north towards Kilmartin.

  ‘You sure he’ll come that way?’ Verity asked.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Think so.’

  ‘Said he would,’ Helen confirmed.

  Verity stamped her feet.

  ‘Hey,’ Helen said. ‘I never asked you, Lewis; you got any Gulf jokes?’

  Lewis made an exasperated noise, still looking through the binoculars. ‘Na. I heard a couple of crap Irish ones, and the usual suspects in different disguises, but there hasn’t been anything good. I was trying to work on a routine about if the Stealth bomber worked as well as it did in Panama, the B-52 as it did in Viet Nam and the marines as effectively as they did in Lebanon, then Saddam had nothing too much to worry about, but it wasn’t funny enough.’ He brought the glasses down from his eyes for a moment. ‘In fact, it wasn’t funny at all.’

  ‘I know a girl from school who’s out there,’ Helen said. ‘Nurse.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Verity said, stamping her feet again.

  ‘Ha!’ Lewis said suddenly.

  ‘You seen him?’ Verity said, clutching Lewis’s arm.

  He laughed, glancing down at her. ‘No,’ he said, and grinned at me. ‘But guess who got called up as a reservist?’

  I shrugged. ‘I give in.’ I didn’t think I knew anybody in the forces.

  Lewis smiled sourly. ‘Jimmy Turrock. Used to be a bandsman. They’re the stretcher-bearers in war time.’

  I frowned, not recognising the name. ‘Jimmy -?’ I began. Then I remembered.

  ‘The grave-digger!’ I laughed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Lewis said, turning away again, raising the glasses. ‘The grave-digger.’

  I felt cold inside and my smile faded. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Some sense of humour the army has.’

  ‘Work experience,’ Lewis muttered.

  ‘Who’s this you’re talking about?’ Verity asked.<
br />
  ‘Guy helped us bury dad,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She hugged Lewis.

  ‘You going to go if they call you up, Prentice?’ Helen Urvill said, not looking at me.

  ‘Hell no,’ I said. ‘Which way’s Canada?’

  ‘Yeah,’ muttered Lewis. ‘Shame dad’s dead; maybe he could have got us into the equivalent of the National Guard, if we have one.’

  ‘Traffic wardens?’ I suggested. Lewis’s shoulders shook once.

  ‘You really wouldn’t go?’ Helen said to me, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I might send them some blood if they ask me nicely,’ I told her. ‘In an oil can.’

  ‘I suppose we can’t use the telescope, can we?’ Verity said suddenly, nodding at the white dome to our right. ‘As well as the binoculars I mean.’ She looked at each of us.

  ‘Nup,’ Helen said.

  ‘Too narrow a field of view,’ Lewis said.

  ‘And upside down,’ I added.

  Verity looked over at the dome. There was a smile on her face. ‘Do you remember that night we met in the dome?’ she said, looking up at Lewis. ‘We hadn’t seen each other since we were kids ...’

  Lewis handed the glasses to Helen, who held them one-handed, straps dangling. Lewis hugged his wife. ‘Of course I do,’ he said, and kissed her nose. She buried her face in his coat. I looked away, thinking about the drive up to the airport this evening.

  Maybe I should allow another half-hour or so for the journey, just in case of hold-ups. And of course they were building new bits onto the airport at the moment; could be a problem parking, and tonight was bound to be busy. I’d leave early, no sense in leaving late and having to hurry. I had taken to driving a bit slower and more carefully these days. Mum still worried, but at least I could reassure her with a clear conscience.

  I sighed, and the package against my chest flexed again. I looked down at it. Hell, this was silly; I ought to read the stuff. Waiting until I got back to the house and was sitting at the desk in the study was just putting it off.

  ‘How’s the wonderful world of Swiss banking these days anyway, Hel?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘Oh, wacky and transparent as ever,’ Helen said. They started talking about Zürich and London, and I sat down on the slope of slated roof, behind them. I pulled the airmail package out and opened it carefully. Verity looked back at me and smiled briefly, before turning back to Helen and Lewis to share some joke about the Hard Rock Café. My hands felt clammy as I slid the sheets of paper out of the thick white envelope. This is daft, I thought. It probably is gibberish, or Rory’s job application for that travel programme presenter’s job; a CV for the TV. Nothing important, nothing revelatory.

  The first sheet was a letter from the good Doctor, arcane with acronyms and abbreviations, telling me how he’d deciphered the binary mush he’d been sent and turned it into what I held in my hands. He sounded like a likeable guy, but I kind of just glanced at the letter. I went on to the print-out.

  There were about fifty or sixty pages of single-space laser print. The first twenty or so pages were taken up with pieces I recognised: articles and poems and the nameless play Rory had apparently decided to cannibalise for the end of Crow Road. Then came three passages of prose.

  I glanced up at the others; Helen and Verity were still talking, Lewis was looking through the binoculars towards Gallanach. I started reading, and my mouth went dry.

  I raced through each of the passages, my eyes bulging, hands shaking. The voices of the others, the cool December air and the chill slates under my backside seemed like they were all a million miles away, as I read what Uncle Rory had written.

  ‘D’you know where the twins were conceived?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said, and belched.

  ‘Fucking McCaig’s Folly, that’s where.’

  ‘What, Oban?’

  ‘The very place.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘You don’t. mind me saying this, I mean talking about Fiona like this, do you?’

  ‘No, no.’ He waved one hand. ‘Your wife; you talk about her. No, no, that’s bad, that sounds bad. I’m all for women’s lib.’

  ‘Might have bloody known. Might have bloody known you would be. Bloody typical, if you ask me. You’re a Bolshie bastard, McHoan.’

  ‘And you are the unacceptable face of Capitalism, Ferg.’

  ... That was how the first passage began. I finished it and realised my mouth was hanging open. I closed it and started, dazed, the next passage:

  ‘Henriss ... 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 going 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...’

  ‘Holy fucking shit,’ I whispered, when I finished it. Suddenly my hands felt very cold. I looked at the slates I was sitting on, then over at the dome of the observatory, gleaming in the low winter sun.

  ‘You okay, Prentice?’ Verity said, frowning at me from the battlements.

  I nodded, tried to smile. ‘Fine,’ I gulped. I turned to the third and last passage.

  Fiona sat in the passenger seat of the car, watching the red roadside reflectors as they drifted out of the night towards her; she was thrown against one side of the seat as Fergus powered the Aston around the right-hander ...

  ... And on through to the end:

  ... ‘Look — !’

  And that was all. I looked up, brain reeling.

  ‘Yo,’ Helen said, looking through the binoculars. She bent at the knees and put her mug down on the stones under her feet, then rose smoothly again.

  ‘You see him?’ Verity said, turning, still hugged within Lewis’ arms, to look out over the battlements.

  ‘Could be,’ Helen said. She handed the field glasses over to Lewis.

  ‘Yeah, might be,’ he said. It was Verity’s turn next with the binoculars.

  I swallowed a few times, put the sheets of paper back in their envelope. I stood up and walked over to the others, in a kind of trance.

  Verity shook her head. ‘Na, I can’t see the damn thing.’ She handed the glasses to me. ‘You’re looking pale, Prentice. You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ I croaked, not looking at her. I took the binoculars. ‘Thanks.’

  I’d seen the speck unaided by that time. Once I’d found it again the binoculars enlarged the dot into the frontal silhouette of a high-winged light aircraft, flying more or less straight towards us, its body pointed a little to the south west to compensate for the wind. It waggled in the air a little as it flew down the glen, encountering a gust high above Kilmartin.

  ‘Christ,’ Lewis said. ‘It’s a Mig on a bombing run; everybody down!’

  I handed the glasses back to Helen, who didn’t look particularly amused. She frowned at me. ‘You okay, Prentice?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘You should have loaned your dad your jacket,’ Lewis told Helen.

  ‘Doesn’t fit him,’ Helen said, binoculars at her eyes. I watched the dot of the plane drift closer towards us through the northern sky.

  ‘You were in a sleeping bag,’ I heard Lewis say softly to Verity. He was holding her from behind, chin on the crown of her head. I must have missed what they’d said earlier. I felt weird; I was glad the battlements were too high to fall over if I fainted.

  Verity smiled. ‘I remember. We were all smoking and playing cards and taking turns to look at the stars, and we got the munchies.’ She frowned. ‘There was Diana and Helen, and ... what was that guy’s name?’ She glanced ro
und and up at Lewis. ‘Wayne somebody?’

  ‘Darren somebody,’ Lewis said. He accepted the glasses from Helen, held them with one hand and balanced them on Verity’s head. ‘Hoy, stand still.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Darren Watt,’ I said. The plane was closer now but harder to see; it had dropped below the level of the hills behind and was no longer silhouetted against the sky. You could still see it with the naked eye, though. It glinted, once.

  Verity nodded. Lewis tutted in exasperation. ‘He was the gay guy, wasn’t he?’ Verity said.

  ‘Yup,’ Lewis said. ‘Sculptor. Good, too; fucking shame, that was.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Verity said. ‘Of course, he died.’

  ‘Bike crash,’ Helen said, scooping up her mug of cooled wine from the flagstones, and draining it.

  The plane was flying over Gallanach now. I thought I could hear its engine. I remembered standing here once with mum, years ago. Fergus and dad were shooting at clay pigeons in a field to our right somewhere, and I remembered hearing the flat Crack ... Crack noise of the guns, and thinking they sounded just like one plank falling on top of another. Blam! indeed. Remember, remember ...

  Verity laughed, making Lewis tut again. ‘You were doing your radio impressions,’ she said, ‘that night. Remember?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Why was I in a sleeping bag?’ Verity said, frowning at the approaching plane.

  ‘You were in the cupboard.’ Helen smiled. She waved out across the chill afternoon air above Gallanach. I looked back at the plane, which was switching its lights on and off.

  ‘Oh,’ Verity said. ‘Yeah; the wee cubby hole.’

  ‘Ah ha,’ Helen said, as Lewis waved too, still watching through the binoculars, now elevated above Verity’s head. ‘But it was really a secret passage.’

  ‘Was it?’ Verity asked, glancing at Helen.

  ‘Yeah. Di and I used to take the bit of wood off at the back and get into the attic. Wander all over.’

  ‘Anything interesting in there?’ Lewis asked. The plane was in a shallow dive, angling towards us a few hundred metres away.