Iain Banks: Dead Air

In my darker moments it sometimes occurred to me that these entanglements – or one of them – would be the death of me.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ Emma was leaning towards me, talking quietly, voice nearly lost in the party’s hubbub.

‘Things have been hectic.’

‘I bet. I saw Jo storming out.’

‘Well, no; that wasn’t quite a storm. It wasn’t a common walk, either, granted. Somewhere in between; more of a flounce.’

‘Something you said?’

‘Remarkably, no. No, that was a work-related flounce, or storm. Where’s Craig?’

‘Picking up Nikki.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Should be here soon.’

‘And how is the gorgeous-?’

‘So,’ Emma broke in. ‘How’s your programme going?’

‘You have to ask?’ I pretended to be hurt. ‘Don’t you listen any more?’

‘You lost me when you were banging on about how only criminals should have guns.’

‘That’s not quite what we were saying.’

‘Maybe you should have been more clear. What were you saying?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I lied.

‘Yes you can. You were saying criminals should have guns.’

‘I was not! I was saying the idea that if you took hand-guns away from ordinary law-abiding people then only criminals would have guns was a crap argument for keeping guns.’

‘Because?’

‘Because it’s the ordinary law-abiding people who go crazy and walk into primary schools and open fire on a class of kids; compared to that, crims use guns responsibly. To them a gun’s just a tool, and something they tend to use on other crims, I might add, not a gym full of under-eights.’

‘You said criminals should have guns; that’s a quote. I heard you.’

‘Well, if I did, I was just exaggerating for comic effect.’

‘I don’t think it’s anything-’

‘You probably missed the way we developed that,’ I told her. ‘We decided only extroverts and nutters should get guns, crims or not. Because it’s always the quiet ones that go mad. Ever noticed that? The shocked neighbours always say the same things: he was very quiet, he always kept himself to himself… So; guns for nutters only. Makes sense.’

‘You’re not even consistent; you used to argue everybody should have guns.’

‘Emma, I’m a professional contrarian. That’s my job. Anyway, I changed my mind. I realised I was on the same side as people who argued that the States and Israel were havens of peace and security because everybody was tooled up.’

Emma snorted.

‘Well,’ I said, waggling the hand that wasn’t holding my drink, ‘the statistics aren’t that clear-cut. They have a lot of guns in Switzerland, too, and not much gun crime.’

Emma watched her drink as she swirled it in her glass. ‘You wouldn’t last in the States,’ she muttered.

‘What?’ I said, mystified.

‘Somebody would shoot you.’

‘What?’ I laughed. ‘Nobody’s shot Howard Stern.’

‘I was thinking more of jealous husbands, boyfriends, that sort of thing.’

‘Ah.’ I knocked back my Scotch. ‘Now that’s a different argument entirely.’ I stood up. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

In the long, gleaming gallery that was the kitchen, Faye was sweeping up a smashed glass from the slate floor. The caterers were unpacking more food from cool boxes. I squeezed through a group of people I vaguely knew via my pals in advertising, saying Hi and Hello and How are you?, smiling and patting, shaking offered hands.

Kul was leaning against the puce-coloured SMEG fridge while a suit with a flushed face and holding a slim briefcase tapped him on the chest.

‘… us have to go to work this afternoon you know,’ the suit was saying. ‘We have meetings.’

Kul shrugged. ‘I put on gigs, man. I work at weekends. This was the first day we could both manage.’

‘Well, okay, let you off this time,’ the flushed suit said, swaying. ‘But don’t let it happen again.’ He laughed loudly.

‘Ha ha,’ Kul said.

‘Yeah, don’t let it happen again,’ the suit repeated, heading for the front door. ‘Na; it was great. Great. Thanks. Thanks for the invite. Been brilliant. Hope you’re both very happy.’

‘Thanks for coming. Take care,’ Kul told him.

‘Yeah, thanks. Thanks.’ The suit bumped into somebody, spilling a drink. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He lurched round to wave to Kul, who had already turned away and was headed for the loft’s main space. I poured myself some more Glen Generic then saw that somebody had brought a bottle of cask-strength Laphroaig, so abandoned my first glass and poured another of the Leapfrog and went to the fridge for some water.

‘Hey, Ken.’

I closed the fridge door and saw Craig, official best pal (Scottish). Usual faintly diffident grin and sloppy-looking, thrown-on clothes; wee round glasses beneath a shaven head. When Craig still had visible hair it was black like mine; maybe a little curlier. We’ve both always had the same medium-slim build and since third year in High School I’ve been a couple of inches taller. We used to get mistaken for brothers, which both of us thought unfairly flattered the other. Our eyes are different; his are brown and mine are blue. Alongside Craig was his daughter Nikki, balanced on a pair of crutches. A few seconds were required to take in this vision.

I hadn’t seen Nikki for over a year, when she was still at school, all gawky, awkward and blushing. Now she was as tall as her father and as beautiful as her mother. She had long glossy auburn hair half hiding a slim, pale face that just shone with youth and health.

‘Craig! Nikki!’ I said. ‘Kid, you look fabulous.’ I looked down at the freshly plastered leg hanging at an angle from her boot-legged jeans. ‘But you’ve broken your leg.’

‘Football,’ she said, shrugging as best she could. Craig and I hugged and slapped backs in full-on hail-fellow-Caledonian-well-met style. I embraced Nikki rather more tentatively. She sort of leaned into the cuddle and nodded against my cheek. She smelled of the open air, of somewhere fresh and perfect a long way from London.

‘Heard you’re about to start at Oxford, yeah?’ I said, shaking my head as I looked at her. She was nodding.

‘Uh-huh,’ she said, then, ‘Yeah, just a water or something,’ to her dad.

‘Chinese, wasn’t it?’ I asked.

‘Yup.’ She nodded.

‘Brilliant. Good for you. You can teach me how to swear in Mandarin.’

She giggled, suddenly, briefly a child again. ‘Only if you promise to do it on air. Uncle.’

I sucked air through my teeth. ‘Favour; don’t call me Uncle, okay? Make an old man happy while we’re together and pretend you just might be a trophy waif I’ve picked up.’

‘Ken!’ She kicked out at me with one crutch.

‘Hey,’ I said, rubbing my shin. ‘I’ve a reputation to keep up. Or down-hold. Whatever.’

‘You’re terrible!’

‘Come on,’ I said, offering my arm. ‘Let’s get you a seat. Craig; we’re through here,’ I told him. He waved. Nikki nodded me to go ahead of her. ‘Hobble this way,’ I said and pushed through the pack of people towards the main space while Nikki clumped after me. I looked at her again as we got clear of the kitchen crowd, and sighed. ‘Oh dear, Nikki.’

‘What?’

‘You are going to break so many hearts at Oxford, youngster. ’

‘Organs, rather than bones. Good idea.’

‘Mm-hmm. Football, you said?’

‘Girls do play it nowadays, you know.’

‘Golly, you don’t say. Don’t you find the long skirts get in the way? Ow! Will you stop doing that?’

‘Well…’

‘What position?’

‘Striker; I was scythed down in the penalty box. On a hat-trick, too.’