Iain Banks: Dead Air

‘Disgraceful.’

‘Nikki, Nikki; here. Oh, Nikki!’ Emma had jumped up. She hugged her daughter tightly, eyes closed. I hovered for a bit, but there was no room on the sofa once they’d got settled, and Emma seemed to be deliberately ignoring me. I waved to Nikki and wandered off. Time for another line or two, and/or one more quick session on Kul’s PlayStation 2 (if that last bit makes me sound like some kid whose parents won’t or can’t buy him a games machine of his own, I have to plead half guilty to the childishness charge; I did have a PS2 of my own but I got annoyed at it one drunken night back in the summer and threw it overboard. I live on a houseboat so I can do that sort of thing).

A drink or two later, a couple of lines and various conversations to the better, I was standing on the terrace again, admiring the view and breathing in the fresh autumnal air. With Jo gone I felt a sense of freedom and even opportunity and promise, the afternoon and evening stretching ahead invitingly. I had a couple of Evo 8s with me and pondered taking one. Loved up for the rest of the day. This would mean, though, that I’d be out of synch with Jo, assuming we reconnected before the day was over. With Addicta involved, probably we wouldn’t, but then you never knew.

An arm slipped round my waist. A body against mine, a kiss on my cheek and a voice purring, ‘Herr-lerrr.’

‘Amy. Well, hello indeed.’

Amy was a friend. One of Jo’s friends, originally, though I suspected she and I got on better these days than she and Jo, who seemed to have cooled towards her. Amy was nearly my height; she had fine, shoulder-length dark-blond hair with a natural curl. She also had very long legs and a figure. There was something slightly time-warped about Amy altogether; she was actually younger than Jo by a year but she dressed and acted five or ten years older. PA to a lobbying firm.

‘You look well, Ken.’ Amy leaned back against the parapet, arms along the stone. She wore pearls, a blue blouse, a mid-length skirt and a long jacket; court shoes.

‘And you look delectable as ever,’ I told her, smiling. Amy and I met up for lunch every now and again. We’d been flirting and joking about having a torrid affair for a year or so but we both knew it wasn’t going to happen. Well, probably. It was Amy I’d been on the phone to earlier when we’d got cut off.

She smiled slowly and looked around. ‘Jo here?’

‘Was. Had to go. Work.’

‘Was it her Addictive Band lot again?’

‘The same.’

She held a glass of white wine and took a delicate sip. ‘What was the wedding like?’ The wind produced a tiny gust, moving her hair across her face. She blew it away.

‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t make it; show to do.’

‘Ah-hah. Ken, do you have any drugs?’

‘Some coke; couple of Es.’

‘Think I might have some of the Charlie? I don’t know why. Just feel like it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you ever get that?’

‘Every day with a “Y” in it.’

There were a couple of children at the party and at least two print journalists I didn’t trust, so we found a room off the loft’s only corridor. It had been Faye’s office but now it was full of packing cases, ready for the move.

Back on the terrace a little later, the two of us talking up a storm, she picked up the part-eaten apple still lying on the parapet, twirling it in her hand.

‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘It’s one of ours.’

She threw it to me. It looked pretty unappetising, all brown around where I’d taken my single bite out of it. I leaned on the brickwork and held it over the drop to the car park. Amy leaned beside me. I let the apple go. It tumbled very slowly, almost disappearing.

It hit the asphalt and exploded in a highly satisfactory manner, all little lumps of whiteness bursting out across the dark surface.

‘Excellent!’ Amy clapped her hands. We looked at each other, our chins just off the brick parapet. I felt, suddenly, like I was a schoolboy again.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Let’s drop more stuff.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

‘I know.’

Which is how it came to pass that we ended up chucking what seemed like half the contents of Faye and Kul’s loft over the parapet. We started with more fruit. ‘They’ve got far too much food in anyway,’ Amy said as we loaded up on oranges, bananas, a melon and more apples.

We stared at the asphalt a hundred feet below. ‘That was disappointing.’

‘Was a bit, wasn’t it?’ I said, looking down at the squishy mess produced by a couple of oranges. ‘I don’t think citrus fruits are the way to go. They just don’t fragment in a satisfying manner.’

‘Or bananas.’

‘Agreed. Let’s go back to apples.’

‘Then the melon. That might be good.’

‘Yes. I have high hopes for the melon.’

‘Let’s do two apples at once; one each.’

‘Good idea. On three. One, two, three… Oh yes. Very good.’

‘Well synchronised. Let’s do four this time. Two each.’

‘We’ve only got three apples.’

‘I’ll get another one. No dropping the melon while I’m gone.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Ere, wot are you two up to?’

‘Ed; hi. Hope you don’t mind. Dropping fruit onto the car park. S’okay; nowhere near your car.’

‘Fucking ell, mate, I hope not. Only got it last week. Cost me seventy grand.’ Ed was my official best pal (English). Slight of build with a face that always reminded me of a black Mark E. Smith; hard and soft at the same time, the phizog of a pliable bantam-weight bruiser. Club DJ; sort of in-demand guy does two gigs a night and catches a helicopter in between. The Porsche probably constituted a week’s wages.

‘It’s a beautiful car,’ I told him. ‘But yellow?’

‘That’s a fuckin traditional Porsche colour, that is.’

‘Traditional? How can yellow be traditional? Blue, or green; those are traditional colours. Even red, but not yellow. Yellow is traditional for JCBs and Tonka toys. Even lime green at a pinch; Kawasakis. But not yellow.’

‘Wot a load of shit,’ Ed laughed. ‘Wot are you on?’

‘Hi, Ed,’ Amy said, returning with another apple. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks. Fibre,’ I said to Ed, holding the apple up to him. ‘I’m on lots of fibre.’

‘Ready?’

‘Read-hey,’ I said indignantly, ‘there’s a bite out of this apple.’

Amy nodded. ‘Ya. Somebody was eating it.’

I looked at her. ‘What are you loik?’ I said in my best Dublin accent.

She just shrugged and got ready with her two apples, poised to drop. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready,’ I said.

‘Wot you doin this for?’ Ed asked as we let the apples go. ‘Eh? Ken?’ Ed said, while Amy and I concentrated on the fruit falling to its doom. ‘What’s the-?’ The apples duly splattered. ‘Aow, yeah!’ Ed said.

‘See?’

‘That’s why,’ I said.

‘Cool, man.’

‘Melon?’ said Amy.

‘Melon, definitely,’ I agreed, hefting it.

‘Let me!’ said Ed. ‘I want to drop the melon!’ Amy and I exchanged looks. ‘Come on!’ said Ed. ‘I haven’t got to drop nuffink yet.’

‘That’s the test,’ Amy said, sternly. ‘You have to bring something worth dropping to the party, or it’s no entry.’

I nodded. ‘You haven’t been initiated.’

‘I’ll get sumfing!’ Ed started towards the apartment, then stopped. ‘Old on; let’s see the melon go first.’

I held it out over the drop with both hands and then let it go.

Amy whooped and we high-fived. ‘Outstanding!’

‘Fucking yeah, man!’

‘Fine sport.’

‘We need more fruit.’