Iain Banks - Against a Dark Background

She looked up; above the wooden gantry a small net swung from a piece of broken guttering. The net swayed in the wind, making a fizzing, sputtering noise and glowing with a strange green light.

The man followed her gaze.

“Prophet’s blood, it was only a stun-net,” he whispered.

She tottered to the broken rail and looked down to see the figure lying torn almost in half and burning amongst the packing cases and trash against the wall of the tenement opposite. A smell of roasted flesh wafted up from the body, making her feel sick.

The man grabbed her hand. “Come on!” he said. They ran.

“God help me, I almost enjoyed that,” he said, stumbling into the service entrance of the quiet apartment block. He took out his key, then paused, breathing hard, looking at her. “You’re still keen, I hope, yes?”

“Never say no to a man with a gun,” she said, trying to get out of the bright light shining near the laundry baskets.

He smiled and took off his short cloak with a flourish. “Let’s take the service lift.”

She busied herself with her make-up in the lift, turning to the corner and squinting into the little mirror, leaving the veil down while one hand worked behind it. She caught a glimpse of his face; he looked amused.

They entered his apartment. It was surprisingly plush, lit by subdued but expensive wall panels, full of ancient art works and pieces of fancy-looking equipment. The rug in the main room-patterned after the fashion of an early electronic chip-had a deep, luxuriant pile. He lit a cheroot, and sat down in a big couch. “Strip,” he told her.

She stood just in front of him, and-still determinedly holding the little purse-slowly pulled her veil away and let it fall to the floor. The radiation burn looked livid and raw, even under the make-up. The man on the couch swallowed, breathing deeply. He drew on the cheroot, then left it in his mouth as he folded his arms.

She took hold of the pillbox hat and removed it too. Her hair had been gathered up under the hat; now it fell out, spilling down her back.

He looked surprised. “When did you-?” he began, frowning.

She held one hand up flat towards him and shook her head, then put the same hand to the side of her face. She gripped the top edge of the radiation scar and slowly pulled it down, tearing it away from her cheek with a glutinous, sucking noise.

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The cheroot fell from his mouth onto the chest of his shirt.

She dropped the black purse from her other hand, which now held a small stubby pistol with no muzzle aperture. She spat out the fake teeth; they bounced on the printed-circuit rug.

“Hello, Cenuij,” she said.

“Sha-!” he had time to gasp, before the gun in her hand buzzed, his eyes closed and he went limp, sliding slowly off the couch onto the floor.

She sniffed, wondering what was burning, then took two quick steps towards him and removed the cheroot from the hole in his shirt before it burned any more of his chest hair.

He woke to the sound of spattering rain; he was sitting slumped in the rear seat of a tall All-Terrain and it was dark outside. Sharrow sat opposite him. His whole body was tingling, his head was sore and he didn’t think it wise to try speaking for a while; he looked around groggily.

Through rain-streaked glass to the right he could see a giant open-cast mine lit by dotted lights. The mine had eaten away half of an enormous conical hill and was continuing to shave away the other half. Looking carefully, he could make out a motley collection of trucks, draglines and lines of people with shovels, all working the canted grey face of the floodlit, sectioned hill. At least he wasn’t having trouble focusing.

“Cenuij?” she said.

He looked at her. He decided to try speaking.

“What?” he said. His mouth seemed to be working all right. Good sign. He flexed the tingling muscles in his face.

Sharrow frowned. “Are you okay?”

“She fries my synapses with a neurostunner whose insurance warranty ran out around the time of the Skytube, then she asks if I’m okay,” he said, attempting to laugh but coughing instead.

Sharrow poured something brown and fragrant from a flask into a cup; he took it and smelled spirit; he sipped at it, then knocked it back, smacking his lips. He almost threw it up again immediately, but held it down and felt it warm him.

“You once told me,” she said, “that if you had to be knocked unconscious, that’s the way you’d like it done, with one of those.”

“I remember,” he said. “It was the morning after Miz nearly rammed that Tax destroyer. We were in a tavern in Malishu and you were whining about your hangover; you wore a low-cut green scoopneck and Miz had left a line of lovebites like footprints leading down your left tit. But I didn’t think you’d treat an innocent observation as a definite request.”

“As you see,” Sharrow grinned, “the stunner has totally scrambled that perfect memory.”

“Just testing,” Cenuij said.

He stretched. He didn’t seem to be tied up in any way, and Sharrow wasn’t holding the stun gun.

“Anyway,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Indeed. I can see contrition oozing from your every pore.”

She nodded towards the open-cast mine. “Know where we are?”

“Mine Seven; a little west of the city perimeter road.” He rubbed at his leg muscles; they still felt tingly and weak.

“We’re right on the city limits,” Sharrow said. She nodded. “I step out that door and I’m outside the jurisdiction; you step out your side and you’re back in Lip City.”

“What are you trying to do, Sharrow? Impress me with your navigational skills?”

“I’m giving you a choice; asking you to come with me… but if you won’t, I’m letting you go.”

“You kidnap me first, then you ask me?” Cenuij shook his head. “Retirement’s addled your brains.”

“Dammit, Cenuij! I didn’t mean to snatch you; I just wanted to get to you. But that enthusiast with the stun-net rattled me. I wanted to get us both out of there.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said. “What a spiffing plan.”

“All right,” she said, raising her voice. “What was I supposed to do?” She got her voice under control again. “Would you have listened to me? If I’d tried to contact you; would you have given me the time to say anything?”

“No; I’d have switched off the instant I knew it was you.”

“And if I’d written?”

“Same. Switched the screen off or torn the letter up, accordingly.” He nodded quickly. “And if you’d approached me in the street I’d have walked away; run away; hailed a cab; jumped on a trolley; told a policeman who you were; anything. In fact, all the things I intend to do right now, or at least as soon as my legs feel like they’ll work again.”

“So what was I supposed to do, you awkward bastard?” Sharrow shouted, leaning forward at him.

“Leave me a-fucking-lone, that’s what!” he roared back into her face.

They glowered at each other, nose to nose. Then she sat back in the seat, looking out at the darkness on the other side of the car. He sat back too.

“The Huhsz are after me,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “Or they will be, very soon. With a Hunting Passport. A legal execution warrant-”

“I know what a Hunting Passport is,” he snapped.

“They might try using you to get to me, Cenuij.”

“Sharrow; can’t you get it through those artfully wanton black curls that I want nothing to do with you? I won’t indulge in some pathetic, nostalgic attempt to get us all back together again and be pals and pretend nothing bad ever happened-just in case that’s what’s on your mind-but equally I assure you I have no interest whatsoever trying to help the Huhsz second guess your every action; that would be almost as bad as actually being in your company.”