Iain Banks - The Crow Road

So I just sat there, across from her, looking into her soft-skinned face all glowing in the candle-light, that long, thin nose rising straight above her small, smiling red mouth as if together they made an exclamation mark, and I felt lost in the grey sparkle of those eyes.

We walked out into the cool March night. It was fair but it had been wet and the pavements shone. Ashley stood on the steps as I put on the old tweed coat that had been my dad's. She wore a black dress and the old naval jacket with the turned-over cuffs I remembered from Grandma Margot's funeral. She leant against some railings, watching me button my coat up, and with her left foot she clicked her toe and heel as if in accompaniment to some song I couldn't hear.

I looked down at her tapping black shoe as I adjusted my collar.

"Morse code?"

She shook her head, long fawn hair spilling over her dark shoulders.

We went arm in arm down the steps. "What was that film that had a dancer tapping out insults at somebody?" I said.

"Dunno," Ash said, click-clicking her feet as we walked.

"Was it Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid?" I scratched my head. I wasn't wearing gloves and I could feel Ashley's warmth through her jacket. She smelled of Samsara, which was a departure for her, I thought.

"Maybe," she said, and then she laughed.

"What?"

"I was just remembering," she said, squeezing my waist. "Mrs Phimister's class. Remember? The French teacher? We were in the same class."

"Oh yeah," I said. We turned onto Woodlands Road.

"You hated her because she'd confiscated a radio or something, and you used to tap out insults in morse code." Ash laughed loud.

"God, yeah," I said. "That's right."

"'Fuck off you old cow', was the witticism I recall best," Ash said, still snorting with laughter.

"Jeez," I said, pulling away from her a little to look into her eyes. "You mean you could decipher it?"

"Yeah," Ash said, with a sort of friendly scorn. "You rotter!" I laughed. "You absolute cad-ess. You cad-ette; I thought that was my secret. I only told people later, after I'd left school, and then nobody believed me."

"Yeah," Ash said, grinning at me. "I knew. A couple of times I almost got detention because I was giggling so much. Nearly wet my knickers trying not to laugh. Got some very stern looks from Mrs Phimister." She laughed again, throwing her head back.

"I didn't even know you knew morse code," I said. "I learned it in the scouts. Where did you learn it?"

"My grandad taught me," Ash said, nodding. "We used to sit and pass messages at meal times by clinking our cutlery off the plates. Mum and dad and the others always wondered what we found so hilarious about yet another helping of shepherd's pie and chips."

"And you never said!" I shook my head. "You rascal!"

She shrugged, looked down at her black, medium-high heels as she did a little tap-dance. "You didn't like me; what was the point?"

"I didn't like any girls," I told her. "In fact I wasn't that keen on any of the boys either. Come to think of it, I felt mostly contempt even for my friends."

"Yeah," Ash said, leaning over towards me so that her grinning face was almost on my chest. "But you didn't break their noses with a boulder disguised as a snowball, did you?"

I stopped in my tracks.

Ash gave a little squeal as she staggered, suddenly losing support on one side. She steadied and turned. She faced me, looking puzzled, from a metre or so away. I just stood there open-mouthed.

"You knew that was me?"

"Course I did." She frowned and smiled at the same time.

"Another secret gone!" I exclaimed, waving my arms. "I've felt guilty about that for years!"

Ash tipped her head to one side.

"Well, not all the time," I said. "I mean, on and off."

She raised one eyebrow.

"Okay," I said, slumping a little. "Mostly off. But I did feel bad about it. I really did. I always felt bad about that."

Ashley shook her head gently and came forward, took my arm and led me along the street. "Never mind," she said. "I never told anybody. And I forgave you."

"Really?" I said, putting my arm round her again, "When?"

"At the time. Well, after it stopped hurting, anyway." We turned the corner into Woodlands Gate. I shook my head. "Why didn't you ever say you knew it had been me?" I asked her.

She shrugged. "The subject never really arose before."

I shook my head again. "Good grief," I said. "All this time. Good grief."

Ashley had been ravenous when she'd arrived at the house in Park Terrace a little after seven that Sunday evening, so she'd just dumped her bags and we'd gone straight out to the restaurant. When we got back after the meal, I showed her round the place. We opened a bottle of Graves I had in the kitchen — after first agreeing that of course we shouldn't — and then walked from room to room while I did my guided tour bit and pointed out the more interesting or valuable works of art, while we sipped our wine and the statues gleamed and the chandeliers glittered and the paintings glowed and the carpets spread before us like gigantic blow-ups of oddly symmetrical printed circuits.

Ashley shook her head a lot. When she saw the main bedroom she laughed.

We went back to the kitchen. She demurred when I offered to top her glass up. "I should go to bed now," she said, pulling a hand through her hair. She put her glass down on an oak working surface. " Take some water in a big glass and get to me bed… " she said. "Do you mind?" She looked at me.

I shrugged. "No, of course not. There's glasses in the bathroom, beside your room." A terrible sadness settled on me then, and I had to swallow hard a couple of times. I drank, to hide it, then said, as matter-of-factly as I could, "What time do you want up tomorrow?"

"About seven should do."

"Right," I said, looking at my glass. "Right. Seven. I'll bring you tea and toast, all right?"

"Fine."

"Okay then," I said.

I looked up and she was smiling. She looked at her watch. "Well," she said, and flexed her brows. "Night-night."

She came forward, put one hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek.

I put my hand on her hip, let my head nuzzle towards hers a little. She put her arm round my waist and I turned to her, hugged her, my lips at her neck, kissing delicately. She pushed her head against mine, and we started to turn to each other at the same moment, as she put her arms round me; the kiss just seemed natural after that.

It went on for some time. Ashley seemed to loosen and grow more tense at the same time; her mouth appeared to want to swallow mine, her hands grabbed my curls, nails scratching at my scalp. I pulled on her hair, kissed and licked her neck. She dug her nails into the small of my back through my shirt. We kissed again and I kneaded her backside, then pulled the dress up while she wriggled a little to make it easier, and I found skin, stockings, her knickers, and pushed my hands inside, gripping her smooth, warm bum. She pulled herself up against me.

This," she said, breaking off, breathing hard, while her hands stroked the nape of my neck and her gaze flicked from my mouth to my eyes and back again, "this might be better suited to that ridiculous bedroom, what do you think?"

I nodded. "Good idea."

"Bring the wine."

"Better yet."

It was something. On that monumentally ostentatious bed of the late Mrs Ippot's, Ashley and I made love like we'd done it for years and then been apart for years and just met up and hadn't forgotten a thing.

A couple of times, lying there panting afterwards while we trickled with sweat and licked at each other, or were stroking and caressing and thinking about starting all over again, she laughed.

"The room?" I said, first time.