Iain Banks - The Crow Road

Rory had always found Fergus Urvill to be a little frightening. Kenneth had told him the story, years ago, about when Fergus put Lachy Watt's eye out; he'd stuck a fossil bone in it, or something. Rory thought now that his brother must have exaggerated the story, made it more horrific than it really had been, and he certainly didn't believe that Lachy had run away to sea just so that he could wear an eye-patch and pretend he was a pirate. He had joined the merchant navy — Rory had asked dad about that — but he had an artificial eye, not a patch. Rory knew because he'd been with mum once when they'd met Lachy and a woman in the street in Lochgilphead. Rory had looked very hard but hadn't been able to decide which was the false eye.

His own eye smarted, exposed to the draft coming through the key-hole. He blinked, then used his other eye.

Fiona and Fergus were making the bed, but doing it in a funny sort of way; the bottom sheet had been doubled up half-way down the bed. They were both chuckling to themselves, and talking in quiet, urgent whispers. Fiona glanced off to one side a couple of times. Rory worked out she was looking at the door he was crouched behind.

They made the bed up, so that it looked ordinary. Rory got ready to run away down the corridor. But they didn't leave the room; instead, Fiona and Fergus, still breathless with giggles, still chattering excitedly away, started to turn the furniture in the room upside down. They left the bed, of course, but they turned a table, a chest of drawers, two bedside cabinets, two chairs and an easy chair upside down. They carefully replaced lights and vases and other bits and pieces as they went along. They stood before the dressing table for a while, looking at it and discussing it, apparently, but eventually just turned it round so that it faced the wrong way, rather than turn it upside down.

Fiona leant back against the rear of the dressing table, breathing hard, and waved one hand, wafting air over her face. Her cheeks were pink, and a couple of coils of copper hair had fallen from her hairdo, one on each side of her head. She pulled at her bodice, blew down, went "Whoo!" Rory couldn't see Fergus Urvill. Then he reappeared, stood by Fiona. He was holding a key and a couple of toilet rolls; he said something Rory didn't catch. "Oh no," Fiona said, touching Fergus's arm. Her face looked amused but concerned. "No, that's naughty…»

Fergus stood there for a moment. Rory couldn't see his face, but Fiona's looked glowing and bright. "I like being naughty," he heard Fergus say, and then he stepped forward and took Fiona in his arms, still holding the key and the toilet rolls.

What? thought Rory. This really was something. Sister Fiona and big Fergus Urvill? Stupid girl; probably only after her body.

Ferg!" Fiona said, breaking away. Her face looked surprised, cheeks even redder. She smiled broadly, held Fergus's elbows. "Well, this is… unexpected."

"I've always… " Fergus lowered his voice as he bent to kiss her again, face in her hair and then his mouth on hers. Rory missed the exact words.

Go on, thought Rory. Go on. Do it. Let me see!

Fergus's hands dropped the key and the toilet rolls, grabbed Fiona's bum. She pushed away from him. «Ferg…» she said, breathless, lip-stick smeared.

"Fiona," Fergus moaned, clutching her. "I want you! I need you!"

"Well," Fiona said, gulping. "That's very, ah… but not here, eh?"

Fergus pulled her close again. "Let me drive you home tonight."

"Umm, well, I think we were getting a taxi."

"Please; let me. Please. Fiona. You don't know… " Fergus stuck his nose into her hair again, made a sort of moaning noise. "Feel me." And he guided one of Fiona's hands to the front of his kilt.

Good God, thought Rory. He took another quick glance down the hall, then looked back through the key-hole.

Fiona took her hand away. "Hmm. Yes; actually I already could, Fergus."

"I need you!" He pulled her close again.

"Not here, Fergus."

"Fiona; please…»

"All right; all right, Fergus. I'll try. We'll see, okay?"

"Yes; yes, thank you!" Fergus gathered Fiona's hands in his.

"Right," she laughed. "Well, come on; let's get out of here before the happy couple arrive. Put those back in the loo." She pointed at the toilet rolls. Fergus retrieved them. She busied herself with her hair, restoring it. Fergus turned and disappeared from Rory's view. "And put some cold water on that," Fiona said, grinning. "Looks like your sporran's trying to levitate."

She came towards the door. Rory leapt back, staggered on legs that had gone half to sleep, and only just scrambled into the broom cupboard and got the door shut before the bedroom door opened. The broom cupboard key-hole didn't let him see anything. He heard muffled conversation but no footsteps.

He waited, breathless, heart hammering in the darkness, one hand in his trouser pocket, stroking himself.

"Do 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."

"Don't quote that fairy at me, you Bolshie bastard. And don't call me Ferg."

"Beg your pardon. Some more whisky?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Rory got up out of the creaking wooden seat and walked unsteadily over to where Fergus lay on the bare wooden floorboards, head against the ancient, burst couch. The fire crackled in the grate, its light competing with that of the little gas lamp. Rory unscrewed the top from the bottle of Bells carefully and topped up Fergus's little silver cup. Fergus had brought a leather case with him; it held three of the silver cups and a big hip flask. Rory had brought the bottle in his rucksack.

"There you go."

"Ta much. You're a decent fellow for a Bolshie bastard."

"One tries, old bean," Rory said. He walked carefully to his seat, picked his little cup up from the floor and went to the room's single window. It was black outside. There had been a moon when they'd first arrived, but the clouds had come while they were chopping wood, and the rain while they'd cooked dinner on the two little primus stoves.

He turned from the darkness. Fergus looked like he was almost asleep. He was dressed in plus fours, tweed waistcoat (the jacket, and his waxed Barbour were hanging behind the door of the bothy), thick socks, brogues, and a fawn country shirt with a button-down collar. God, he even had his tie on still. Rory wore cords, mountain-hiking boots and a plain M&S shirt. His nylon waterproofs were draped over a chair.

What an odd pair we make, he thought.

He had been back from his travels for a while, staying first in London then at Lochgair, while he tried to work out what to do with his life. He had the impression things were sliding past him somehow. He'd made a good start but now he was faltering, and the focus of attention was drifting slowly away from him.

He had returned to discover that — like his brother before him — Ken had given up being a teacher. Hamish had taken up the managerial place at the factory that everyone had expected would be Kenneth's, when Kenneth had decided to teach. Now Ken too was quitting the profession to try something else: writing children's stories. Rory had always thought of Hamish as a sort of ponderously eccentric fool, and Ken a kind of failure because he had so much wanted to travel, and instead had settled down with Mary, stayed in the same wee corner of the world as he'd been born and raised in, and not only raised his own children, but chosen to teach others', too. Rory had felt slightly sorry for his elder brother, then. Now he felt envious. Ken seemed happy; happy with his wife, with his children, and now with his work; not rich, but doing what he wanted to do.