Iain Banks - The Crow Road

"I wish I shared your enthusiasm for change." Fergus sighed, and drank deeply.

"Change is what it's all about, Ferg. Shuffling the genes; trying new ideas. Jeez, where would your damn factory be if you didn't try new processes?"

"Better off," Fergus said. He looked sourly at Kenneth. "We're just about making enough from traditional paperweights to keep the Specialist Division afloat. All this hi-tech stuff just loses us money."

"Well, it must be making money for somebody; maybe you weren't able to invest enough. Maybe the big boys'll take over. That's the way things go; capitalists all want to have a monopoly. Only natural. Don't get depressed about it."

"You won't be saying that if we have to close the factory and put everybody out of work."

"God, Ferg, it isn't that bad, is it?"

Fergus shrugged heavily. "Yes, it is. We've told them it might come to that; the shop-stewards, anyway. Another strike, or too big a pay rise, and we might go under."

"Hmm," Kenneth said, sipping at his whisky. He wondered how serious the other man was. Industrialists often made that sort of threat, but they rarely seemed to be carried out. Kenneth was a little surprised that Hamish hadn't said anything about the factory being in such dire straits, but then his brother did seem to put the church and the factory above family and friends.

"I don't know." Fergus shook his head. "If we weren't tied to this bit of the country, I'd almost think about chucking it all in and heading off somewhere different — Canada, or Australia, or South Africa."

It was Kenneth's turn to look sour. "Yes," he said. "Well, you'd probably get on fine in the RSA, Ferg. Though that's the one place I wouldn't recommend if you want to keep well away from the red tide."

"Hmm," Fergus nodded, still watching his wife, now talking to Shona Watt. "Yes, you may be right." He knocked back his drink, turned to the bottle-loaded table behind and poured himself another large whisky.

Antonia clapped her hands, singing out: "Come on, you boring lot; let's all play charades!"

Kenneth drained his glass, murmured. "God, I hate charades."

"Henriss… never liked him either; fat lipped beggar… queer, y'know; thass wha he's singing you know; d'you know that? 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy… disgussin… absluley disgussin…»

"Fergus, do shut up."

"'Scuse me, while I kiss this guy'… bloody poofter coon."

"I'm sorry about this, Lachy."

"That's okay, Mrs U. You no goin to put your seat belt on, no.

"No; not for short journeys —»

"Lachy? Lachy… Lachy! Lachy; I'm sorry about your eye really really sorry; never forgave myself, never… here, shake…»

Fergus tried to lever himself up from the rear bench seat of the old Rover, but failed. He got as far as lifting his head and getting one shoulder off the seat, but then collapsed back onto the leather, and let his eyes close.

The car rumbled about him… even more restful than the noise of train wheels in the old days; he tried to remember the old days…

"You sure you don't mind doing this, Lachy?" Fiona said, swinging the car off the main road and onto the drive that led to the castle. The headlights made a tunnel of the trees and rhododendrons. "Na, it's okay."

Lachlan Watt had been about to leave Hamish and Antonia's party when Fergus had fallen over and Fiona had decided it was time to take her husband home; she had offered Lachy a lift back to his brother's house, but when they'd got there Fergus had seemed fast asleep, snoring loudly and taking no apparent notice of Fiona shaking him and shouting at him; Lachy had volunteered to come back to the castle to help get Fergus out of the car and upstairs to bed; Fiona would run Lachy back afterwards.

"God that man's a nuisance," Fiona said, as they turned the corner in the drive and the lights of the castle came into view against the coal-dark night. "Like I say; I could have got the baby-sitter to help me with him, but she's just a skelf… not our regular girl. She's built like a rugby player, could probably put Ferg over her shoulder, but not this girl. Leanne's her name… that's her car there; doesn't look old enough to drive if you ask me…»

Fiona brought the Rover to a halt behind a beaten-up mini, standing on the gravel in front of the castle's main entrance. "This really is awful good of you, Lachy."

"Aye, it's no problem, Mrs U."

Fiona turned to him. She smiled. "Lachy; it's Fiona. You make me feel old when you call me Mrs U."

"Sorry; Fiona." Lachy grinned.

He had been a thin, light-framed boy, and he had grown to become a lean, wiry man; the years of life on merchant ships, and then in Australia, had left his skin looking well-used, like soft and fine-grained — but slightly distressed — leather. His hair was unfashionably short, and both eyes glittered. It was a spare, uncluttered, characterful face, especially compared to Fergus's.

"That's better." Fiona smiled. She turned and looked in disgust at the body in the back seat, just as Fergus started to snore again. "Well; better get this lump out of the car, I suppose."

Fergus had gone back into a deep sleep. They couldn't wake him. Fiona went in to tell the baby sitter she was free to go, while Lachy tried to rouse Fergus.

"Hoi you; Fergus. Ferg; wake up, man."

"Aarg… Henriss, bassard."

"Fergus; wake up, Fergus." Lachlan tried slapping the man's cheeks; his heavy jowls wobbled like jellies.

"Hhnn..:

'Wake up," Lachlan said, slapping Fergus's cheeks again, harder. "Wake up," he said quietly. "Ye upper class cunt ye." He fairly walloped Ferg on one chop.

Fergus awoke suddenly; arms waving about, eyes wild and bright, making no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Then he rolled off the seat into the footwell and immediately started snoring again.

"Any luck with the sleeping beauty?" Fiona said, coming down the steps alongside a slim, blonde-haired girl who was zipping up an anorak.

Lachlan turned round. "Na; he's sound."

"That'll be the day," muttered Fiona. She glanced in at Fergus, then turned to the girl. "Thanks, Leanne, dear; now drive carefully, won't you?"

"Aye, Mrs Urvill," the girl said, taking out some keys and heading for the mini. "Night-night."

"Bye now."

Fiona and Lachy took an end of Fergus each; Lachy held him under the shoulders, Fiona by the ankles. They struggled up the steps, through the entrance hall, rested in the main hall, then took him up to the first floor.

"In here," Fiona said, nodding.

Lachy supported Fergus's shoulders with one knee while he twisted the handle of a darkly-stained wooden door. It swung open to darkness.

"There's a light, aye?"

"Just there; down a bit."

The room was small and bright; there was a single bed, a dressing table and chair, and a wardrobe. There was a print of a hunting scene on one wall, opposite a small window.

"Guest room's good enough for him tonight," Fiona grunted as they swung him onto the bed and dropped him.

"Shooch!" Fiona said, collapsing onto the floor. Lachy sat down on the pillow at the head of the bed, breathing hard. Fiona wiped her brow. She got up shakily.

"That was hard work," she said. She pulled Fergus's shoes off and nodded to the door. "Come on; let's break into the old bugger's best malt before we run you back. You deserve it."

"Fair enough," Lachy said, smiling. "No takin his clothes off, no?"

"Ugh. Certainly not," Fiona said. She drew back a little against the door to let Lachy go past her into the hallway. "He's lucky we didn't leave him in the car." She turned out the light.

Fergus woke in utter darkness, wondering where he was; he felt as though he was falling backwards forever into darkness. For an instant he thought perhaps he was dead, consigned to perdition and gloom until the end of time, his only sensation that of falling back and back and back, head over heels forever. He heard himself moan, and felt with his hands: bedclothes. He was still wearing his own clothes, too. Here was his shirt on his wrist; there his trousers, sweater… shoes off. He flexed his feet, feeling his toes in his socks. His hands found the sides of the bed; it was a single, then.