Iain Banks - The Crow Road

Lewis had been marginally more sensible than me, later on, that night before the funeral; he'd gone to bed one whisky before I had, leaving me in the lounge alone, at about three in the morning.

I should have gone then too, but I didn't, so I was left to get morose and self-pitying, re-living another evening in this room, another whisky-connected two-some over a year earlier.

"But it's not fair!"

"Prentice, —»

"And don't tell me life isn't fair!"

"Aw, think, son," dad said, sitting forward in his seat, clutching his glass with both hands. His eyes fixed on mine; I looked down, glaring at his reflection on the glass-topped coffee table between us. "Fairness is something we made up," he said. "It's an idea. The universe isn't fair or unfair; it works by mathematics, physics, chemistry, biochemistry… Things happen; it takes a mind to come along and call them fair or not."

"And that's it, is it?" I said bitterly. "He just dies and there's nothing else?" I could feel myself quivering with emotion. I was trying hard not to cry.

"There's whatever he left behind; art, in Darren's case. That's more than most get. And there's how people remember him. And there might have been children —»

"Not very likely in Darren's case, was it?" I sneered, grabbing at any opportunity to score even the smallest rhetorical point over my father.

Dad shrugged, staring into his whisky. "Even so." He drank, looked at me over the top of the tumbler. "But the rest," he said, "is just cells, molecules, atoms. Once the electricity, the chemistry, stops working in your brain, that's it; no more. You're history."

"That's defeatist! That's small-minded!"

He shook his head. "No. What you're proposing is," he said, slurring his words a little. He pointed one finger at me. "You're too frightened to admit how big everything else is, what the scales of the universe are, compared to ours; distance and time. You can't accept that individually, we're microscopic; here for an eye-blink. Might be heading for better things, but no guarantees. Trouble is, people can't believe they're not the centre of things, so they come up with all these pathetic stories about God and life after death and life before birth, but that's cowardice. Sheer cowardice. And because it's the product of cowardice, it promotes it; 'The Lord is my shepherd'. Thanks a fucking lot. So we've to live like sheep. Cowardice and cruelty. But everything's okay, because we're doing the Lord's work. Fuck the silicosis, get down that mine and work, nigger! Aw shucks; sure we skinned her alive and threw her in the salt pans, but we were only doing it to save her soul. Lordy lordy, gimme that old time religion and original sin. Another baby for perdition… Shit; original sin? What sick fuckwit thought that one up?"

Dad drained his glass and put it down on the glass-topped table between us. "Feel sorry for yourself because your friend's dead if you want, Prentice," he said, suddenly calm and sober. "But don't try to dignify it with what's supposed to be metaphysical angst; it's also known as superstitious shit, and you weren't brought up to speak that language."

"Well, thanks for the fucking censorship, dad!" I yelled. I jumped up and slammed my own glass down. The table top cracked; a single big flaw crossed, deep and green and not quite straight, like a dull ribbon of silk somehow suddenly embedded in the thick glass, from one edge of the table to the other, almost underneath our tumblers.

Dad stared at it then snorted, chuckling. "Hey, yeah! A symbol." He shook his head, glum, muttering as he sat back: "Hate the fuckers."

I hesitated, looking at the cracked glass, instinct — or training — telling me to apologise, but then did what I'd intended to do, and set about storming out of the room.

"Just fuck off, dad," I said before I slammed the door.

He looked up, pursed his lips and nodded, as though I'd asked him to remember and put the lights out before he went to bed. "Yup; okay." He waved one hand. "Night."

I lay in bed seething, thinking of all the smart things I should have said, until I fell into a troubled sleep. I woke early and left before anybody else was up, driving my hangover back to Glasgow and shouting at caravans that got in my way, and that was the last meaningful, full and frank exchange of views with my dad that I ever had.

"I wish he hadn't died right now," I said. I didn't look at Lewis. I was still looking at Jimmy Turrock, asleep against the wheel of his council digger. "I wish I could — I wish we could have started talking again." One of the two flies exploring the cotton landscape of Jimmy's shirt suddenly buzzed up to his forehead. His snoring hesitated, then went on. "It was so stupid." I shook my head. "I was so stupid."

"Yeah," Lewis said after a bit. "Well, that's just the way it is, Prentice. You weren't to know." I heard Lewis sigh. There was something I wish I'd told him, too. Could have said, over the phone, end of last week."

I looked at Lewis. "Oh yeah?"

Lewis looked awkward. He crossed his arms and sucked at his bottom lip. He glanced at me. "Were you really that… you know; keen on Verity? I mean; are you?"

I kicked my heels against the sides of the grave, checked out a couple of tree roots we'd have to tackle before we could dig much deeper. I shrugged. "Ah, it was just infatuation, I suppose. I mean, you know, I'll always like her, but… all that stuff at New Year… that was… well, partly the drink, but… mostly just sibling rivalry; sibling jealousy," I said. We both grinned. He still looked awkward. This time, instead of sucking his bottom lip, he bit his top one.

I knew, just like that.

"You are getting married," I said, gulping.

Lewis looked at me with wide eyes. "She's pregnant?" I spluttered, contralto.

Lewis's mouth was hanging open. He shut it quickly. He wiped his face with the hanky; his eyebrows and eyes registered surprise.

"Um, both," he said. "Almost certainly." He rung the hanky out over the hole, but it didn't drip (still, though, we would leave a fair amount of sweat in our father's grave).

Lewis nodded and his smile was flickering, uncertain. I hadn't seen him look so unsure of himself since the time when he was sixteen and I almost had him convinced the Boxer Rebellion had been about underpants.

"Fooof," I said.

Seemed as appropriate as anything. I stared over at Jimmy Turrock, blinking.

Lewis was making a clicking noise with his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Wasn't exactly planned, to tell the truth, but… well; I mean, we both, you know; want it, so… And, well, you know how I feel about marriage and all that stuff, but… Fuck it, it just keeps things simple."

He sounded almost apologetic.

I shook my head and, turning to him with a big smile, I said, "You total bastard." I put my hands on my hips. He looked concerned, but I guess my grin must have looked sincere. "You total, complete and utter bastard; I hate you," I told him. "But I hope you're disgustingly happy." I hesitated, just a little, then I hugged him. "Obscenely happy," I said. Probably have cried but I was pretty cried out by that stage.

"Man." He breathed into my shoulder. "I didn't know how you'd take it."

"In the neck," I said, pushing him away. "Told mum?"

"Wanted to wait till after the funeral. Mind you, I was going to wait till then to tell you, too, so maybe Verity's spilling the beans right now."

"So when's the big event?"

"Which one?" Lewis smiled; embarrassed, I do believe. He shrugged. "We thought October, and the sprog thinks March."

I let out a long, shuddering sigh, head feeling a bit swimmy. "Marriage, eh?" I said, shaking my head again. I looked him down and up, hoisted one brow. "Think you'll take to it?"