Iain Banks - The Crow Road

"Umm… Yeah. That about sums it up."

Ash nodded a few times, lips tight, weighing the disk in her hands. "Right." She nodded at the ones I still held. "Okay. Can I take these?"

"Sure." I handed them to her and she turned for the door.

"See you later," she said, heading into the crowded hall. I went after her; she was excusing her way to the front door.

"Ash!" I said, squeezing through after her. "Not now! Come and enjoy the party!"

"Don't worry," she said, glancing back. "I shall return. I'll drop these at home so I don't forget to take them back to London; I know people who might be able to help… but I just remembered I forgot something; something for you. Left it at mum's." She looked out the door; it was starting to rain. "Shit."

There was an old giant brass cartridge case by the hall hat stand which held our assorted umbrellas and walking sticks; I lifted a brolly from it. Ash turned to me, a worried expression on her face as she said, "I saw that guy again. I'll show you. Give my present to the happy couple!"

"What guy —?" I said, but she was already sprinting through the still-arriving guests for the little red 2CV, parked a good fifty metres down the car-crowded drive, the disks held tight to her chest. I watched her high-heels flashing over the gravel, and the other guests turning to look at her, then there were more people to greet and hands to shake.

I took the brolly myself eventually and went for a walk up the garden to dad's grave, just to get away from the crowds for a bit.

Back in the house, I dodged one of the waitresses from the Lochgair Hotel, carrying a huge tray with champagne flutes out of the kitchen towards the marquee; I waved at mum, splendid in black with white stripes and standing talking to Helen Urvill, and went through to the hall. I put the umbrella in the old cartridge case. Then I thought maybe I should open it out and dry it, like you're supposed to, so I hauled it out again and left it opened in the hall.

"Prentice," Verity said, coming down from upstairs.

She was enfolded in white silk; a creation of some clothes-designer, friend of hers in Edinburgh. Technically it was a blouse, medium-length skirt and jacket, but when she wore it it looked like a single piece, and handsome it was too. She was hardly showing yet, but the outfit would anyway have disguised an almost full-term pregnancy. She wore white leggings, and high-heels that made her taller than me. She also wore the fulgurite necklace; mum had guessed both that Verity would want to wear it, and that she might think it best not to, in case the association hurt, so she d made a point of telling Lewis she thought Verity ought to wear it, if it suited the outfit she had chosen. Verity's hair was as short-cropped as ever, but she looked none the worse for that, and the little white micro-hat she wore, complete with thrown-back, white fish-net veil, sat well on her too. She came up to me, took me by the shoulders and kissed me on the cheek.

"That was a great speech; thanks," she said. She was still holding my shoulders, and squeezed them. She looked the way you're supposed to look, both when you're pregnant and on the day of your marriage; glowing, radiant, suffused with joy. Still had perfect skin. She put on a convincingly upper-class English accent as she said, "You've been en ebserloortly soopah byest men, my deah."

I put my hands lightly on her still slim waist and made a small bowing motion. "Any time," I said, and grinned.

She laughed, shaking her head. She stepped back, folded her arms, looked me up and down and said, "And so smart."

I curtsied, fluttering my eyelashes.

She laughed again and held out her hand. "Come on; let's find my husband. He's probably flirting with the bridesmaids by now."

"I thought that was my job," I said, taking her arm in mine as we went towards the rear of the hall. I heard the front door open behind us. I turned and looked, stopped, then turned back to Verity. "I'll take a rain check on that, shweetheart."

Verity smiled at Ashley Watt, shaking a glistening waterproof she'd just taken off, and nodded. "Well, there's appropriate, today." She winked at me and walked off.

Ashley met me at the foot of the stairs, brandishing a VHS cassette. "Got it. Take me to your video."

"Walk this way," I told her, heading up the stairs two at a time.

"Do I get to look up your kilt?" she said from behind.

"Not if you're lucky."

I switched the lights on in the study; we tended to keep the curtains closed. There was a TV and video in the study. I switched it all on and put the cassette in the machine.

"Cool," Ashely said, standing hands on hips in the middle of the study, hands nearly over the centre of dad's Persian rug, bunned hair directly beneath the big brass and stained-glass light fixture, hanging extravagantly beneath an ornate plaster ceiling rose. She swivelled, surveying the book-case walls, the maps, the prints and paintings and various interesting bits and pieces scattered around shelves, tables, desks and the floor.

"Bit cluttered for my taste," I said, starting the tape and watching some end-credits. "Dad found it conducive enough."

"Fast forward," Ash said. The screen scrolled quickly, then the BBC Nine O'clock news started flashing before us. Ash turned away, so I let it roll.

Ashley crossed to an over-crowded book case; there was an empty crystal bowl perched on a pile of loose papers on top of the book case, and Ashley tapped the bowl very gently with one finger. She took her hand away, held it in the air near the ice-coloured ornament, and clicked her fingers. She bent her head towards the bowl, seemingly listening for something. I frowned, wondered what she was up to.

She turned and faced the bowl, went "Ah," in a high-pitched voice, then listened again, head tilted, smiling this time.

"Ashley, what exactly are you doing?"

She nodded at the bowl. "Crystal; you can make it ring by producing the right noise." She grinned like a little girl. "Good, eh?" She looked behind me. "That's you," she said, nodding at the screen.

I hit Play. We stood, watched.

"… talked to Rupert Paxton-Marr of the Inquirer, one of the journalists held by the Iraqis, and asked him how he'd felt," said the BBC man in Amman.

I couldn't resist a thin smile, one journalist asking another how he felt.

Rupert Paxton-Marr was a tall, blond, blue-eyed man with exactly the jaw-line I'd have chosen for myself, given the opportunity; sickeningly handsome, he had an accent to match. "Well, Michael," he said. ('Air, hair lair," I said to myself.) "I don't think we were really in much danger; clearly international attention has fixed on Iraq, and I think they knew we knew that, and accepted we were… weren't a threat to them. Umm… our driver had taken a wrong turning, and that was that. Of course, one does remember what happened to, ah, Farhzad Bazhoft, but I don't think you can let that stop you; in the end one has a job to do."

"Thank you, Rupert. And now, reporting fr —»

I hit Stop and turned to Ashley, standing beside me. She was still looking at the blank screen where the little green zero symbol sat in one corner, wobbling almost imperceptibly. She had sucked her cheeks in and her lips were pursed. There was a whoop of laughter from somewhere downstairs. Ash nodded slowly, looked at me. "That's ma boy," she said.

"You're sure about that?" I said.

"I'm sure." She looked serious. She looked pretty good, too, now I looked properly; I couldn't remember ever seeing Ashley wearing make-up, and you'd have thought that not having had the practice she'd be crap at it, but she looked great; maybe a little over-enthusiastic with the dark stuff round the eyes, but why quibble? She nodded. "Don't look at me like that; I'm really sure."