Iain Banks - The Crow Road

I scanned the skies to the north, watching for movement. I was looking forward to the drive, even if it was at night and I wouldn't be able to see the scenery.

The wind gusted a little and I supped my mulled wine. The woods — evergreen and deciduous-bare — swept down to the fields and then the town; forests rose on the hills to the east.

"Anybody heard the news today?" Lewis asked.

"Nothing special happening," Helen said.

I guessed she'd got an up-date from Mrs McSpadden, who tended to keep the TV on in the kitchen these days.

"All quiet on the desert front," breathed Lewis, taking up the glasses again and looking north towards Kilmartin.

"You sure he'll come that way?" Verity asked.

Lewis shrugged. "Think so."

"Said he would," Helen confirmed.

Verity stamped her feet.

"Hey," Helen said. "I never asked you, Lewis; you got any Gulf jokes?"

Lewis made an exasperated noise, still looking through the binoculars. "Na. I heard a couple of crap Irish ones, and the usual suspects in different disguises, but there hasn't been anything good. I was trying to work on a routine about if the Stealth bomber worked as well as it did in Panama, the B-52 as it did in Viet Nam and the marines as effectively as they did in Lebanon, then Saddam had nothing too much to worry about, but it wasn't funny enough." He brought the glasses down from his eyes for a moment. "In fact, it wasn't funny at all."

"I know a girl from school who's out there," Helen said. "Nurse."

"Yeah?" Verity said, stamping her feet again.

"Ha!" Lewis said suddenly.

"You seen him?" Verity said, clutching Lewis's arm.

He laughed, glancing down at her. "No," he said, and grinned at me. "But guess who got called up as a reservist?"

I shrugged. "I give in." I didn't think I knew anybody in the forces.

Lewis smiled sourly. "Jimmy Turrock. Used to be a bandsman. They're the stretcher-bearers in war time."

I frowned, not recognising the name. "Jimmy —?" I began. Then I remembered.

"The grave-digger!" I laughed.

"Yeah," Lewis said, turning away again, raising the glasses. The grave-digger."

I felt cold inside and my smile faded. "Wow," I said. "Some sense of humour the army has."

"Work experience," Lewis muttered.

"Who's this you're talking about?" Verity asked.

"Guy helped us bury dad," Lewis said.

"Oh," she said. She hugged Lewis.

"You going to go if they call you up, Prentice?" Helen Urvill said, not looking at me.

"Hell no," I said. "Which way's Canada?"

"Yeah," muttered Lewis. "Shame dad's dead; maybe he could have got us into the equivalent of the National Guard, if we have one."

"Traffic wardens?" I suggested. Lewis's shoulders shook once.

"You really wouldn't go?" Helen said to me, one eyebrow raised.

"I might send them some blood if they ask me nicely," I told her. "In an oil can."

"I suppose we can't use the telescope, can we?" Verity said suddenly, nodding at the white dome to our right. "As well as the binoculars I mean." She looked at each of us.

"Nup," Helen said.

"Too narrow a field of view," Lewis said.

"And upside down," I added.

Verity looked over at the dome. There was a smile on her face. "Do you remember that night we met in the dome?" she said, looking up at Lewis. "We hadn't seen each other since we were kids…»

Lewis handed the glasses to Helen, who held them one-handed, straps dangling. Lewis hugged his wife. "Of course I do," he said, and kissed her nose. She buried her face in his coat. I looked away, thinking about the drive up to the airport this evening.

Maybe I should allow another half-hour or so for the journey, just in case of hold-ups. And of course they were building new bits onto the airport at the moment; could be a problem parking, and tonight was bound to be busy. I'd leave early, no sense in leaving late and having to hurry. I had taken to driving a bit slower and more carefully these days. Mum still worried, but at least I could reassure her with a clear conscience.

I sighed, and the package against my chest flexed again. I looked down at it. Hell, this was silly; I ought to read the stuff. Waiting until I got back to the house and was sitting at the desk in the study was just putting it off.

"How's the wonderful world of Swiss banking these days anyway, Hel?" Lewis asked.

"Oh, wacky and transparent as ever," Helen said. They started talking about Zurich and London, and I sat down on the slope of slated roof, behind them. I pulled the airmail package out and opened it carefully. Verity looked back at me and smiled briefly, before turning back to Helen and Lewis to share some joke about the Hard Rock Café. My hands felt clammy as I slid the sheets of paper out of the thick white envelope. This is daft, I thought. It probably is gibberish, or Rory's job application for that travel programme presenter's job; a CV for the TV. Nothing important, nothing revelatory.

The first sheet was a letter from the good Doctor, arcane with acronyms and abbreviations, telling me how he'd deciphered the binary mush he'd been sent and turned it into what I held in my hands. He sounded like a likeable guy, but I kind of just glanced at the letter. I went on to the print-out.

There were about fifty or sixty pages of single-space laser print. The first twenty or so pages were taken up with pieces I recognised: articles and poems and the nameless play Rory had apparently decided to cannibalise for the end of Crow Road. Then came three passages of prose.

I glanced up at the others; Helen and Verity were still talking, Lewis was looking through the binoculars towards Gallanach. I started reading, and my mouth went dry.

I raced through each of the passages, my eyes bulging, hands shaking. The voices of the others, the cool December air and the chill slates under my backside seemed like they were all a million miles away, as I read what Uncle Rory had written.

"D'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."

… That was how the first passage began. I finished it and realised my mouth was hanging open. I closed it and started, dazed, the next passage:

"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 going 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

"Holy fucking shit," I whispered, when I finished it. Suddenly my hands felt very cold. I looked at the slates I was sitting on, then over at the dome of the observatory, gleaming in the low winter sun.

"You okay, Prentice?" Verity said, frowning at me from the battlements.

I nodded, tried to smile. "Fine," I gulped. I turned to the third and last passage.

Fiona sat in the passenger seat of the car, watching the red roadside reflectors as they drifted out of the night towards her; she was thrown against one side of the seat as Fergus powered the Aston around the right-hander…