Iain Banks - The Crow Road

"Sounds a little unlikely," Lewis agreed, taking my pawn. "You given up on the diplomatic service?"

I smiled, thinking back a year to Uncle Hamish's party. "Well, I'm not sure I'm cut out for that. I've met some of those people, they're bright… But in the end you have to do as you're damn well told by fuckwit politicians."

"Ah! Politics, then?" Lewis said.

I bit my lip, looking the length and breadth of the board, trying to work out if the bishop I wanted to move next was going to cause any problems in its new position. "Na, I should have started by now anyway, but… shit; you have to make deals. You have to lie, or come so damn close to lying it makes little difference. It's all so fucking expedient, Lewis; they all have this thing about my enemy's enemy is my friend. 'He may be a son-of-a-bitch, but he's our son-of-a-bitch. I mean; good grief. What a crock of shit that is. I despair for our species."

"Not politics, then."

"I wonder if Noam Chomsky needs an assistant," I said.

"Probably got one," Lewis said.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Probably."

Lewis looked quizzical. "Everything else all right?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling awkward. "Why?"

He shrugged, studied the board again. "I don't know. I just wondered if there was anything…»

"Hi guys."

We both looked over to see Verity, hair in spiky disarray, face soft with sleep, wrapped in a long white towelling dressing gown, padding into the conservatory holding a glass of milk.

"Morning," I said.

"Hi there, darlin," Lewis said, swivelling so she could sit on his lap. She put her head on his shoulder and he kissed her forehead. "You okay?"

She nodded sleepily. Then she straightened, drank some milk and ruffled Lewis's hair. "Might get dressed," she said, yawning. "Been having nightmares."

"Aw," Lewis said tenderly. "You poor thing. Want me to come to bed?"

Verity sat on Lewis's lap, rocking back and forth a little, her bottom lip pouting. She frowned and said, "No." She smoothed Lewis's hair again. "I'll get up. You finish your game." She smiled at me, then looked up. "Nearly dawn."

"Why, so it is," I said. Beyond the glass of the conservatory there was just the faintest hint of grey in the sky over the house.

Verity waved bye-bye and went off, head down, rubbing her eyes, back into the house.

I moved the bishop. Lewis sat and thought.

I had won a knight and another pawn for the bishop when Verity came back. She was washed and dressed; she looked fabulous in leggings and a black maternity dress with a black leather jacket over the top. She stood at the doors, clapped her hands together and — when we appeared quizzical — waved some keys at us and said, "Fancy a drive?"

We looked at each other and both shrugged at the same time.

We took Lewis and Verity's new soft-top XR3i — roof down, heater up full — out into the grey-pink dawn and drove through Lochgilphead and then into Gallanach and just cruised about the town, waving at the people still walking around the place and shouting Happy New Year! at one and all. Lewis and I had brought the whisky, just in case we met anybody we felt we ought to offer a dram. So we started with each other, and all that water during the night must have done us the power of good because the whisky tasted great.

(I'd looked back at the castle, as we'd passed the hill on the outskirts of Gallanach, feeling guilty and ashamed and nervous because I still hadn't done anything about my suspicions, but telling myself that I still didn't have any real evidence, and anyway I was off-duty now; this was the season to have fun, after all. Hogmanay; let's-get-oot-oor-brains time. And, naturally, an end-of-year truce. Hell, it was traditional.)

"Let's go down Shore Road and drop some whisky on that grave dad hit!" Lewis shouted suddenly. "Mr Andrew McDobbie 1823–1875 and his wife Moira 1821–1903 deserve to be thought of at this time!"

"Ugh, you ghoul," said Verity.

"No," I said. "It's a great idea. Verity; to the church!"

Which is how we came to find Helen Urvill and Dean Watt wandering through Gallanach along Shore Road, arm in arm. Dean was playing — necessarily softly — on his Stratocaster, while Helen held a bottle of Jack Daniels. They were being followed by a bemused-looking dog.

"Happy New Year!" shouted Dean Watt, and struck a chord. There ensued a great deal of Happy New Years; the mongrel that had been following Helen and Dean joined in by barking.

There were lots of hugs and handshakes and kisses too, before Helen Urvill yelled, "Yo Verity!" as she hung on Dean's shoulder and breathed bourbon fumes at us. "You sober, girl?"

"Yep," Verity nodded briskly. "Want a lift anywhere?"

Helen swung woozily round to look at Dean, who was fiddling with a machine-head. "Well, we were heading back for the castle… " She frowned deeply, and her eyes flicked around a bit. "I think… " She shrugged; her thick black eyebrows waggled. "But if you're going somewhere…»

"Let's go somewhere," Verity said to Lewis, who was in the passenger's seat. "Somewhere further." She nudged Lewis.

"Okay," Lewis said. "Got a full tank; where we going to go?"

"Oban!"

"Boring!"

"Glasgow!"

"What for?"

"How about," I suggested, over the noise of the barking hound. "That bit north of Tighnabruaich, where you can look out over the Kyles of Bute? That's a nice bit of scenery."

"Brilliant!" Lewis said.

"Great idea!"

"Let's go!"

"Get in, then."

"And let's take the dog."

"Is it car-trained?"

"Who cares? We can point it over the side if it comes to it."

"Fuck it, yeah, let's take the mutt."

"Might not want to come," Dean said, and handed the Fender to Lewis, who put it at his feet with the neck by the door, while Dean knelt down by the side of the dog, which was sniffing at the rear wheel of the Escort.

"Course it wants to come," Helen said, with the conviction only the truly drunk can muster. "Not a dog been born doesn't like sticking its nose out a car window."

"Here you go," grunted Dean, lifting a puzzled-looking canine of medium build, indeterminate breed and brownly brindled coat into the car and onto my lap.

"Hey, thanks," I said, as Helen clambered in beside me and Dean squeezed in on her far side. "So it's me that gets to find out if this beast's shit-scared of driving."

"Ah, stop whining," Helen said, and pulled the fishy-smelling dog away from me to plonk it in Dean's lap.

"All set?" asked Verity.

"I wonder if its wee eyes'll light up when the brakes go on?" Dean said, trying to look into them.

"All set!" Helen yelled, then did some yodelling as we did a U-turn and went smoothly back through the town. Helen offered me some Jack Daniels, which I accepted. We still shouted Happy New Year! at people, and the dog barked enthusiastically in accompaniment; it didn't seem in the least discomfited when we left Gallanach and headed through Lochgilphead and away.

We stopped briefly at Lochgair. I ran into the house. Mum was up, washing dishes. I kissed and hugged her and said we'd be a few hours. Not to worry; Verity was bright as a button and so sober it ought to constitute a crime in Scotland at this time on a Hogmanay morning. She told me to make sure nobody else drove, then, and be careful. She made me take a load of sandwiches, dips and God-knows what, two bottles of mineral water and a flask of coffee she'd just made, and I staggered out the house and had to put most of it in the convertible's rather small boot, but then that was that and off we went through the calm, brightening day, playing lots of very loud music and munching through the various bits and pieces of food I hadn't stashed in the boot. Dog liked the garlic dip best.

"I don't give a fuck what colour he is; a man who can't pronounce his own name shouldn't be in charge of the most destructive military machine the world has ever seen," I heard Lewis say, while I sat looking at Dean Watt, and thought, Shit, not again.