Iain Banks - The Crow Road

Mum was in what had been a spare bedroom, constructing the harpsichord. When I stuck my head round the door, the room stank of varnish and the sort of old-fashioned glue you'd rather not know the original source of. "I'm just going up to the castle, to see Uncle Fergus," I said. "You reminded me: there are some pieces of Lalique in the house I'm staying in. I thought I'd have a talk to Fergus about them, see if he fancied bidding for them when the contents are eventually auctioned."

Mum was standing at the work-bench, dressed in overalls, her hair tied back. She was polishing a piece of veneer with a cloth. "Pieces of what?" she said, blowing from the side of her mouth to dislodge a wisp of hair that had escaped the hair clasp.

"Lalique. René Lalique. Glass; you know."

"Oh, yes." She looked surprised. "Fergus'll see them on Friday, won't he?"

"Well, they're in storage in the cellar," I said. "I haven't actually seen them. They're in the inventory. I took a note of them. But I thought if he did want to look at them, maybe I could look them out in time for Friday."

"Oh." Mum shrugged, tipped oil from a bottle onto the brown-stained cloth. "Okay, then. Say hello from me."

"Yeah," I said. I closed the door.

I walked away thinking I should have said more, should have said… well, the conventional things you tell people when you're going in fear of your life. But I couldn't think of a way to say them that wouldn't sound ridiculous and melodramatic. I'd closed off the letter I'd left in the desk with quite enough of that sort of thing, I thought.

I took the Golf out of Lochgair, along the Gallanach road. The Bowie knife was an uncomfortable lump down and across the small of my back, its wood and brass handle cold on my back at first, then warming.

I stopped and made a phone call in Lochgilphead.

"Mr Blawke, sorry to trouble you at home —»

Ostensibly I was just checking out whether it was all right for me to mention the Lalique to Fergus, before the expensive French glass-ware was included in any auction, but really I was making sure the lawyer Blawke knew where I was going.

It wasn't until I was at the foot of the castle driveway that I realised all this time I'd just been assuming Fergus would be there. As I hesitated, hands shaking on the wheel, it occurred to me there was probably a good chance he wasn't. I hadn't checked, after all, and Fergus frequently went away for the weekend; maybe he wasn't at the castle. Relief coursed through me, along with an annoying current of shame that I felt so relieved.

I took the Golf up the drive.

The gravel circle in front of the castle held five cars, including Fergus's Range Rover. "Oh God," I said to myself.

I parked the Golf behind a Bristol Brigand which sat half on the gravel and half on the grass. I walked up to the doors and rang the bell.

"Prentice!" Mrs McSpadden roared. "Happy New Year to you."

"Happy New Year," I said, realising only then that I hadn't seen Mrs McS since the turn of the year. I was permitted to kiss the formidable ramparts of one of Mrs McS's cheeks. "Is Uncle Fergus in?" I asked. Say, No, I thought, Say, No!

"Aye, he is that," she said, letting me into the castle. "I think they're playing billiards. I'll take you up." She stood aside to let me into the entrance hall with its glassy-eyed audience of stags" heads.

"Actually, it's sort of personal," I said, smiling faintly, aware I was blinking a lot.

Mrs McS looked at me oddly. "Is that a fact? Well, then, would you wait in the library?"

"Ah… all right," I said.

We walked through the hall. "Isn't this Gulf thing terrible?" Mrs McSpadden shouted, as if trying to be heard there. I agreed it was terrible. She showed me into the library, on the other side of the lower hall from the kitchen entrance. I stood in there nervously, trying to breathe normally, letting my gaze flick over the ranked rows of impressive, dark leather spines. I wished my own was half so noble and upright. The room smelled of leather and old, musty paper. I went to look out one of the room's two small windows, at the garden and the wood beyond. I adjusted the knife down the back of my jeans so that I could get at it easily.

"Prentice?" Fergus Urvill said, entering the library. He closed the door behind him. He was dressed in tweed britches and a Pringle jumper over a checked country shirt, with thick socks and brogues. He brushed some grey-black hair away from his face. His jowls flexed as he smiled at me, lifting a little from the collar of his shirt.

I cleared my throat.

Fergus stood there, his arms folded. After a moment he said, "What can I do for you, young man?"

I moved from the window to the large wooden table that filled the centre of the room, and put my hands lightly on its surface to stop them shaking. A seat back pressed into my thighs.

«Fergus…» I began. "I wondered… I wondered if you knew where… where my Uncle Rory might be."

Fergus frowned, then one eye closed and he sort of cocked his head. Still with his arms folded, he leaned forward a little. "Sorry? Your uncle —»

"Uncle Rory," I said. Maybe a little too loudly, but at least my voice didn't sound as shaky as I'd expected. I lowered it a little to say, "I thought you might have an idea where he is."

Fergus stood straight again. The frown was still there around his eyes, but his lips were smiling. "You mean Rory, who disappeared…?"

"Yes," I nodded. My mouth felt dry and I had to fight to swallow.

"I've no idea, Prentice." Fergus scratched behind one ear with one hand. He looked mystified. "Why do you think I might know?"

I felt myself blinking too much again, and tried to stop it. I took a breath.

"Because you got a man called Rupert Paxton-Marr to send match-book covers to my dad." My hands were shaking even though they were planted on the surface of the table. I pressed down harder.

Fergus rocked back a little on his brogues. His frown-smile intensified. "Rupert? Sending your dad… what?" He looked a little amused, a little confused, and not nervous in the least. Oh God, what am I doing? I thought.

Of course, I hadn't thought to bring any of the match-book covers with me. "Match-book covers," I said, my dry throat rasping. "From all over the world, so that dad would think Rory was still alive."

Fergus looked to one side and unfolded his arms, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked up at me. "Hmm. Would you like a drink?" he said.

"No," I told him.

He moved to the other end of the table, where there was a small wooden desk like the top of a lectern. He opened it and took out a squat decanter and a crystal glass. He took the glittering, faceted stopper out of the decanter and poured some of the brown liquid into the glass, frowning all the time. "Prentice," he said, shaking his head and mating stopper and decanter again. "I'm sorry, you've lost me. What are you… what is… what do you think is going on? Rupert's sending, or was sending Kenneth…?"

"Match-book covers, from hotels and restaurants and bars in various parts of the world," I told him, as he stood, relaxed, one hand in pocket, one hand holding the glass, his face scrunched up in the manner of one trying hard and with some sympathy to understand what another is saying. "Somehow," I struggled on, "they were meant to convince dad that Rory was still alive. But I think he's dead."

"Dead?" Fergus said, drinking. He nodded at the seat I was standing over. "Aren't you going to take a seat?"

"No thanks," I said.

Fergus shrugged, sighed. "Well, I can't imagine… " The frown came back again. "Has Rupert told you he was doing this?"

"No," I said.

"And are you sure it wasn't Rory?" Fergus shrugged. "I mean, was it his handwriting?"

"There wasn't any handwriting."