Iain Banks - Whit

Brother Zeb had put his hair into a bushily disorderly ponytail as a disguise; he and Boz - who seemed unduly impressed that Fusillada was my cousin, and, I suspect, hoped we might bump into her - together distracted the large man with the much-be-ringed hands in the foyer of the erotic cinema while I slipped up the stairs between the picture house and the entrance to the Adult Book Shop. The stairs were narrow and steep. Three doors led off the landing at the top, which was lit by one grubby, dirt-streaked window whose outlook was anyway largely obscured by the facade advertising the cinema next door. Round a turn in the landing, another flight of stairs led to the next storey. I peered at the doors. Each had a little sign on it: Kelly Silk, Madame Charlotte, and Eva (S&M).

I ascended to the next floor, where the landing was marginally better lit. Vixen, Cimmeria, FL Enterprises. Ah ha!

I knocked on the door. There was no reply. After half a minute I tried the handle but the door was locked. A siren - ever the chorus to the city's songs - sounded somewhere nearby. I knocked again and rattled the door.

The door to the left, marked Cimmeria, cracked open and a sliver of dark face looked out. I smiled and tipped my hat.

'Good morning,' I said.

'Yeah?'

'Oh, indeed, it is!' I said, gesturing to the window. I glanced back at the door to FL Enterprises. 'I'm, ah, looking for Mr Leopold; is this his office?'

'Yeah.'

I could still only see about two inches of the black face looking at me through the gap between door and jamb. I cleared my throat. 'Ah. Good. Only he doesn't seem to be in.'

'Yeah?'

'Do you know when he might be expected to return?'

'No.'

'Oh dear,' I said, and took off my hat, looking dejected.

The one eye of the Negress I could see moved, her gaze taking in my hair, my face and then torso. 'What you want anyway?' she asked, opening the door a fraction wider.

'I'm trying to trace my cousin, Morag Whit… I think she might be better known as, ah, Fusillada DeBauch.'

The single eye widened. The door closed and it occurred to me that perhaps I had said something wrong. Well, this wasn't proving too fruitful, I thought, gripping my hat to replace it on my head. A chain rattled behind Cimmeria's door, and it swung open. The woman came out onto the landing, glancing around, then stood with her back to her door, her arms crossed. She was small and very black, with tied-back hair. She wore a black kimono which looked like silk. Her head tossed up once, like a horse's.

'What you looking for her for? You really her cousin?'

'Oh, I'm her cousin, certainly; her mother was my father's sister. We're from Scotland.'

'Never have guessed.'

'Really? I thought perhaps my accent would rather give-'

'That was irony, child,' the woman said, looking away for a moment with widened eyes.

'Oh. I beg your pardon,' I said, blushing. I felt awkward, but for some reason I trusted this woman. I decided to trust my instincts. 'Anyway, to answer your first question, I'm looking for Morag because… well, it's complicated, but we - I mean, her family - are concerned about her.'

'Are you now?'

'Yes. Also,' I hesitated, then sighed. 'May I be frank with you, Miss… Cimmeria?' (She nodded.)

'Well,' I said, fingering the rim of my hat. 'The plain fact is Morag is, or was, a member of our church, back home, and we are concerned that she has lost her faith. Of most immediate concern is the matter of a festival that we are to hold at the end of the month - a very important festival, one that only takes place every four years. Cousin Morag was to be our Guest of Honour at that, and now, well, we don't know what to do. The festival is important, as I say, but her soul is more important, and personally I am worried that my cousin has fallen under the spell of some religious charlatan, and judge that ultimately to be the more important business, but I'm afraid it is the question of her attendance at the festival which presents us with the most immediate predicament.'

Cimmeria looked through narrowed eyes, face turned slightly. 'What church is this?'

'Oh,' I said, 'it's the True Church of Luskentyre; the Luskentyrians, as we're usually known. I don't expect you've heard of us. We're a small but active Faith based in Scotland; we have a… oh, I suppose you could call it sort of an ashram, a commune, near Stirling. We believe in-'

Cimmeria held up one hand. 'Okay, okay,' she said, smiling. 'You people Christians?'

'Strictly speaking, no; we regard Christ as one prophet amongst many and the Bible as one holy book amongst many; we believe there is merit and wisdom to be found in all holy teachings. We do believe in love and forgiveness and the renunciation of excess materiality and-'

'Fine. Spare me,' Cimmeria said, holding up her hand again. She nodded at the door. 'So you're looking for Frank?'

I explained about visiting Morag's old apartment block in Finchley the day before, ' Is Mr Leopold her agent?' I asked.

Cimmeria shrugged. 'Agent, manager; whatever.'

'Phew!' I said, grinning. 'On the right track at last!' I hit my thigh with my hat. I can be quite shameless.

Cimmeria laughed and pushed her door open. 'Come on in. You'll have to excuse the mess; this is early for me.'

'I doubt it can match the mess created last night in the squat where I am staying while in London…' I said, accepting her invitation.

Twenty minutes later I joined Boz and Zeb in the same cafe Zeb and I had retreated to a day earlier. They both appeared unharmed and in good spirits.

'All right, chaps?'

'Yeah. Fine. Cool. You?'

'We're okay, I-sis.'

I sat down between them, getting Brother Zebediah to move over. 'I had tea,' I told them, 'with a very nice lady called Cimmeria whose real name is Gladys; she told me that Mr Leopold is indeed Morag's - Fusillada's - agent and manager, and that he was here just yesterday, but that he has had problems with… Vat?' I said, looking inquiringly from one to the other.

'VAT.' Boz nodded slowly, then sipped carefully at his coffee. 'Value Added Tax, I-sis.' He tutted and shook his head, seemingly unimpressed with the concept.

'Indeed,' I said. 'Well, apparently Mr Leopold has been experiencing difficulties with this VAT for some time now and is currently helping Customs and Excise with their inquiries.'

'Huh. Well. So,' Zeb said.

'So,' I said, 'Cimmeria - Gladys - told me that she thought Mr Leopold lives in the county of Essex, in a village called Gittering, near Badleigh, and thinks that that was where he took a number of the papers and files he previously kept in the office. She suggests we try there. What do you say?'

' Essex !' Zeb said, with an expression on his face which, given we were sitting in a cafe in central London, might have been better suited to accompanying the word ' Mongolia ?' delivered in the same tone of voice.

'I-sis; you think your cousin might be there?'

'Well,' I said, 'apparently some of the scenes for certain of Fusillada's videotape productions were shot in Mr Leopold's home there, which is called La Mancha. Cimmeria - Gladys - knows this because some of her friends have been there to take part in them. So, as Morag is no longer living at the flat in Finchley, I suppose it is not impossible she is there, though we have no guarantee, of course.'

Boz thought about this. He looked very big and bulky in baggy black trousers and an expensive-looking black leather jacket. He wore a black peaked cap; it was back to front so that people behind him could read the white letter X. 'What the hell,' he said. 'I wasn't doin' nuthin' much today anyway. And I heard about Essex girls, eh?' He delivered what looked like the gentlest of pulled punches past me to Brother Zebediah's arm; Zeb rocked in his stool and looked pained. He forced a smile while he rubbed his arm.