Iain Banks - Whit

'Yeah, got it,' the young man was saying into the phone, and glanced down at a little cube of paper notelets by the side of the telephone. 'Fine. No. Yeah. Na, no word,' he said, turning so that he had his back to me. He lowered his voice. 'Yeah, actually there's somebody here just now, askin' for you…' I heard him say, as a panting noise and a hefty thud on the outside of my left thigh announced Tyson's return. I kept my eyes on the young man as I went down on my haunches and retrieved the sodden ball.

'Can't…' the young man said. He turned back to look at me. 'What you say your name was again?'

'Isis,' I said.

He turned back, hunching slightly. 'Isis,' I heard him say. Next second he jerked straight. ' Wot ?' he barked, sounding angry. 'You mean it's this one? You mean it's this bastard 'ere; this one?'

I didn't like the look or the sound of this. A plan I had been turning over tentatively at the back of my mind suddenly thrust itself to the fore and demanded an immediate Yes or No.

I didn't really have to think about it. I decided the answer was Yes, and threw the soggy rubber ball into the hall.

The ball squelched on the carpet just behind the young man and bounced past him further down the hall; Tyson pounced in after it and shouldered the fellow out of the way, making him bang his leg into the telephone table.

'Aow, fack !' the young man said. He recovered his balance by clunking the baseball bat against the wall.

The saliva-saturated ball rolled into a distant room; Tyson thundered after it. 'Call yer back!' the young man said, and threw down the phone. Tyson skidded and disappeared from view. There was an expensive-sounding crash from the room. Tyson!' the young man yelled, sprinting after the hound.

'Tyson! You cant !' he screamed, charging into the room and disappearing from view. I slipped in through the door as more crashes and oaths resounded from the room concerned. I had been hoping the young fellow would just put down the phone, thus giving me a chance to talk to Morag, assuming that had indeed been her calling, but the handset was back in its cradle. I picked it up anyway, but heard only the dialling tone.

'You facker; come 'ere!' The hall floorboards shook to the sound of something like a sideboard falling over. I looked at the little cube of notelets by the side of the phone, the one the young man had glanced at when he'd said, 'Yeah, got it', a minute or so earlier. There was a telephone number written there.

I glanced down the hall, just as the young man appeared in the doorway, holding Tyson by his studded collar and waving the baseball bat at me. His face looked somewhat florid. Tyson had the ball clamped in his teeth and seemed pleased with himself. ' Right !' the young man yelled, jabbing the bat towards me. ' You ; Ice, or whatever your fackin' name is; aht the ahse, now !'

I was already retreating. Then the fellow added, 'And Mo says to stop boverin' her, or else, right ? You'll get a slap , you will.' He glanced down at Tyson, who seemed to have become vicariously upset as well by now and was glowering at me, growling sonorously. The young man let go the beast's collar. 'Get the bint, my son.'

Bothering her ? I was thinking as Tyson dropped the ball and leaped towards me with a furious snarl.

Somehow I didn't think that my way with animals was going to prove effective this time. I stepped back into the porch and swung the front door closed behind me. Then I turned and ran.

I cut across the lawn to the drive; I heard the door open behind me and the young man yelling something; then all I could hear was barking. Boz and Zeb stood at the gate, eyes wide; I got the impression as I raced up the drive that the two men were getting ready to help me over the gate. 'Out the way!' I yelled, waving one arm. Thankfully, they moved, one to each side. I got to the gate a second before Tyson and vaulted it cleanly, staggering as I landed but not falling. Tyson could probably have jumped it too, but contented himself with slamming into the woodwork and making it shudder; he continued barking furiously. The young man was charging up the drive, shouting and waving his baseball bat.

I gathered myself, looked from Zeb to Boz and nodded down the road. 'Race you to the station,' I panted.

We stopped running after a bend a hundred or so yards up the lane; when we lost sight of him, the young man was standing on the road outside the opened gate, holding the howling, bellowing Tyson by the collar with some difficulty and still shouting and waving the bat.

We slowed to a trot as we entered the small village of Gittering itself; a quiet-looking place with a village green and a single public house. Boz chuckled. 'Hoo-ee!' he said. 'That was some big mean muthafucka of a dog!'

'Shit,' Zeb gasped, 'less.' He looked pale and sweaty.

'Sorry about that, chaps,' I said.

'Hey, you're an athlete, I-sis,' Boz said admiringly.

'Thank you.'

'But you're crazy; what the hell you doin' stayin' back when that hound of the fuckin' Baskervilles come at us like that?'

'I told you,' I told him, 'I have a way with animals.'

'You're crazy,' Boz laughed.

'According to my maternal grandmother Yolanda,' I told him, setting my hat straight upon my head again and trying not to let my heart swell too much with pride and vanity, 'I am a tough cookie.'

'Yeah,' he said, 'sounds like your maternal grandmother Yolanda ain't no fool neither.' He nodded at a telephone box on the far side of the village green. 'Let's call a taxi.'

Zeb and I watched for pursuit while Boz rang a number on a card inside the telephone box, but neither Tyson nor his blond handler appeared. Boz came out of the telephone box. 'It's the same guy; he's on his way; says he'll bring the book for you.'

'How kind,' I said. 'Excuse me, would you?' I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and stepped into the telephone box. I studied the instructions, then stuck my head and one arm out. 'Zeb; some change, please.'

Zeb gave me his long-suffering look but coughed up a half-pound piece. 'God, forgive me,' I whispered as I inserted the coin and buttoned the number that had been on the pad by the telephone in La Mancha. Boz and Zeb looked quizzically in through the glass.

'Good morning,' said a pleasant female voice. I was startled, even though I was prepared to be spoken to; after years spent using telephones as telegraphs, it was slightly shocking to hear a human voice rather than the ringing tone. 'Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club,' the warm, welcoming voice said. 'How may I help you?'

Bothering her , I thought, and reluctantly restrained myself from asking to speak to Morag. 'I'm sorry?' I said.

'This is Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club. May I help you?' the lady said again, with a little less warmth. Her accent was definitely English, though I couldn't place it more accurately.

'Oh; I was trying to reach, ah, Scotland,' I said, sounding flustered.

'I think you have the wrong number,' the lady said, sounding amused. 'Wrong code, really. This is Somerset.'

'Oh,' I said, brightly. 'What part? I know Somerset quite well,' I lied.

'Dudgeon Magna; we're near Wells.'

'Oooh, heavens, yes,' I said, with such shamelessly specious conviction I almost had myself persuaded. 'Know it well. I - oh, bother; there goes my money.' I clicked the handset back onto its rest.

Zeb looked suspicious. He glared at the telephone in the box. 'I thought you weren't-' he began.

'Somerset,' I announced to him and Boz as the same taxi that had brought us here swung into sight on the far side of the green.

Perversely enough, it was probably the burning down of the old seaweed factory that ensured our Faith became more than just an eccentricity shared by a handful of people. My Grandfather just wanted to forget about the whole incident, but the lawyers who had charge of the disputed estate to which the old factory had belonged were not so understanding. Several of the men responsible for the conflagration were apprehended and charged, and when the matter came to trial in Stornoway, Salvador, Aasni and Zhobelia had no choice but to appear as witnesses.