Iain Banks - Whit

Cecil and Gertie became converts. Something about Salvador's new religion seemed to chime with them; it was, if you like, both backward and forward looking, and they found elements in each direction that agreed with them. They had, years earlier, decided against having their house in Edinburgh's Morningside connected to the electricity mains and were already curiously hermetic in their private lives. Trying to keep up with all the services and meetings of so many splintered faiths left them little or no time to socialise with the real faithful afterwards, and each had few acquaintances outside respectively game fishing and seance attending, and no real friends at all. I think even Salvador's patently scandalous relationship with the two sisters seemed a breath of fresh air to them after the small-minded and hysterical attitude to sexuality the other sects and faiths they had paid court to tended to display, and in both that and a desire to live frugally and unfussily out-with conventional society, with a respect for the wisdom of the past, for nature and for all mystic faiths, it might be true that my Grandfather was one of the first hippies.

Cecil and Gertie left at the end of that first summer, as Aasni and Zhobelia bloomed bigger, and shortly after Gertie discovered, to her alloyed joy, that she too had fallen pregnant (this was the lump that would turn out to be Lucius). They swore that they would return, and that they would spread the good tidings of the new Faith's birth, both by word of mouth and by financing the publication of the Orthography once Salvador had completed it. They took all their exotic trappings with them, stowing them in the back of the shooting break without a thought for the finer sensibilities of the pregnant sisters, who to their dismay suddenly found themselves dumped back into the world of creaking iron beds and curling lino after a heady existence amongst the luxuries of perfume-saturated cloth-of-gold cushions and silk rugs of fabulous design.

I think that was when Salvador, who bore the brunt of the sisters' complaints in this matter, finally turned his back on extravagance and luxury and made simplicity an article of faith.

The Fossils kept up an almost daily correspondence with the farm at Luskentyre, telling of their mission amongst the heathen folk of Edinburgh and their efforts at spreading the good word amongst those who sought game fish in still pools and those who angled after the words, warnings and entreaties of the dear-departed.

Meanwhile Aasni and Zhobelia each grew big with child, and jointly developed a passion at a certain point in their confinement for the pungent pickles and condiments they remembered from their childhood. Forbidden from contacting their parents, having no wish to do so anyway and knowing of no other nearby source of spiciness, they started to make their own, ordering supplies of the rarer raw ingredients - chillis, coriander, cardamom, etc. - by mail from an Indian grocer in Edinburgh whom Gertie had put them in touch with.

Their experiments with the likes of chilli and garlic sauce, lime and brinjal pickle, apple and ginger chutney and so on did not always meet with complete success, but they persisted, and Salvador - discovering along with Mr McIlone a liking for the sisters' fiery concoctions which might not have been totally unconnected with the commonality of effect produced in the mouth by both cheap whisky and any chilli-laced comestible - happily encouraged these fragrant forays into the Epicurean realm.

Aasni and Zhobelia's original cravings proved to be the pump-priming inspiration for an avocation that lasted decades, and after a long period of initial reluctance which persisted well beyond the time when Aasni had been delivered of Brigit and Zhobelia of Calli and the sisters again fitted comfortably behind the counter of their converted library van, their chutneys and pickles eventually became their most successful line in the travelling shop, giving the more broad-minded citizens of Lewis and Harris a taste for palate-scalding sub-continental condiments that has persisted to this day.

The train carrying Zeb, Boz and me back to London broke down just outside the town of Brentwood and limped into the station at little more than walking pace. We detrained, and encountered some confusion amongst the railway staff on the subject of a relief service, but the consensus seemed to be that we might have an hour or so to wait.

'Fuck. Shit. Man. Trains. Fuck.'

'How annoying.'

'Hey, maybe we should get somethin' to eat, yeah?' Boz suggested.

We headed off to find a public house. Outside the station on the street we passed four men with very short hair dressed in large boots, short jeans, and shiny green blouse-style jackets; they seemed to be selling papers. I don't think I'd have noticed them further but for the fact they started to make a sort of 'Oo-oo oo-oo-oo' noise as we passed by. One of them spat on the pavement in front of Boz, who just lifted his head a little and strolled serenely on.

'Who are they?' I asked Zeb, who was at my side. 'Do they know Boz?'

'Na. Fascists,' Zeb said. 'BNP. Bad fucks.'

I looked back at the men, who were still staring after us. One of them threw something yellow; I reached up and caught a half-eaten banana that might have been aimed at Boz, who was a little in front of us. I stopped.

'Fuck. Sake. Just. Walk,' Zeb said tersely, pulling on my sleeve. I slid my arm free and walked back to the group of men.

'Good afternoon,' I said to them as they came forward. I held up the half-eaten banana. 'Why did you throw this?'

'It's for the coon, dear,' said the tallest and blondest of them. 'You give it to your black monkey,' he told me. The others sniggered.

I stared at them; probably my mouth was hanging open. 'Good heavens,' I said. 'Are you people racists?'

'Yeah.'

'Yeah. Want to buy a fucking newspaper, darlin'?' One of them shook a tight bundle of newspapers in my face; the headline said something about Enough being Enough and Paki Death Gangs.

'Yeah, we're fucking racist; we believe in white rights,' said the tall blond one. 'What do you believe in, apart from associatin' wif niggers?'

'Well, I'm sorry,' I said, 'but I believe in love and understanding and the worship of the Creator through the-'

'Worshipping nigger cock more like.'

'Yeah; you let him fuck you up the bum, do you?'

'Look at 'im; back there, fucking shittin' himself 'e is; look at 'im; 'im an' the little cunt; fuckin' shittin' themselves, they are!' one of the others said, then shouted over my head, 'Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? You want some? I said do you fucking want some ?

'Excuse me,' I said, tapping that one on the shiny shoulder of his jacket. 'There's no need for that sort of thing.'

He looked down at his shoulder and then turned on me. The tall blond one stepped between us and said, 'Look, just fuck off back to your nigger friend, all right?'

I looked into his eyes. I turned to go, then swivelled back again. 'Could I have one of your newspapers?' I asked. 'I'm just interested in what you think.'

The tall blond one sneered, then pulled a newspaper from the pile he held. He held it in front of me. I reached out to take it but he lifted it beyond my reach. 'Fifty pence,' he said.

'I do beg your pardon,' I said. 'I haven't any money, but it occurred to me that if you believe in the justice of what you say, you might let me have it free.'

'We'll fuckin' let you have it, Jock tart,' the tall blond one said, bending very close to me. He slapped my face with the paper then shoved it into my chest, pushing me backwards; I dropped the half-eaten banana, grabbed the paper with both hands and took another step to the rear.

'Fuck off,' the man said again, pointing at me. 'I'm not fuckin' telling you again.'