Iain Banks - Whit

I kept near the wall as I crept away, heading north, clockwise round the buildings of the Community, round the outside of the orchard. I climbed over a wall into the formal garden behind the mansion house, glanced up at the sky and hid behind a bush. The moon came out from behind the clouds for a few moments and let me see the route ahead. As the darkness returned I padded along the grass beside the path until I got to the dark bulk of the house.

The blocks of sandstone which line each window space of the house have little horizontal notches cut into their top and bottom edges, creating a channel it is possible to wedge fingers and the welts of boots into. I climbed until I could reach the window-ledge of the storeroom behind the office, then hauled myself up and kneeled on the narrow shelf of stone, pulling out my penknife. I slid the blade up between the top and bottom parts of the sash and felt it connect with the window catch. Bless us for our happy indifference to security.

The bottom section of the window proved reluctant to move; the top slid down easily enough, however, and I stepped over and was inside. I pushed the window back up; it made a tiny squeak and a faint rumbling noise at the same time, but was probably not audible outside the room.

The storeroom's curtains hadn't been drawn, but the minuscule amount of light coming from outside wasn't enough to give me any idea of the room's layout, though I knew roughly where the door to the office must be and had the vaguest impression out of the corner of my eye of bulky, shadowy shapes. I crossed to the door, walking backwards, slowly. My left leg collided with something on my second step; I felt down and around and sidled past what felt like a desk. I bumped into another couple of obstacles with my calves, and hoped my shins were appreciating such thoughtfulness. Then my bottom connected softly with a shelf, which I felt wobble. There was a faint rattling sound from above and I grimaced, hunching instinctively and putting a hand over my cap, waiting for something to fall on my head. The rattling subsided; I relaxed and felt along to the door which led to the office.

I didn't imagine it would be locked like the door from the office to the corridor but it did occur to me it might be, and then what was I to do? I got down on all fours to look under the door and make sure there was no light coming from the office beyond. The door was not locked; it swung open. The office was even darker than the storeroom, the curtains drawn over the tall bay windows. I closed the storeroom door, took out my inch of candle and lit it, quickly waving the match out.

I went over to the desk by the door. The drawers were locked. I ground my teeth, screaming curses inside my head. I looked around the desk. There was a recessed handle above the top right-hand drawer; I pulled it out to reveal a shallow plastic tray whose various compartments held pencils, pens, paper-clips and rubber bands. In one small compartment there were two keys. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks, pointless or not.

Each key opened all the drawers on one side of the desk. There were various bundles of unused envelopes, a box of typing paper and a cardboard folder of carbon paper; in one deep drawer there were lots more cardboard folders, many of them stuffed with what looked like correspondence, and in another drawer there was a promising-looking bundle of loose papers. I set the candle on top of the typewriter case and started going through all the various papers and folders.

Footsteps. On the stairs, coming down.

I froze. Instantly, I realised I should have opened one drawer at a time, not left them all out and open. I started stuffing the folders and papers back into what I hoped were the right drawers in a frenzy of silent desperation, feeling my hands shake and my guts clench.

Somebody was at the door. I slid the drawers back in as quickly as I dared, once again howling imprecations at myself inside my head. One drawer stuck momentarily. I pulled it back out and slid it back in at a slightly different angle, my whole body quivering with fear.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock. I grabbed the candle stub off the top of the typewriter; the flame flickered and nearly went out. Hot wax spilled over my fingers. I almost cried out.

The door handle squeaked. I moved in two long strides to the nearest bay window and slipped behind the curtains, blowing out the candle as the door creaked open.

I put out my hand to stop the curtains waving from side to side and realised - as I saw light come into the office - that I'd left a small gap between the curtains as I'd moved between them. I stared in horror, not daring to close them properly for fear the movement would be seen by whoever was coming to investigate (Why had they come? Had I made a noise? Was there some silent alarm system I'd never heard about?). I held on to the curtain, the wax cooled and hardened on my fingers while my poor bowels felt they were doing exactly the opposite, as if in recompense.

Through the finger-wide gap between the curtains, I saw Allan come into the room, holding a small paraffin lamp. He wore the same simple robe he had on earlier, and carpet slippers. He locked the door behind him and went towards the desk, yawning. I relaxed a little; he didn't seem to be here because he'd heard something. I carefully let go of the curtain and stepped back, so that my face was further away from the lamp-light coming through the gap in the curtains. I felt the cool glass of the window behind me. I could still see Allan; he felt for the small chain round his neck, bringing it out and slipping it over his head, then held something small on the end of it and bent to the top drawer of his big desk in front of the fireplace. It must have been a key. He opened the drawer and brought out something that looked, I thought, like an electronic calculator or a remote control unit for a television set. He yawned again and moved towards the door to the storeroom I'd made my entrance through. Then he stopped, turned round and looked almost straight at me, a frown on his face. I thought I was going to faint. He sniffed the air.

The match ! I thought. The match I'd used to light the candle; he could detect its treacherous, sulphurous smell! Ice water seemed to run in my veins. Allan sniffed the air again, glancing down at the fire, then the frown disappeared and he shook his head. He went into the storeroom, closing the door after him. I breathed out, half delirious with relief. And I'd even thought to close the window in the storeroom, too, though I hadn't locked it after me. I waited, wiping sweat off my brow. My heart seemed to shake my whole torso. It felt like it was trying to escape from my chest. I wondered if nineteen was too young to die from a heart attack.

Several minutes passed; my heart slowed. I picked the solidified wax off my hand and put the bits in my pocket. I licked the smarting skin underneath, waving my hand about to cool the moistened area. Then I thought I heard a voice coming from the storeroom. Allan's voice. As though he was talking to somebody.

I hesitated. It would be madness to go and listen; I could never get back here in time when he returned to the study. It was obviously insane, and it would be tempting fate; I had only just managed to set the desk by the door back in order before Allan came into the room; I'd already used up all my luck. I ought to stay here, keep quiet, let Allan do whatever he was doing, let him leave and then continue with my search. I turned and looked away from the room, out into the darkness where the courtyard and the farm buildings were, invisible in the night. Of course it would be stupid - idiotic - to go over to the storeroom door.

I don't know what made me do just that, but I did; I left the comparative safety of the curtains and - with a clear image in my mind of how the room had looked while illuminated with the glow from Allan's paraffin lamp - stepped smartly across the floor and through the darkness to listen at the door to the storeroom.