Iain Banks - Whit

I'd been keeping an eye on the exits from the changing rooms, and after twenty minutes saw somebody I was reasonably certain was the young man Cousin Morag had called Ricky, whom I had met at La Mancha a week earlier. His trunks were brief and he presented a fine figure of a man: he was tanned, blond and muscled, and I was far from the only female looking at him. I imagined a fair few males were sizing him up too, most with jealousy. He walked halfway along the edge of the pool and stood at the side, his feet spread, his arms crossed bulkily beneath impressive pectorals. There was a frown on his face as he stared round the pool. I did the backstroke past him a couple of times but he didn't seem to notice.

Cousin Morag appeared five minutes later, and drew even more stares. She wore a one-piece, as I did, but there the resemblance ended. Her costume was glossy black. It rode high on the hip and featured sheer-looking black mesh side panels which rose from hip-hem to armpit, huggingly displaying her narrow waist. The swimsuit possessed what was technically a high neck, the concealing effect of which was, however, entirely undone by another deep and wide see-through panel which exhibited the swelling tops of her considerable breasts.

She joined the young man at the side of the pool, gods amongst mortals. They both looked out over the swimmers and those walking or sitting around the side; Morag glanced up at the flumes. She wore her long chestnut hair gathered up into a bun held with a black band. I raised my hand and waved as her gaze swept past me.

She waved back, an uncertain smile on her face. I turned onto my front and swam over to them, reckoning that - if she still believed herself to be in some way threatened by me - Morag would feel less so if I was in the water and beneath her and the young man.

I pulled in at the side; Morag squatted; the young man remained standing, looking down, frowning.

'Hello,' I said, nodding and smiling at both of them.

'Hi, Is. You've met Ricky, haven't you?'

'Yes. Hello again,' I said cheerily. 'How's Tyson?'

He scowled, and appeared to think. 'All right,' he said eventually.

'Good. I'm sorry if my friends and I alarmed you, back at La Mancha.'

'Wasn't alarmed,' Ricky said indignantly.

'I should have said annoyed,' I said, apologetically. 'Sorry if we annoyed you.'

'All right,' Ricky said, apparently appeased.

'So, how's things, cuz?' Morag asked with a small smile.

'Oh, pretty traumatic,' I said, smiling bravely. 'But I'm surviving.'

'Good,' she said, standing. She nodded across the pool to where the circular stairs led to the flume's entrance. 'Shall we flume?' she asked.

'Why not?' I said.

Morag dived gracefully overhead, entering the water behind me with a dainty splash. Ricky launched himself a moment later, creating a disturbance hardly any greater. I kicked away from the side and splashed inelegantly after their sleek shapes.

'Flumes are like life, see?' Cousin Morag said, as we neared the end of the queue on the spiral steps and approached the platform which supported the entrances to the four flumes. An attendant in white shorts and T-shirt was supervising the people - mostly children, already damp - who were queuing for the fun.

'Like life?' I said, shuffling forward and talking round Ricky's bulk. He had insisted on standing between Morag and me, seemingly not yet content that I wasn't in fact a stalker with murderous intent, though quite where he thought I could have secreted a weapon I couldn't really see. Perhaps he suspected I was going to up-end Morag over the side of the spiral railings and send her hurtling to the tiles below.

'Yes,' Morag said, round Ricky's impressive biceps as she came to the front of the queue. 'You can take the short fast fun route, like the black chute here, or the long slow leisurely route like the white one, or something in between, know what I mean?'

'Sort of,' I said.

Morag got the nod and padded over to the mouth of the black tube, watched all the way by every pair of eyes within range. She lifted herself athletically into the gaping mouth of the black hole. Lights above the tunnel mouth changed from red to green. She pushed herself away and down, disappearing with a joyous whoop.

Ricky turned to me, grinning. 'She always does that,' he said. Then he strode across the moist tiles to follow her, hurtling silently down into the blackness a little later.

I thought it would seem churlish not to take the same route. I settled myself in the mouth of the drop, grabbing the chrome handles at the side of the flume entrance. When the red light went off I let myself go.

Terror. It only lasted about three seconds, but for those moments I felt scared witless. Air rushed around me, one shoulder burned with friction, water rushed up my nose, I was twisted this way and that and then hurtled from near vertical to perfect horizontality in a single body-jarring thud and blasted into the water-filled trough I'd observed earlier. I skidded to a stop near the end of the trough, coughing and spluttering and with a chlorine-burned nose. My swimming costume had tried to insert itself into my womanhood. I also suspected I now knew what receiving an enema felt like. I waved my arms around, red-faced and coughing.

Morag and Ricky pulled me out, laughing.

I thanked them, stood, stooped, spat out a little water and pulled my swimsuit into a more modest configuration.

'Wow!' I said, beaming at them.

'Again?' said Morag.

'Again!' I cried.

'In most flumes, just sit up to go slower,' Morag said, explaining how to apply the brakes. 'Though that wouldn't really work in something like the black run here.' She giggled. 'Also, you can put out your arms, or there's a way of lying down but arching your back so you get a vacuum between your back and the flume floor. But going slower isn't the point, is it?' She shook her head at me. 'If you want to go faster , you cross your ankles and put your hands round the back of your neck, forcing down your shoulder blades. That way you've got one heel and both shoulders in contact: minimum friction. There's more to it than that, naturally, for really fast runs; you have to throw yourself into the curves, know what I mean? Flex into the right shape, try to minimise collisions. You've got to think yourself down it. That's how to score really low times.'

'You carry a stop watch?' I asked as we moved spasmodically up the spiral steps.

'Not allowed any jewellery,' Morag said, displaying elegantly naked wrists in front of me. Ricky was ahead of us, content that I was not such a bad egg after all. 'A lot of fast flumes have a button you hit as you set off; you go through a beam or something at the bottom and your time's displayed on a clock at the exit pool. Really good fun, it is.'

'Oh.' I watched over the edge of the railings as somebody exited into the splash pool beneath us. 'Do you do a lot of this sort of thing?' I asked her.

'Oh God, yes; I've been to all the major flumes in England, the Costa del Sol and the Balearics. We were due to go off to the Canaries last week; I've heard there are some good ones there, but then this thing with Frank's VAT came up.'

'Hmm,' I said. 'I take it Allan knew you were supposed to be going on holiday?'

'Yeah. He knew.'

Of course; and if all had gone according to plan I'd have got to London, finally found out that Morag was away on holiday, and - if I hadn't decided to wait on my own initiative - would doubtless have received instructions to do so from High Easter Offerance when I reported back by phone-code. 'How long were you going for?' I asked.

'A month,' Morag said. 'But then Frank had to talk to the Customs and Excise guys and I thought, well, I'll do the Scottish flumes then, except I was a bit worried about you. I was going to give Stirling a miss; reckoned they were a bit too close to home for comfort.'