Iain Banks - Whit

'Thank you.' I dabbed at my tears.

'You're welcome.' She sighed, settling her cardigan about her. 'I was glad to see the back of it, no mistake. Hope it hasn't been the burden to you it was to me, but if it is, well, there's nothing much to be done, I'm afraid.' She looked concernedly at me. 'How has it been for you, dear? Are you bearing up? Take my advice: let the men-folk deal with the consequences. They'll take the credit for any good that comes from it, anyway. But it's so nice when it goes; that's the blessing, you see; that only one person has it at a time. It's such a relief to have surprises again. It was a lovely surprise to see you this evening. I had no idea you were going to appear. Just lovely.'

I handed the handkerchief back to Zhobelia; she stuffed its sodden ball up her sleeve; it was the shape of the inside of my fist. 'How long has this… Gift… ?'

'What, dear? How long will you have it? I don't know.'

'How long has it existed? Is it just in our family?'

'Just in the women; any of the women, but only ever one at a time. How long? I don't know. There are some silly ideas… I've heard certain daftnesses…' She shook her head quickly, dismissively. 'But you don't want to concern yourself with them. People are so credulous, you know.'

'Credulous,' I said, suppressing a laugh and a cough at the same time.

'Oh,' she said, tutting and shaking her head, 'you wouldn't believe.' She reached out and held my hand again, patting it absently and smiling at me.

I sat there, looking at her, feeling half hysterical with all the things she'd told me, wanting to howl with despair and rage at the madness of the world and burst out in screams of riotous laughter for exactly the same reason.

What was I to do? What mattered most out of all I had discovered? I tried to think, while Zhobelia sat blinking and smiling at me and patting my hand.

'Great-aunt,' I said eventually, putting my other hand on top of hers. 'Would you like to come back?'

'Back?'

'Back with me, to the Community, to the farm, to High Easter Offerance. To stay; to live with us.'

'But her ghost!' she said quickly, eyes childishly wide. Then she frowned and looked to one side. 'Though you weren't a ghost,' she muttered. 'Maybe it would be all right now. I don't know…'

'I'm sure it would be all right,' I said. 'I think you belong back with us.'

'But if it isn't all right? You weren't a ghost, but what if she is?'

'I'm sure she won't be. Just try it, Great-aunt,' I said. 'Come back for a week or two and see if you like it. If you don't, you could always come back here, or maybe stay somewhere nearer by us.'

'But I need looking after, dear.'

'We'll look after you,' I told her. 'I hope I'll be going back soon, too; I'll look after you.'

She seemed to think. 'No television?' she asked.

'Well, no,' I admitted.

'Huh. Never mind,' she said. 'All the same, anyway. Lose track, you know.' She stared at me vacantly for a moment. 'Are you sure they'd want to see me again?'

'Everybody would,' I said, and felt sure that it was true.

She stared at me. 'This isn't a dream, is it?'

I smiled. 'No, it isn't a dream, and I am not a ghost.'

'Good. I'd hate it to be a dream, because I'd have to wake up.' She yawned. I found myself yawning too, unable to stop myself.

'You're tired, dear,' she said, patting my hands. 'You sleep here. That's what to do.' She looked over at the other bed. 'There; have the other bed. You will stay, won't you?'

I looked round, trying to judge where I might sling my hammock. The room didn't look promising. In truth I was so tired I could have slept on the floor, and quite possibly might.

'Would it be all right if I stayed?' I asked.

'Of course,' she said. 'There. Sleep there.'

And so I slept in Great-aunt Zhobelia's room. I couldn't find anywhere to hang my hammock so I made a little nest for myself on the floor with bedclothes from the other bed and curled up there, in between Zhobelia and the empty bed.

My great-aunt wished me goodnight and switched off the light. It was quite easy to go to sleep. I think my brain had given up reeling by that point; it had gone back to being shocked. The last thing I recall was my great-aunt whispering to herself, 'Little Isis. Who'd have thought it?'

Then I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the noise of doors slamming and the rattle of tea cups. Daylight lined the curtains. My empty stomach was growling at me. My head felt light. I rolled over stiffly and looked up to see Great-aunt Zhobelia looking down at me from her bed, a soft smile on her face.

'Good morning,' she said. 'You're still real.'

'Good morning, Great-aunt,' I croaked. 'Yes; still real, still not a dream or a ghost.'

'I'm so glad.' Something rattled in the hall outside her door. 'You'd better be off soon, or they'll catch you.'

'All right.' I got up, quickly remade the other bed, took the cover from the bottom of the door and replaced Zhobelia's clothes on the bed. I ran a hand through my hair and rubbed my face. I squatted at the side of her bed, holding her hand again. 'Do you remember what I asked you last night?' I whispered. 'Will you come back to stay with us?'

'Oh, that? I don't know,' she said. 'I'd forgotten. Do you really mean that? I don't know. I'll think about it, dear, if I remember.'

'Please do, Great-aunt.'

She frowned. 'Did I tell you last night about the things I used to see? About the Gift? I think I did. I'd have told you before, but you weren't old enough to understand, and I had to get away from her ghost. Did I tell you?'

'Yes,' I told her, gently squeezing her soft, dry hand. 'Yes, you told me about the visions. You passed on the Gift of knowing about them.'

'Oh, good. I'm glad.'

I heard voices outside in the corridor. They went away, but I stood anyway and kissed her on the forehead. 'I must go now,' I told her. 'I'll come back to see you, though. And I'll take you away, if you want to come home.'

'Yes, yes, dear. You be a good girl, now. And remember: don't let the men know.'

'I'll remember. Great-aunt… ?'

'Yes, dear?'

I glanced at the shoe-box, which sat on her bedside cabinet. 'May I take the pay-book and the ten-pound note with me? I promise I'll return them.'

'Of course, dear. Would you like the photographs as well?'

'I'll take the one of Grandfather, if I may.'

'Oh, yes. Take the lot if you want. I don't care. I stopped caring a long time ago. Caring is for the young, that's what I say. Not that they care either. But you do. No; you take care.'

I put the photograph, pay-book and bank-note in my inside jacket pocket. 'Thank you,' I told her.

'You're welcome.'

'Goodbye, Great-aunt.'

'Oh yes. Mm-hmm. Thank you for coming to see me.'

I peeked through the curtains to check the coast was clear, slid up the sash window, dropped my kit-bag onto the path beneath and jumped out after it. I walked smartly away and was at Hamilton station within the hour.

A train took me to Glasgow.

I sat looking out at the countryside and the buildings and the railway lines, shaking my head and muttering to myself. I neither knew nor cared what sort of effect this behaviour had on my fellow passengers, though I noticed nobody sat beside me, despite the fact that the train seemed full.

Zhobelia. Visions. Money. Salvador. Whit. Black… All this on top of everything else I'd learned in the last few days. Where did this stop? What extremity of revelation could still lie in store for me? I could not imagine, and did want to envision. My life had changed and changed again in so many ways in such a short time recently. Everything I'd known had been exploded, thrown into chaos and confusion, mixed and tumbled and strewn, made nebulous and inchoate and senseless.