Iain Banks - Whit

'Thank you. That's how I feel,' I told her. I held out the white paper bag I'd got from the wee shop. 'Would you like a filled roll?'

'I had breakfast,' she told me. 'So.' She clapped her hands. 'Where first?'

'Mauchtie, Lanarkshire,' I told her.

'Righty-ho,' she said, and put the car into gear.

The day, and the last, decisive part of my campaign, had begun.

It had crossed my mind that if I did decide that discretion concerning Grandfather's misdemeanours was the prudent course, then bringing Zhobelia back into the bosom of our family and Community might prove unwise, even catastrophic. What were the chances that she would be able to hold her tongue regarding the pay-book and the money now that she had broken the dam of that secrecy? Having her staying with us might well mean that the truth would be bound to leak out eventually, and perhaps in the most damaging way: over time, through rumour and gossip.

But I could not leave her in that place; it had been clean enough at the Gloamings Nursing Home, Zhobelia had a generously sized room, she obviously shared and enjoyed some sort of social contact with the other residents, and she had not complained of much there, but it had all seemed so loveless, so cold after the warmth of the Community. I had to take her away. If doing so forced my hand concerning the telling of the truth, then so be it; I would not sacrifice my great-aunt's happiness to such expediency. Telling the truth was what I had sworn to myself I would do, after all, even if now my instinct was to conceal rather than to reveal.

Well, we would see.

We drove through the lightly trafficked city. I gave Sophi an edited version of my short but eventful travels with Uncle Mo, my meeting with Morag, my audience with Great-aunt Zhobelia and time spent with Brother Topee. I did not, for the time being, mention the things Zhobelia had told me, or the pay-book and the ten-pound note.

'So what were you looking for at the library?' Sophi asked.

I shook my head, and could not look at her. 'Oh, old stuff,' I said. 'Things I half wish I hadn't found out.' I glanced at her. Things I'm not sure about telling anybody else yet.'

Sophi looked briefly at me, and smiled. 'Well, that's okay.'

And seemed happy with that, bless her.

'She is my great-aunt and she's corning with us!'

'Look, hen, she's here in my charge, and I'm not supposed to just let any of these old dears start wandering off.'

'She is not "wandering off", she is coming of her own free will, back into the bosom of her family.'

'Aye, well, that's what you say. Ah don't even know you are her…'

'Great niece,' I supplied. 'Well, look, why don't we just ask her? I think you'll find she'll confirm everything I say.'

'Och, come on; she's not exactly the full shilling, is she?'

'I beg your pardon? My great-aunt may appear a little confused on occasion but I suspect that much of what seems to be encroaching senility is simply the effect of having to subsist within the insufficiently stimulating environment which is all that you are able to provide, despite what I am sure are your best efforts. After some time spent with the many, many people who love her and who are able to provide her with a more intense set of emotional and spiritual surroundings I should be most surprised indeed if she did not a show a marked improvement in that regard.'

'Yeah!' Sophi breathed at my side. 'Well said, Is.'

'Thank you,' I said to her, then turned back to the plump middle-aged lady who had let us into the hall of the Gloamings Nursing Home. The lady had introduced herself as Mrs Johnson. She wore a tight blue uniform like the one the young lass had worn the last time I'd been here, two nights ago, and unconvincing blonde hair. 'Now,' I said, 'I would like to see my great-aunt.'

'Well, you can see her, Ah canny stop ye seein; her, but Ah havny had any notification she's supposed to be movin' out,' Mrs Johnson said, turning to walk towards the rear of the house. She shook her head as we followed her. 'Ah don't know, ye get told nuthin' here. Nuthin'.'

Great-aunt Zhobelia was in a room full of old ladies, all perched on high-seated chairs watching the television. A large tray with tea things sat on a sideboard, and many of the old dears - Zhobelia actually looked the youngest - were sitting sipping cups of tea, their bony, fragile hands shakily clutching robust green china cups which rattled in their saucers. Zhobelia wore a voluminous bright red sari and a matching red hat in the style of a turban. She looked bright and alert.

'Ah, it's you!' she said, the instant she saw me. She turned to one of the other old ladies and shouted, 'See, you silly old woman? Told you she was real! A dream, indeed!' Then she looked back to me and put up one finger, as though raising some point of order. 'Thought about it. Made up my mind. Decided to come for a holiday. Bags are packed,' she said, and smiled widely. Mrs Johnson sighed deeply.

'A lion-tamer? Goodness gracious me!' said Great-aunt Zhobelia from the back of Sophi's car as we headed cross-country towards Stirling.

'I'm not really a lion-tamer, Mrs Whit,' Sophi said, slapping me on the thigh with her left hand, then laughing. 'Isis just tells people that because she thinks it sounds good. I'm an assistant animal handler; an estate worker and zoo-keeper, really.'

'What, no lions, then?' Great-aunt Zhobelia asked. She was sitting sideways across the car's back seat, her arm on the back of my seat. Her bags took up the rear footwells as well as the car's boot.

'Oh yes,' Sophi said. 'There are lions. But we don't tame them or anything.'

'You don't tame them!' Zhobelia said. 'My. That sounds worse! You must be very brave.'

'Nonsense,' Sophi snorted.

'Yes, she is, Great-aunt,' I told her. 'And dashing, too.'

'Oh, stop it,' Sophi said, grinning.

'Do you have tigers at this safari park?'

'Yes,' Sophi said. 'Indian tigers: a breeding pair and two cubs.'

'There used to be tigers in Khalmakistan,' Zhobelia told us. 'Not that I was there ever, but we were told. Yes.'

'Aren't there any there any more?' I asked.

'Oh no!' Zhobelia said. 'I think we caught and killed them all long ago and sold their bits to the Chinese. They believe tiger bones and such are magic. Silly people.'

'That's a shame,' I said.

'A shame? I don't think so. It's their own fault. They don't have to be silly. Good merchants, though. Canny. Yes. Give them that. Things are worth what people will pay for them, no more, no less; say what you like. Found that out all right.'

'I meant for the tigers.'

Zhobelia hmphed . 'Generous with your sympathy. They used to eat us, you know. Yes. Eat people.' She reached over and tapped Sophi on the shoulder. 'Hoy. Miss Sophi; these tigers, in this safari park next door to the farm, they aren't going to escape, are they?'

'We've never had an escape,' Sophi said in her most reassuring voice. 'We're not next door to the farm, anyway; a couple of miles away. But no, they aren't going to escape.'

'Ah well,' Zhobelia said, settling back in her seat. 'I suppose I should not worry. I'm as tough as old boots, I am. A tiger is not going to eat a shrivelled-up old lady like me, is it? Not when there's young ones about, tender young things like you and Isis, eh?' she said, thumping me on the shoulder and laughing loudly in my ear. 'Nice and juicy young things like you, eh? Nice and tasty, eh? Eh?'

I turned and looked round at her. She winked and said, 'Eh?' again, and took out a handkerchief from somewhere in her sari, to dab at her eyes.

Sophi looked across at me, grinning and raising her eyebrows. I smiled, content.

We met Morag and Ricky in the foyer of the same Stirling hotel Grandmother Yolanda had stayed at. I had called Morag at her hotel in Perth the night before, after I'd rung Sophi. Morag and Ricky had checked in here for the night.