by Iain Banks
He was offered the opportunity to say a few words, for whatever it was worth after that ultimatum of a vote. He’d had a big speech prepared but there was little point in going through the whole thing now. He left out the spiel where he flattered them and their stupid little company and just told them how great Spraint was and what a good deal one-twenty represented, then added that he was deeply worried they were asking for an unrealistic amount of money, but that, unless they reconsidered, he would communicate the offer back to the main Spraint board this evening; although it was the weekend, all the board members were anxious to hear whether they’d been successful and various weekend leisure activities would have to be disturbed. He only hoped they would consider it at all rather than dismiss it out of hand. He thanked them for their time and sat down to surprisingly warm applause.
Two hundred mill. A fifth of a billion bucks. The greedy fucks.
‘Well, Alban, you had your say,’ Win said to him after dinner that evening. He’d been wandering round some of the various family members gathered in the drawing room rather than working the room this time, just batting around from little group to little group, talking, accepting both restrained praise and severe criticism for his address before the EGM. He fetched up at the fireplace, Win’s usual hangout, and wondered which he’d receive from her.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I did, didn’t I?’
‘Was that what you always meant to say?’ Win asked. She was sitting holding her tumbler of whisky, surrounded by Kennard, Renée, Haydn, Linda, Perce, Kathleen and Lance.
‘Pretty much,’ he told her.
‘I thought the political stuff was completely unnecessary, I must say,’ she said.
‘People usually do. It’s generally the most important content people are either embarrassed by or can’t see is relevant.’
‘Still, you got it off your chest.’
‘From spleen via chest to cuff,’ he agreed.
‘You are one for going against the flow, aren’t you, Alban?’ Uncle Perce said. He was Brand Manager these days, husband of Aunt Linda; a tallish, balding, slightly chubby guy with inordinately thick-lensed glasses which gave him a perpetually goggling look. He had a hoarse, slightly breathless voice.
‘I suppose I am,’ Alban agreed. He felt tired. He’d been more keyed up than he’d have liked to admit before saying his piece at the meeting and the whole business with the boat trip had been surprisingly tiring, too. He was looking forward to going to bed.
Larry Feaguing had communicated the good/bad news to the rest of the Spraint board before dinner, and some of the family were talking about waiting around into the small hours, hoping to hear something definitive from the US. Alban wasn’t going to bother. He felt drained and just wanted to sleep.
‘There will always be people who believe in making life difficult for themselves,’ Win said to Perce and the others. Alban was treated to a sustained round of tactfully subdued head-nods, muffled noises of agreement and some slightly sozzled knowing looks following this gritty little pearl of wisdom. Win smiled at Alban. He smiled back, then excused himself and went off to talk to somebody - anybody - else.
When Fielding finally came to bed - a bit drunk, stumbling around, apologising - a little after three, Alban was still awake. He asked Fielding if there had been any word from Spraint, but there hadn’t.
Alban lay awake, listening to Fielding snoring softly, snufflingly, intermittently.
Had he said the right thing to the meeting? He’d tried to say what he felt, what he believed. He’d probably been too political, too self-indulgent, but when else was he going to get a chance to say stuff like that to an audience willing to listen? He’d needed to explain that his reluctance to sell was not about the family, that it was about principle, and he had wanted to make the point that the family might gain more than just money if they chose to sell. He hadn’t been sure how that would play, but it seemed to have gone down fairly well. A number of people had come up to him at the dinner or afterwards and said they agreed with him. They’d all been from the younger levels of the family: people like sis Cory and cousins Lori and Claire and Steve. They’d understood; the older generations hadn’t, not really.
Well, the ball was in the Spraint court now. Alban expected they’d be left to twist in the wind for a bit. There was no percentage for Spraint in coming back with an immediate yes, not unless there was some other suitor on the horizon, and there’d been no sign of that.
With any luck they’d hear something tomorrow. He still thought they’d settle on one-eighty, though obviously the family would be even happier with two hundred. Academic. Just figures. Feaguing was right in a way. And it affected him personally, materially, only to the most trivial degree.
He still didn’t know about the whole thing with the boat and the frayed lanyard. Anyway, they’d got out of the situation so it didn’t really matter. He’d probably never trust Neil McBride again, and that was the worst of it (he’d never trusted Win).
His attempt to trade with the old girl hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. He’d thought that maybe she’d be unsettled because he was - unexpectedly, he was sure - back on time from the fishing trip. He’d even hoped that she might have had some sort of attack of conscience that would make her prepared to be generous, but no. Maybe Win had guessed that what he intended to say at the meeting wasn’t as against her true interests as she’d initially supposed.
Anyway, it hadn’t worked and he had the distinct and nagging impression that more than he’d realised had hung on exactly how he’d answered her question about how he now felt towards Sophie.
Ah yes, then there was Sophie. He still didn’t know what to think about her, about his feelings for her. Was he now properly, officially over her? Had it been a cathartic, cleansing experience? Or had the whole boat trip and the little drama of the broken lanyard somehow kept the flame alive, even rekindled it, so that he was still not free of this ancient, immature infatuation? He didn’t know, not yet. He felt torn, able to see both ways of looking at the matter. He could make an argument to himself for either point of view and he couldn’t easily choose between them on merit.
What did he want to be the case?
He wanted, he supposed, to be free of her. It was a stupid, adolescent fixation, well past its sell-by date. He wanted to be able to go to VG and just say, Whatever you want, however much of me you want, you’ve got. I’ll accept whatever degree of proximity and commitment you want to offer or ask for.
Part of him howled at this. Some sort of old-guard element of his being went into fits of apoplexy at the very idea of abandoning his eternal love for, and obligation to, Sophie. He had promised himself he would always love her, he had made that solemn pledge in his heart, back when he was just starting to become who he was. He had built his world around her, even if it had been done from a distance, even if it was without her knowledge or consent, even if the image that he had of her was based on a ‘her’ that had changed utterly, that had matured and grown and developed away both from him and from her own earlier self, and even if the whole doomed undertaking had been carried out in the teeth of all common sense and rational self-interest.
It was love. It was romantic, pure and perfect love; it wasn’t supposed to make sense or be rational. It was the core of him, this passion, this purity of feeling and commitment. How could he think of abandoning it and her? That pledge had been his foundation for all these years. Could he renounce it now? Should he?
He remembered lying in bed at Lydcombe, pledging himself to his real mother, to Irene, swearing to her memory that he would never call Leah ‘Mum’ or ‘Mother’ or anything like that . . . Then he remembered renouncing all that, because Leah was nice, because he couldn’t hate her, then couldn’t feel indifferent towards her, then admitted he liked her, and sometimes calling her ‘Mum’ just seemed right. He’d felt guilty and mature and pragmatic and like he was betraying Irene, all at once. So, he had form. He’d done this sort of thing before.
Hard to see how you could do otherwise, if you were stupid enough to go around making childish pledges to yourself.
Apostate, he thought. Serial betrayer.
Sophie was his religion, he thought, with a kind of shock. He’d built a temple round her image, her idol, her fixed, unchanging, incorruptible icon. The worship of that symbol had become what mattered, rather than the girl as she actually was or the woman she’d become. She represented his faith in his own trueness of spirit, his ability to keep on believing in something. If he could believe in his love for Sophie, he could believe that he was a good person, a worthwhile person, a decent man. He was an atheist and a secularist, but now he had to confront his own idiot faith, this slightly mad belief system that he’d carried with him all this time, and accept it for the nonsense it was. Maybe it had been a useful nonsense, in a state of relative ignorance, the way conventional religions could be, but it was still a nonsense.
He’d once characterised religions as reason abatement societies. Shit, he hadn’t realised with what authority he’d been speaking. Maybe he owed Tony Fromlax an apology.
In his mind, he could feel a particularly non-violent and well-spoken mob politely storming the temple complex that held the graven image of Sophie. He could almost hear the wailing of the priests, the lamentations of the faithful as the great washed, the well-scrubbed crowd of intellectuals - waving scrolls (closely argued, ink still damp) rather than burning torches - defiled the sacred ground with their presence and their doubt and their faithless, argumentative lack of certainty.
The inquisitive, terribly polite mob dragged some of the precious texts out of the dark temple into the cold light of day and reason, the powerless priests wailing and tearing their hair out in their wake.
‘They’ve all bloody gone . . .’ ‘Fell off me ’oss, didn’ I guv?’ ‘Blimey, Uncle, I didn’t enjoy it that much . . .’ ‘Not a flippin’ fing . . .’ (Plus, the avariciously faithful aspect of him, the obsessive-compulsive part of his personality that collected these little relics had been going to add ‘Aye-aye, cap’n’ to the canon, as of just today.) All shown to the sun, all shrivelling in the strength of daylight and being made to look sad and pathetic and risible. How shallow had been the foundations of his faith, he realised now. How inadequate the corner-stones of his custom-built, home-grown personality cult.
‘Cuz, cuz, sweet cuz.’
He whispered it, very quietly, to the perfectly dark room as Fielding snored obliviously away.
A kind of valediction.
Of course, the mistake would be simply to replace Sophie with Verushka. He knew there was a danger of that. He could easily worship her, she was already a kind of rival religion in his head; a new, shining, more effective, more earthy and hip cult compared to the ancient adoration of Sophie.
That would be pretty stupid. If she ever found out, VG wouldn’t thank him for being venerated like that, and - in the end, he had no doubt - to do so would destroy whatever he and VG had and whatever they might have together.
‘Just love her, you idiot,’ he said in a normal speaking voice, and was shocked anew. It had sounded so loud in the room. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Fielding had suddenly stopped snoring. Alban turned to look at where he knew his cousin was, but could see nothing because the darkness was complete. Then he heard Fielding shift, maybe turning over in bed. Soon he went back to snoring again. Alban looked up once more at the unseen ceiling.
Love her, he told himself. If that’s what you feel, if you can start to work out what it is you really feel for her now that you’re free of this absurd worship of Sophie - maybe, probably - then just be adult about it, be sensible about it. Take it as it comes. See how things work out with her. Okay, so she doesn’t want children, and she’ll probably never want to live with you. Just give all you can offer, and be honest. And if somebody else comes along that offers you all the things you want, or think you want, then at least VG should understand. She’s said so often enough.
Arguably, nobody ever completely knows themselves, so she could be wrong about that and maybe if it ever comes to it she’ll feel more jealous than she expects to feel, but of all the people you’ve ever known she’s the one least likely to be that self-deceptive. In the meantime, make the most of whatever time you have together. And if it’s effectively for ever, for the rest of your lives, can you think of anybody else you’d rather spend that time with?
Well, no.
He so hoped that she was all right, that she was well and healthy and looking forward to seeing him . . . Tomorrow, if you counted this as today rather than last night. Tomorrow; he’d see her tomorrow. Fate willing, he told himself. Chance allowing.
Finally, he fell asleep.
He was up before six, fully awake but knowing he’d be tired again by the afternoon. He had breakfast alone, helping himself in the kitchen and packing food for lunch, then - borrowing an old fishing bag from the cloakroom as a day pack and leaving a note on the octagonal table in the front hall describing his intended route - he left the house, feeling oddly relieved and even exultant that he’d got away from the place without anyone seeing him.
He hiked through the gardens and woods in light drizzle from a few small, high clouds which soon disappeared to reveal a sharp, clear blue morning. He made a shallow ascent along the path heading north-west along the shoulder of Beinn Aird da Loch, looking down on the place where his mother had died, watching seagulls wheel and dip over the calm, black waters. He only remembered then that Andy had wanted to scatter some flowers on the loch this morning. He thought about going back, but decided not to.
The path turned the corner after a while, taking the sight of one dark loch away, replacing it with another.
He descended again, towards the head of Loch Glendhu, between tipped, parallel lines of cliffs. He crossed the river by the small bridge just upstream from a small, stony beach and followed the track up the far side of Gleann Dubh, the cliffs and walls of rock creating a gloomy canyon of stone it was a relief to hike up out of, towards the blue richness of the sky above the greens, yellows and browns of the encircling hills.
Free of the steep-sided shade of the narrow glen, he struck off the main path and along the north shore of a small loch he’d have to look at the map to remember the name of, making heavy going over coarse, hummocky ground until - skirting the base of Meill na Leitrach, leg muscles complaining - he met the path from Loch More. He followed it for the remainder of its descent to the side of the burn which fed the small loch he’d passed and then stopped for lunch. He sat on a rock, watching a pair of eagles slide across the sky above Ruigh’ a’ Chnoic Mhóir like a pair of light aircraft with feathers. He drank water he’d bottled at the house, ate his sandwiches and fruit, then continued up the path to the pass, striking out to the right towards the summit of Beinn Leòid. Throughout, he’d been looking for interesting plants - anything beyond the usual heathers, grasses, ferns and wind-stunted trees - but the most exotic species he’d spotted so far had been a couple of small clumps of autumn gentian.
A cool, strong breeze met him at the trig point, and he stood there with his back against the concrete pillar and the wind, breathing hard after the last push to the top.
He gave a small laugh, remembering VG being scurrilous about an ex-colleague she’d dated a few times and then severely fallen out with. ‘Ever been walking in the wind and the rain and come up to a trig point on a big, featureless summit, and you just want to get whatever shelter you can from the gale so you can hunker down and eat your sandwiches? Well, I felt about his cock the way you would about that trig point: you’re glad it’s there, you’re happy you don’t have to share it with anybody, but you can’t help wishing it was just a bit bigger.’
He’d felt vaguely treacherous laughing at this, and got an internal shiver wondering what she’d say about him to some future lover - perhaps, one day - but then she had never been so defamatory or indiscreet about anybody else; he reckoned the guy had pr
obably deserved it.
He looked out across the revealed tops to the north, bright and sharp in the clear northerly airstream, wondering where she was now. Standing on one of those far summits looking out across that same waste of air towards him? Probably not, but the residual romantic in him would still like to think so.
Just come back safely, VG, he thought. Just come back safely to me.
He ate some chocolate then headed cross-country, down then back up to the nameless top from which he could at last look down on Loch Garve, the estate and the house. The best part of three kilometres away, seven hundred metres down, the great grey house, hardly hidden by the trees from this angle, looked tiny and lost and insignificant from here; a vaguely geometrical, human-created interruption in the burgeoning sweep of landscape formed by the long dark lochs and the rock-broken pelts of the arrayed and jumbled mountains, a cheap charm on a thread of road overhung by the surrounding rocky slopes.
It all looked inviolable and changeless from here, yet that was just wrong. Centuries ago there would have been almost nothing to see but forest; now, as ever, the ground cover reflected the use the land was put to, in this case providing a vast, half-vertical paddock for deer and game birds, all there to be shot at by people of means.
Alban tried to see the place as it might be, as Neil McBride might see it; threatened, on the brink of irreversible change. Suppose that some of the great ice sheets melted; that was supposed to be entirely possible before the end of the century. One scenario the climatologists seemed to find eminently plausible had sea levels rising by seven metres. How would that alter the landscape he was looking at? Well, a hell of a lot less than if he was looking out over a bit of East Anglia, or Holland, or Bangladesh, that was for sure. But even here, amongst these sparsely populated mountains, the change would be severe. Harbours, coastal villages, roads along the shore, much of the best arable land; they’d all go. Garbadale House had been built on the remains of glacial till banked up at the end of the great scoured trench that was Loch Garve. It was about eight or nine metres above sea level; close enough for salt spray to buffet the windows on stormy days if Greenland melted. If the Antarctic ice sheets went the same way, then Loch Garve would be a sea loch and the house would simply disappear under the grey waves. Though that, of course, would be utterly insignificant compared to losing every coastal city in the world, and several entire countries.
