by Iain Banks
The syringe is a big mother; not like those dinky little disposable plastic things medics and junkies use. This device is made from stainless steel and glass; it has two hook-shaped finger-grips on either side of the barrel and it holds a fifth of a litre. You hold the medicine bottle sealed with cling-film upside down and slip the slanted tip of the big syringe needle into the clotted-cream-coloured liquid inside the bottle. Mr Oliver is still screaming behind the gag.
You suck on the gas again and tell him what you're going to do to him. His muffled screams rise in pitch until they sound like he's been breathing helium too.
The next day I scrounge a Lambert & Butler off Rose in the Foreign News section, smoke it at my desk and get a real hit off it, then feel disgusted with myself and vow that's the last one I'm going to smoke. I really mean it this time and decide to reward myself by using my increased credit-card limit to buy myself something. The car needs a service, I could use a new suit and the carpet in the flat is getting threadbare, but as candidates for expenditure none of those has very high self-reward status; minimal feel-good factors there. My mouth goes a little dry as I sit staring at the whisky story — which I'm reworking very slowly — and think of what I could buy with the extra dosh. Dosh/Tosh. Hmm.
I pull open a drawer and dig out a computer magazine. Five hundred glossy full-colour pages plus a free software disk for less than two quid. It's the November issue but the prices might be out of date by now; usually with computers they go down but this time they might have gone up because, now we're out of the ERM and the pound's sinking against the dollar, the price of components bought abroad is sure to increase.
I leaf through, looking at the lap-top adverts.
Shit, I can afford one of these; I can afford a colour one at last, one that'll play Despot. Especially as I can write it off against tax; I'll use it for work, after all. And even more especially as I'm giving up smoking; that's twenty quid a week at least I'll save, even if I don't stop doing speed. The price of 386 lap-tops has fallen quickly recently, and colour screens are no longer luxuries in the portable market. Yo!
Before the more sensible bits of my brain can start coming up with convincing arguments for doing anything else with the money, I call up a manufacturer in Cumbernauld I've heard good things about and talk to one of the salespeople. I discuss what I want with him and we agree I might as well go for a 486. This means spending a little more money than I'd been thinking of, but it'll be worth it in the end. A decent-sized hard disk is a necessity too, and a spare battery, naturally. Plus I'll need cabling to transfer data between the PC at home and the lap-top. And of course for a little extra I can have a removable hard disk, which not only makes my data more secure but allows for easy up-grading of the disk unit if it ever proves too small. This is a quality machine after all and I won't need to change it for years. It's worth the little extra to future-proof it. They don't do part-exchange but the salesman can't imagine me having any problems selling a Toshiba, even an old one; they do have a good name, after all.
We settle on the exact specification. They have one in stock. I can pick it up today, tomorrow, whenever, or they can deliver within forty-eight hours for a tenner.
I decide I'll go and get it. I give them my credit-card number for the deposit and agree to show up at the factory within the next couple of hours. I'll have to buy the blighter on credit; the manufacturers have a deal with a financing company that sounds reasonable. (I'm close to the limit of my bank overdraft, even though it's nearly time for my salary to lift my bank account briefly into the black before it settles comfortably and familiarly back into the red for the rest of the month.) There are bills to pay but they can wait.
I'm so excited I finish the whisky story in half an hour.
"Right, Frank," I tell him, pulling on my jacket. "I'm off to Cumbernauld."
"Ah, you mean Cumbered."
"What?"
"Spell-check; «Cumbered». Ha ha."
"Oh yeah; ha ha."
"Will we be seeing you later?"
"Doubtful."
I circle the room, breathing quick and deep. She swivels, following me, facing me, her body glistening. I'm breathing hard too; chest heaving, hands out in front of me, feet squeaking on the tiles. I'm conscious of my cock swinging between my legs. She gives a half-grunt, half laugh, and jumps towards the bath. I catch her ankle as her leap turns into a feint and she darts the other way, hauling the door open. Her oiled skin slides through my fingers as I stagger and almost fall into the Jacuzzi, banging a knee on its tiled platform while she disappears through the doorway, slamming the door behind her. I quickly rub my knee where I banged it, then pull the door open and race through the dressing room to the dimly lit bedroom. No sign. I stand there, rubbing my knee, breathing through my mouth to make less noise so that I'll hear her. The bed is king-size, still rumpled, its mahogany foot- and headboards shining lustrously in the glow from the concealed lighting behind the bedside cabinets and shelving system. I pad over to the bedside, glance back to the dressing-room door, then squat slowly, feeling my prick slide caught between my calves with a delicious, anticipatory thrill. I pull up the covers fallen over the side of the bed and glance quickly underneath.
There's a hint of sudden noise behind me and I start to turn and rise (thinking, She was in the dressing-room wardrobe), but it's too late. She crashes into my back and side, knocking the wind out of me and bowling me over onto the bed, landing me on my face on the creased black satin sheets and trapping my dick painfully back between my thighs; before I can do much she's straddling me; slim, hard legs slipping oiled over my flanks while her taut little bum crunches down into the middle of my back, winding me further. She grabs my right arm, twists it until I shout — breathlessly — in pain and hauls it up my back towards my neck, pinning it there, about a centimetre below where it would hurt unbearably, and only a few more further down from where the humerus would break. Serves me right for playing this sort of game with a woman who ran a self-defence course for female students, still regularly thrashes me at squash with technique or power depending on what sort of mood she's in, and does serious weights. I slap the slick black sheets with my other hand.
"All right. You win."
She grunts, then pushes my arm that extra centimetre until I yelp in pain. "I said all right!" I shout. "I'll do anything!"
She lets go, rolls off me and lies there beside me, panting, laughing through each breath, her breasts rising and falling and jiggling all at once and her flat belly gently shaking. I lever myself up and throw myself on top of her but she's rolling away and I thump onto the sheets as she pulls one leg from beneath me and stands, arms on her hips at the side of the bed, looking down at me. Her feet are planted a metre apart and I stare at her black V of pubic hair, moaning softly.
"Patience," she says, taking a deeper breath and sliding a hand through her short, slicked hair. She turns and moves off across the creamy pile of the carpet, balanced on the balls of her feet like a dancer. She reaches, stretching, up to a hinged cupboard above a built-in wardrobe, and I moan dramatically again, watching the muscles in her calves and buttocks clench and the dimples in the small of her back hollow and lengthen and the shadow of her breasts move across the polished ash of the wardrobe doors to one side while her reflection extends, naked and achingly beautiful in the mirrors on the other side. She's on her toes, feeling inside the cupboard. The fleshy mound of her sex shows dark between her legs, a glimpsed, precious, succulent fruit. I collapse back on the bed, unable to bear it.
Ten minutes later I'm kneeling on the bed, stretched backwards with my legs apart and my wrists tied to my ankles with silk scarves and my cock so hard it's sore, sticking way out in front of me, totally rampant but bizarrely vulnerable too and I'm breathing hard and my muscles are aching and I feel so close to coming if there's a draught across my cock that'll probably be enough and she pulls the last, unnecessary scarf tight and then slides round past me, in front of me, so leanly voluptuous, fit and hard and moist and s
oft together I'm past moaning any more and just have to laugh, casting my gaze to the ceiling and feeling the engorged weight of my cock waggle as I laugh and then she slips off the bed, grabs the remote control and announces she's going to watch Eldorado and I'm bellowing and she's laughing as the Trinitron clicks on and she turns the sound up to drown me out and I'm left here in what is starting to become some pain while she sits lotus-like, giggling now and again and pretending to be involved in this crap soap opera and I have to try and work my way back up the bed, waddling painfully on my knees and ankles until I finally make the metre or so back to the pillows and the headboard so at least I can support my aching shoulders and take some weight off, well, just about every other muscle in my body, it feels like.
Trapped there watching this shit and after five minutes even my cock is giving up, just starting to droop but then she turns and gives it a quick nicking lick with her tongue and I beg her to suck me off but she just turns away and watches the TV on the other side of the room again, and I struggle and strain but she's tied me too tight and my knees are really sore now and I try to reason with her, and say, "Look, this really is starting to hurt," but she ignores me apart from checking on the state of my erection every few minutes and giving me quick, incredibly hot and frustrating half-licks, half-sucks every now and again, or a single saliva-moistened finger-and-thumb flick and I'm roaring in frustration and desire and pain in about equal and immense amounts and finally, finally, thank fuck the Anglo-Spanish crap ends and the tune tinkles and the credits roll and she clicks the box to MTV and it's still not over! The teasing, tantalising bitch gets off the bed and goes out the door and I'm so stunned I can't speak; I'm left there with my mouth hanging open and my cock sticking out and I'm so fucking angry I'm looking from side to side at the bedside units to see what I can roll over and smash to produce an edge I can cut the scarves on, and I'm just deciding on the crystal glass on her side that still holds some dark dregs of Rioja when she comes back again, carrying a glittering glass in one hand and a steaming mug in the other and smirking, and I know what she's going to do and I say, "No, please; just let me go; my legs, my arms, my knees; I may never walk again, please, please, please," but it doesn't do any good; she kneels in front of me and puts the glass to her lips and slips an ice cube into her mouth, looking at me and grinning and then lowering her mouth onto my cock.
Then it's the hot coffee from the mug but only briefly, it's not enough; then the ice again, then the coffee then the ice and I'm crying now, actually crying with pain and lust and the unbearable frustration of it, crying and begging; pleading with her to stop until finally she spits the last ice cube out and puts the glass and the mug down beside the wine glass and comes forward and straddles me, slipping me quickly, easily deep inside her and she feels hotter than the coffee, hot enough to scald, hot enough to burn and I give a small, shocked "Ah!" as she moves up and down on me and puts her fingers to my neck and the other hand down behind her to my balls and suddenly I'm coming, still crying and sobbing now as the spasms shake me and she goes suddenly very still, whispering "Baby, baby" to me as I jerk and pump and the motions make the pain in my legs and arms and joints worse and better at the same time.
The scarves have gone too tight to undo; she has to cut them with the gleaming weight of the hunting knife she keeps under her side of the mattress in case any rapist ever breaks in.
I lie cradled in her arms, panting, spent, exhausted, the agony in my muscles and bones and sockets gradually easing and the tears on my face drying and she says softly,
"How was that?" and I whisper,
"Fucking brilliant."
Next morning I arrive at the paper bright and early, toting my new machine, all happy after my sprint through to Cumbernauld via the building society and back and then my evening with Y (she was disappointingly unimpressed with the super-sexy new machine, but I guess not everybody's into computers and fuck it, given the choice of it or her on my lap I'd take her) after which I returned to Cheyne Street — Y likes me to leave before it gets too late, worried that her neighbours in the exec development will talk. I was so tired that even though I was just dying to get the new lap-top going and make sure Despot runs all right (portable at last! The screaming orgasmic joy of it!) I fell asleep on the couch instead and somehow transferred myself to the bed at some point and so had a good night's sleep for a change. I get up with the dawn or not long after anyway, make it into the office slightly early for once and Frank's there in reception when I come in and I'm about to show off the new machine when he looks worriedly at me, draws me to one side away from the receptionists" desk and the small-ads and back-issues counter until we're standing in a corner and says, "Cameron, Eddie wants to see you. He's got a couple of policemen in with him."
"What's this?" I ask, grinning. "Fettesgate again?" Fettesgate is a minor scandal involving the Lothian police force: a gay guy who felt he was being victimised broke into the cop HQ out at Fettes (with embarrassing ease) and found and copied lots of sensitive papers.
"No," Frank says. "Nothing to do with that, apparently. They're asking for you."
"Me?"
"Yes; you, quite specifically."
"Know their names?"
"No."
"Hmm." I know quite a few cops, some fairly high up, just like I know lawyers, advocates, doctors, politicians, civil servants and people in a variety of agencies. No big deal. "Can't imagine why." I shrug. "What's it about, any idea?"
Frank looks uncomfortable. He glances at the commissionaire behind his desk, nearby, and turns away from him. He leans his head close to mine and says quietly, "Well, Morag overheard something of what they were saying on the intercom…"
I put my hand over my mouth and do a stage-snigger. I thought Eddie's secretary eavesdropped on him. I didn't know until now she confided in Frank.
"Cameron," Frank says, dropping his voice still further. "Apparently they're investigating some murders."
CHAPTER 5: NAKED FLAME
The Mercedes estate comes grumbling down the drive, splashing in dark puddles under the dripping trees, car draws up by the blank gable end of the dark cottage. As the headlights are switched off, you turn the night sight on. He gets out of the car carrying a large leather flight and walks to the front of the cottage. He is balding and of medium build, though with a paunch and rather a fat face. You watch unlock the front door to the cottage. He enters, turning on the light and closing the door. You hear the alarm delay beep briefly before he turns it off. The rain patters down in front of you, heavier drops from the overhanging trees plop all around. A light comes on at the back of the cottage, in the kitchen.
You give him a couple of minutes while you put the night sight away and take out a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses, then you go to the front porch, put the glasses on and bang urgently on the solid wooden door.
You take the bottle and the sanitary towel from your pocket, the towel's loops over your fingers, soak the towel with the liquid in the bottle, then put the bottle away again, holding the reeking towel closed in your fist.
You hammer on the door again.
"Sir Rufus!" you call when you hear noise behind the door. "Sir Rufus! Ivor Owen here, from down the road!" You are modestly pleased with your gruff Welsh accent. "Quick, Sir Rufus; it's your car!"
You hear an English voice saying, "What!" and then a bolt slides. You let the door open. Mr Carter is holding a shotgun, but it is pointing downwards. You can't tell whether he has his finger inside the trigger guard or not but you have no choice; you dart forward, punching him hard in the stomach. He goes "Oof!" and starts to fold at the waist and knees. The gun drops from his hand as you jump to one side and clamp the sanitary towel over his mouth, then get behind him and lock your other arm round his neck. He manages to fling you back against one wall and your glasses come off but you hold onto him. He is still winded, struggling for breath, and the ether works quickly. He sags and collapses. You go with him to the floor, keeping the towel tight over his
face. He moves once more, weakly, then goes still.
The keys to the cottage are in his trouser pockets. You put him in the recovery position and go to the door. You put out the hall light, take the night sight from your day-pack and look around. It looks peaceful enough. You close the door and lock it but leave the alarm system off. You take off your moustache and wig, pick up the cracked glasses from the floor and stuff them all in the day-pack. From it you take your black ski balaclava and slip it on.
You have a look in the kitchen but it's a slate floor. You drag him into the living room, put more ether on the towel and leave it over his face, then you roll back the carpet. You take the nail gun out of the day-pack and use it to nail him to the floor through his clothes, pinning each leg of his trousers and arm of his jacket and shirt to the thick boards in five or six places. It's a noisy business. You take the sanitary towel off his face and pry his mouth open with the nail gun, to make sure he hasn't swallowed his tongue. You turn his face to the side.
Sir Rufus Caius St Leger Carter, to give him his full, wonderfully English title, dribbles saliva onto the dusty boards.
You take off one of his shoes and a sock, then shove the balled sock into his mouth and seal his lips with masking-tape. You hesitate, then you put the barrel of the nail gun onto the right cuff of his jacket, over the point where his upper wrist joins the bones of the arm; the place to put nails where they can't be torn out. You're not sure whether to do this or not; the nails through his clothes will hold him, trapped like an Armani-suited Gulliver; you don't need the nails through his arms, and it seems more elegant to use the nail gun and yet not do the obvious thing. You shake your head and put the nail gun aside.
He moans, then his eyes open slowly and he sees you and tries to move but can't. He screams down his nose. You are becoming familiar with men making this noise now.
You leave him shaking and screaming and go through to the store room off the kitchen, where there are a couple of calor-gas cylinders near the back door. One bottle is empty, waiting to be picked up after running the cottage's stove and central-heating system. The other cylinder feels full. You roll its chilly bulk through to where Sir Rufus is still making a racket on the living-room floor. He's sweating despite the chill. A corner of the tape over his mouth has come off. He's trying to shout something but you can't tell what it is.
