by Iain Banks
He takes a moment to answer. "We're ten metres above mean sea-level here," he says, nodding out to the shore.
"You don't say." I light a cigarette.
"The deck on the QE2 on that level we called the Exocet Deck, because that's the height the missile rides at."
Ah, Falklands Lore. "Well," I say, peering out at the darkness and the far side of the loch, "unless you have an irate neighbour with particularly good contacts in the arms trade —»
"The only thing I ever have nightmares about," Andy says, his gaze still directed at the unseeable loch, his eyes still wide. "Isn't that ridiculous? Nightmares about being blown to fuck by a missile, ten years ago. I wasn't even on that deck; we were billeted two up from there…" He shrugs, drinks and turns to me, smiling. "You see your mum much?"
"Eh?" I say, confused at this sudden change in direction. "No, not recently. She's still in New Zealand. How about you? Been back to Strathspeld?"
He shakes his head and I get a shiver, remembering just that gesture of his, repeated and repeated so that it became like a nervous tic after a while, back in Strathspeld, after Clare's funeral in "89; a gesture of disbelief, refusal, non-acceptance.
"You should go," he tells me. "You should go and see them. They'd appreciate that."
"We'll see," I say. A gust of wind throws rain against the window and shakes the frame; it's loud and surprising and I flinch but he just turns slowly and looks out into the darkness with what could almost be contempt before laughing and putting an arm round my shoulder and suggesting we have another drink.
Later a storm breaks over the hotel; lightning flares above the mountains across the loch, and the windows rattle as the thunder booms. There's a power cut; the lights go out and we light candles and gas lamps and end up — a hard core of seven of us; Andy, me, Howie, another two local lads and a couple of the traveller boys — down in the snooker room where there's a beat-up looking table and a leak in the ceiling that turns the whole of the stained, green-baize surface into a millimetre-shallow marsh, water dripping from each pocket and dribbling down the bulky legs to the sopping carpet, and we play snooker by the light of the hissing gas lamps, having to hit the white ball really hard even for delicate shots because of the extra rolling resistance the water causes, and the balls make a zizzing, ripping noise as they race across the table and sometimes you can see spray curving up behind them and I'm feeling really drunk and a bit stoned from a couple of strong Js smoked out in the garden earlier with the travellers but I think this dimly lit water-hazard snooker is just hilarious and I'm laughing maniacally at it all and I put an arm round Andy's neck at one point and say, You know I love you, old buddy, and isn't friendship and love what's it's really all about? and why can't people just see that and just be nice to each other? except there are just so many complete bastards in the world, but Andy just shakes his head and I try to kiss him and he gently fends me off and steadies me against one wall and props me up with a snooker cue against my chest and I think this is really funny for some reason and laugh so much I fall over and have distinct problems getting up again and get carried to my room by Andy and one of the travellers and dumped on the bed and fall instantly asleep.
I dream of Strathspeld, and the long summers of my childhood passed in a trance of lazy pleasure, ending with that day, running through the woods (but I turn away from that memory, the way I've learned to over the years); I wander again through the woods and the small, hidden glens, along the shores of the ornamental lochan and the river and its loch and I'm standing near the old boathouse in that defeatingly bright sunlight, light dancing on water, and I see two figures, naked and thin and white in the grass beyond the reed beds, and as I watch them the light turns from gold to silver and then to white, and the trees seem to shrink in on themselves, leaves disappearing in the chill coruscations of that enveloping white blaze while the view all around me becomes brighter and darker at once and all is reduced to black and white; trees are bare and black, the ground smother-smoothed in white and the two young figures are gone, while one even smaller one — booted, gloved, coat-tails flying behind — runs laughing across the white level of the frozen loch.
Someone calls out.
CHAPTER 7 — LUX EUROPAE
Twelve hours later I'm in the fucking Channel Islands still nursing a hangover and thinking, What in the fuck am I doing here?
"Eh? What?"
"Wake up, Cameron; there's a phone call."
"Oh. Right." I try to focus on Andy. I can't seem to get my left eye open, "Is it important?"
"Don't know."
So I get up and pull my dressing-gown on and head down to the cold, dusty lobby where the phone is.
"Cameron. Frank here."
"Oh, hi."
"So, are you enjoying your wee hol in the Highlands?"
"Oh, yeah," I say, still trying to persuade my left eyelid to lift. "What's the problem, Frank?"
"Well, your Mr Archer phoned."
"Oh yeah?" I say warily.
"Yes. He said you might like to know" — I hear Frank rustling some paper — "Mr Jemmel's real name is J. Azul. That's the initial J, then A-Z-U-L. And that Azul knew the full story but he was leaving on a foreign trip… well, this afternoon. That was all he'd say. I tried to ask him what he was talking about, but —»
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," I say, pulling my left eyelid up and hurting my eye and starting that eye watering. I take a deep breath, trying to wake myself up. "Say all that again."
"Mis-ter," Frank says slowly. "Ar-ch-er… phon-ed…"
Frank repeats the message. Meanwhile I'm thinking. Leaving this afternoon… leaving from where?
"Okay," I say, when Frank's finished talking to me as though I'm a Sun reader. "Frank, could you do me a big favour and see if you can find who this guy Azul is?"
"Well, I'm quite busy you know, Cameron. We don't all treat deadlines with —»
"Frank, please. The name rings a bell; I think I've seen it… Christ, I can't remember, my brain's not working. But please, check it out, Frank, will you? Please? I'll owe you one. Please."
"All right, all right."
"Thanks; if you find anything call me right back, okay? Will you?"
"Yes, yes, all right."
"Great. Brilliant. Thanks."
"But if I'm ringing you I just hope you answer faster than you did yesterday."
"What?"
"Your Mr Archer rang yesterday."
"Yesterday?" I say, feeling my stomach churn.
"Yes; lunch-time. Ruby took the message. I was out but when I got back I tried calling but there was no answer. I tried your mobile as well but I didn't think it would work up there in the mountains and sure enough all I got was the recording saying try again later."
"Oh, Christ."
"Anyway, another thing —»
He's going to come out with another of his ridiculous spell-check semi-jokes; I can't fucking believe it. Meanwhile my mind's racing, or at least trying to race; right now it feels like it's stuck at the side of the track trying to get its legs out of its tracksuit bottoms and hopping around and falling down while the race takes place elsewhere.
"… What if it's a common name?" Frank asks. "What if half the people in Beirut or somewhere are called Azul? I mean it sounds like a sort of —»
"Frank, listen," I say, suddenly inspired, and sounding a lot more sober and calm than I feel. "I think I remember where I know the name from. I saw it in the back of Private Eye. Something to do with… I don't know; the sort of thing that gets into the back of the Eye. Please, Frank. He might be connected with defence, aerospace, intelligence or the arms trade. Try Profile; just type in "Get Azul" and —»
"I know, I know."
"Thanks, Frank. I'm going to get dressed now. If I don't hear from you in about half an hour I'll ring anyway. Bye."
Christ; those five murdered guys, not to mention all the others McDunn's investigating, and this guy leaving this afternoon. Rang yesterday. Christ, I hate deadlines! I'm panick
ing; I can feel it. My heart is racing. I'm trying to think but I don't know what to do. Decide!
I decide: When in doubt it's vitally important to keep moving. Velocity is important. Kinetic energy frees the brain and confuses the enemy.
I'm gulping hot coffee and pulling on my coat; my bag's sitting on the reception desk in the hotel lobby and Andy's standing, hunched and blinking and bleary-eyed, watching me stuff toast into my mouth and slurp coffee from a handle-free mug. Andy is looking at my bag. One of my socks is poking out from where the two zips meet, like a floppy white hernia. Andy pulls one of the zips open, pokes the sock back in and then recloses the bag.
"The phone often goes off," he says apologetically. "Probably the storm last night."
"Never mind." I glance at my watch. Past time to phone Frank.
"Listen," Andy says, scratching under his chin and yawning. "The police might want to talk to you —»
"I know; I'll let them know where I am, don't —»
"No, I mean the local cops."
"What? Why?"
"Oh," he sighs. "There was a bit of a rumble last night when the boys left, outside. Looks like Howie and his pals jumped the two traveller guys on the road; landed one in hospital, apparently. Cops are looking for Howie. Anyway, you were asleep when it happened but they might want to have a word, so —»
"Jesus, I — " I begin. The phone rings. I grab it and yell, "What?"
"Cameron; Frank."
"Oh, hi. Have you found anything?"
"I think so. Could be a Mr Jemayl Azul," he says. He spells out the first name and I'm thinking Jemayl/Jemmel, uh-huh. "British citizen," Frank goes on. "English mother, Turkish father. Born 17.3.49, educated Harrow, Oxford and Yale."
"But is he in defence or —?"
"Has his own arms company. Connected with the Saudis but he's sold arms just about everywhere, including Libya, Iran and Iraq. He's bought up a lot of small UK firms in the past, mostly to close them down; been the subject of a question in the House. The Israelis accused him of selling nuclear information to the Iraqis in 1985. You were right about him being mentioned in the Eye; appeared a few times and I got the cuts up…" More paper rustling. "According to the report here, one of the aliases he used in share deals and bank accounts was Mr Jemmel. How's that?" Frank sounds pleased with himself.
"Brilliant, Frank, brilliant," I tell him. "So where is he?"
"Addresses in London and Geneva, an office in New York… but based on Jersey, in the Channel Islands."
"Telephone number?"
"I checked: unlisted. And just an answering machine at his company address. But I called a pal of mine in St Helier who works on the local rag and he reckons your man's at home."
"Right. Right…" I say. I'm thinking. "What about an address?"
"Aspen, Hill Street, Gorey, Jersey."
"Okay. Okay." I'm still thinking. "Frank, that's brilliant, an incredible help. Could you put me through to Eddie?"
"What?" Eddie says, when I tell him.
"Inverness to Jersey. Come on, Eddie; I'm onto something here. I'd pay for it myself but my card's up to the limit."
"This had better be good, Cameron."
"Eddie, this could be fucking enormous, I'm not kidding."
"Well, so you say, Cameron, but your record overseas isn't terribly encouraging…"
"Come on, Eddie, that's cheap. And anyway, Jersey's barely overseas and I'm giving up a day's holiday here."
"Oh, all right, but you're going economy."
"Some life," Andy says, putting my bag into the rear of the 205. "Yeah," I say, getting into the car. I can feel my headache attempting to reassert itself. "Looks exotic on occasion; doesn't feel it."
I close the door and wind the window down. I'm not at all sure I'm fit to drive but I have to if I'm going to get to Inverness in time for the connecting flight.
Andy says, looking dubious, "You sure you know what you're doing?"
"Covering the story," I tell him, and grin. "See you soon."
I make Inverness Airport in ninety minutes, through showers of hail towed under tall, grey clouds. Sound track by Count Basic and Islam's answer to Pavarotti in the even more enormous shape of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan; voice like a tripped-out angel in a dream even though I have no idea what he's singing about and always sneakingly suspect it's something on the lines of "Hey, let's string up Salman Rushdie, yeah-yeah'.
The ticket's waiting for me at the desk. I'm still officially on holiday so I force myself not to read any newspapers. I think about buying some fags but the headache's still there behind my eyes and I have the feeling smoking a cigarette would make me want to throw up. Of course what I really need is something chemical and crystalline but I don't have any and wouldn't know where to start looking for it in Inverness. I feel the need to do something so I buy a dumb little hand-held game and sit playing it while I wait. The flight's delayed but only slightly; I change at Gatwick in breezy sunshine and the 146 touches down on Jersey in relatively balmy conditions. I even manage to hire a car with the credit card, which seems like a blessing.
The Nova comes with a map; I drive through the neat little lanes and some straighter, faster roads, feeling even in those few miles that the place is too damn clean and twee and crowded after the West Highlands. Gorey is easy to find, out on the east coast, looking out over the sands and round to the point where the castle I always thought was in St Helier actually is. Hill Street takes a little longer, but Aspen is conspicuous; a long white villa set just below the crest of a low, wooded ridge, surrounded by white walls with ornamental black railings and little ball-head shrubs standing in wooden tubs. Terracotta tiled roof. It looks cool. I imagine its value is probably pretty cool too.
There are tall black iron gates but they're hooked open so I just drive through and up a drive of pink bricks to the door.
I ring the bell and wait. There are no other cars in the drive but there's a garage block attached to the house with two double doors. The sun's dipping down over the trees and a breeze gets up, rustling the leaves on the ornamental shrubs and blowing some grit into my left eye, making it water again. I ring the bell once more. I look through the letter-box but I can't see anything; I reach in and feel a box on the far side of the thick door.
After a few minutes I take a look round the place, stepping under Moorish archways and over low white walls, past an astroturf tennis court and a swimming pool about the same size, uncovered and still. I kneel and test the water with one hand. Warm.
I try to look in the windows of the house but they're either covered with those plastic roll-down external shutters you usually see in France or closed off inside by Venetian blinds.
I go back to the car, thinking maybe Mr Azul's only out for a short while. Of course, maybe I've missed him entirely and he's already set off on whatever trip Mr Archer seemed to know about. I'll give it half an hour, maybe an hour or so, then I'll call the local paper and ask for Frank's contact. I consider playing the hand-held I bought in Inverness but I'm either not hooked on it yet or my jaded palate has produced game-boredom already.
I'm thinking there might be something wrong with my plan to wait as I close my eyes (only to rest them), but even as I yawn and put my hands into my armpits I think a spot of rest isn't such a bad idea so long as I don't fall asleep.
Andy runs out across the ice. I am five years old and he is seven. Strathspeld is everywhere white; the sky is still and shining, hiding the sun in a dazzling, brilliant haze, its light somehow distanced by the intervening layer of high cloud overlooking a chill wilderness of snow. The mountaintops are smothered, black crags violent spattered marks against that blankness; the hills and forests are blanketed too, the trees are frosted and the loch is hard and soft together, iced over then snowed upon. Here, beyond the gardens of the lodge and the woods and ornamental ponds, the loch narrows and becomes a river again, bending and funnelling and quickening as it heads towards the rocks and falls and the shallow gorge beyond. Usually from here you
can hear the thunder of the falls in the distance but today there is only silence.
I watch Andy run out. I shout after him but I don't follow him. The bank on this side is low, only half a metre above the white plain of the snow-covered river. The grass and reeds around me are flattened under the sudden, overnight fall of snow. On the far side, where Andy is heading, the bank is tall and steep where the water has cut into the hill, removing sand and gravel and stones and leaving an overhang of earth and exposed, dangling tree-roots; the dark gravel space under that ragged overhang is the only place I can see where there is no snow.
Andy is yelling as he runs, coat-tails flapping out behind him, gloved hands outspread, his head thrown back, the ear flaps on his hat snapping and clapping like wings. He's almost halfway across and suddenly I go from being terrified and annoyed to being exhilarated, intoxicated; overjoyed. We were told not to do this, told not to come here, told to sledge and throw snowballs and make snowmen all we wanted, but not even to come near the loch and the river, in case we fell through the ice; and yet Andy came here after we'd sledged for a while on the slope near the farm, walked down here through the woods despite my protests, and then when we got here to the river bank I said well, as long as we only looked, but then Andy just whooped and jumped down onto the boulder-lumped white slope of shore and sprinted out across the pure flat snow towards the far bank. At first I was angry at him, frightened for him, but now suddenly I get this rush of joy, watching him race out there into the cold level space of the stilled river, free and warm and vivacious in that smoothed and frozen silence.
I think he's done it, I think he's across the river and safe and there's a buzzy glow of vicarious accomplishment starting to well up within me, but then there's a cracking noise and he falls; I think he's tripped and fallen forward but he isn't lying flat on the snow, he's sunk up to his waist in it and there's a pool of darkness spreading on the whiteness around him as he struggles, trying to lever himself out and I can't believe this is happening, can't believe Andy isn't going to jump free; I'm yelling in fear now, shouting his name, screaming out to him.
