Whit

by Iain Banks

  I glared at him; he was a small, grey man with thick glasses. 'It is beink vun off your pounds,' I told him, in a foreign-sounding accent.

  'Not one of ours, mate.'

  'I think it is.'

  'Na, this is toy town money this is.'

  'It is note of the realm, I think.'

  'You what?' He held it up to the light. 'Na, look; it's Scottish, innit? This here's some old Scottish one-spot. Where'd you get that, then? You been savin' them or sumfink? Na, mate,' he said, handing the note back to me. 'Come on; I 'aven't got all day; where'd you say you was going?'

  'Enfield, plis.'

  'Enfield?' he exclaimed, laughing. 'Blimey, you are in a state, aren't you? You're goin' in the wrong direction, chum… Oh, sorry, miss, is it? Sorry; couldn't see for the 'at. Should have known you was a girl from you wearing an 'at inside, shouldn't I? Anyway, like I say - you're going in the wrong direction, love.'

  'Excuse, plis?' I said, looking confused.

  'YOU ARE GOING-GIH IN THE WRONG-GIH DOI-RECT-SHUN,' he said loudly. 'You want to get off at the next stop and - look; here we go. You get up… come with me; get up; yes; you… that's it.' I stood up and let the man usher me downstairs to the platform as the bus slowed. 'We'll put you off 'ere… See that stop over there? Na, na; other side of the street, love. Yeah. That's the stop for the bus to Enfield, right? You catch bus there; it go Enfield, yeah? There you go, then. Mind out. Bye now!' He rang the bell and disappeared back upstairs, shaking his head as the bus moved off.

  I stayed where I was, grinning, and waited for the next bus.

  * * *

  Over the next two hours I moved a shorter distance than I could had I walked. On two occasions, even though it was a couple of minutes before the conductor came to take my money, I still got off nearer to the stop I'd got on than to the next one down the route, due to the abominably clotted traffic. Eventually I got onto a bus and met the same conductor I'd encountered originally.

  'Bleedin' 'ell, darlin'; you still lost?'

  I looked at him blankly, desperately trying to think what to say. Finally I managed, 'This is Enfield, plis?'

  He took me across the road himself and left me at the bus stop.

  I admitted defeat and walked south to the Grand Union Canal. I hiked along the towpath to Maida Vale, then headed north-west to the house where my half-brother Zeb lived, on Brondesbury Road.

  The basement and the ground storey of the three-storey end-of-terrace house were boarded up and I had to go round the back and pull corrugated iron sheeting aside to gain entry to the rear garden. I banged on the back door. Eventually a voice rang out above.

  'Yeah?'

  I stepped back and looked up at a female face. The sides of her head were shaved; long fair lengths of hair like skinny pigtails hung down from the back of her head. She appeared to have several rings piercing her nostrils. 'Good morning,' I said. 'I'm looking for Zebediah Whit. Is he here?'

  'Zeb? Dunno. Who're you?'

  'Isis.'

  'Isis?'

  'Yes.'

  'Nice name.'

  'Thank you. Most people call me Is. I'm a relation of Zebediah's. Tell him I'm here, if you can find him.'

  'Right. Hang on.'

  The door opened a minute later, and Brother Zebediah stood there, bare-footed, stuffing a crumpled shirt into tattered jeans.

  'Wow. Is. Jeez. Shit. Brilliant. Wow.' Zeb is two years older than me; he was even skinnier than I recalled, and his black hair both longer and much more tangled. His face looked spottier, where it was visible between little tufts of black facial hair that probably signalled he was trying to grow a beard.

  I made the Sign and held out my hand to him. Zeb looked confusedly at it for a moment, then said, 'Oh. Wow. Yeah. Sorry. 'Course. Like. Yeah,' and took my hand. He kissed it and went down on one knee. 'Yeah. Like. Wow. Beloved. Blessed? Beloved. Isis. Welcome. Cool. Yeah.'

  The girl I'd talked to first stood in the hallway behind. She stared open-mouthed at my half-brother, then at me.

  'Brother Zebediah,' I said. 'I am pleased to see you. Please - arise.'

  He did so, grinning broadly. He attempted to comb his fingers through his extravagantly untidy locks, but didn't get terribly far. I handed him my kit-bag. He took it, and - following my gaze - turned to the girl with the half-shaved, half-pigtailed hair. 'Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Ah. Beloved Is: Roadkill. Roadkill: the Beloved Is. Yeah.' He nodded with his whole body and grinned, then made the Sign, and bowed, ushering me forward.

  I entered the house, taking off my hat and handing it to Zeb. The girl was still staring at me. I nodded gravely at her. 'Charmed,' I said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brother Zebediah had not received the letter informing him of my imminent arrival; the squat - for such the house he lived in was - had at best an erratic postal service which seemingly depended largely on the sympathy or otherwise of the post-person on whose round it was. The household did not possess a telephone, so the letter had been our only means of communication. Accordingly, no preparations had been made for my arrival. Zebediah did the best he could however, considering. He was all set to give me his room which he shared with Roadkill, his girlfriend, while they decanted to the loft, but on viewing the room and the state of the plaster on the walls, I suggested that the loft might be more suitable for me, as I could rig my hammock safely between two of the roof trusses. Roadkill looked relieved at this.

  The loft was haphazardly floored with old doors and random bits of wood; I had Zeb rearrange these and take away the single electric light bulb which hung from the roof; I would use a candle for light. (In fact I had been hoping that the squat might be entirely free of electricity, and I had been disappointed to find that it was not.) In addition, Zeb generously donated a rug and a small table from his room to make the place look more welcoming.

  I stuck my head out of the skylight to check which direction was nor-nor-west, then instructed Zeb - who had found a hammer and two six-inch nails - where to rig my hammock. With it in place, we repaired to the kitchen, where Zeb lit the stubs of some scented Order candles and ceremonially washed my feet in a small plastic basin while Roadkill prepared food in the form of some type of pastie or samosa; I handed her some blessed tea and a tiny amount of lard. She looked at the two little twists of greaseproof paper oddly, then looked inside, sniffing.

  'This smells like tea,' she said. She had a pleasant accent I was unable to locate anywhere more exactly than south-east England.

  'It is,' I told her.

  'Eeurgh; this one smells of animal.'

  'That is lard,' I said, and looked severely at Zeb, who was cleaning between two of my toes with his little finger. He looked guilty, as well he might; it was obvious that Brother Zeb had not been performing certain of our dietary rituals.

  'What, like from pigs?' Roadkill asked.

  'That is correct,' I told her.

  'Can't handle that, man,' Roadkill said, taking the tiny package in two fingers and dropping it on the Formica-topped table near me.

  'Roadkill's a veggie,' Zeb said apologetically.

  'That is quite all right,' I said, and smiled at the lass. 'I understand. As you no doubt know, our own Faith forbids eating some meat too, in the form of that from anything with two legs, like birds for example.' I saw Roadkill and Zebediah exchange an odd look at this point, and surmised that Zeb had been corrupted by the city to the point where he had eaten fowl. My mission down here might have to include bringing Brother Zebediah back onto the straight and narrow too, I suspected (if there was time). Appearing not to notice their guilty glance, I went on, 'If you'd just put a little of the tea into whatever you are making for me, I'd be most grateful.'

  'What, tea leafs, in the patties?' she asked.

  'Just the merest sprinkle,' I told her. 'As if it were salt or pepper. It's not for taste; it has symbolic value only.'

  'Right,' she said. 'Symbolic value. Sure.' She turned away, shaking her head.

  I retrieved the littl
e twist of lard and pocketed it; I would anoint the food with it myself just before eating.

  There was a bang from the hallway, footsteps, and a large young white man with very short hair and wearing a grubby anorak with colourful badges on it entered the kitchen. He stopped and looked down at Zeb, who was still washing my feet. I smiled up at him.

  'Chroist,' he said in an Irish accent, and grinned.

  'Close,' Zeb said, sighing.

  * * *

  'You've got a step-sister called what?'

  'Hagar,' I confirmed, nodding.

  'But that's a guy's name, innit, Zeb?'

  Zeb looked vague, and shrugged.

  'Yeah,' Roadkill said. 'Like that strip in the Sun.'

  For a moment I wondered what possible relevance removing one's clothes in daylight had before I recalled there was a popular newspaper called the Sun. 'Well, as I understand it,' I said, 'Hagar is a biblical name, a Hebrew name; that of Abraham's wife's maid; her slave.'

  'Cool.'

  It was early evening and we were walking back from an off-licence on Kilburn High Road, through the roar and stench of the rush-hour traffic; I had volunteered to help Zeb and Roadkill fetch some celebratory alcohol for the squat's evening meal; I rang my 2-9-4 code back to the Woodbeans' house from a nearby call-box while they were actually buying the drink. This turned out to come in the shape of garishly labelled plastic bottles full of something called Litening Stryke, a form of cider.

  I thought some more. 'And I have a step-brother called Hymen.'

  'Hymen?' Roadkill said. 'Like in virginity; like in maidenhead?'

  'That's right.'

  'A step-brother?'

  'Yes.'

  'Weird. Does he really use that name?'

  'Regrettably, no; Brother Hymen is an apostate, and-'

  'A what?'

  'An apostate; one who has renounced his or her faith.'

  'Oh.'

  'I'm afraid so. Apparently he makes a living diving for golf balls in lakes on American golf courses, and goes under a new name now.'

  'Don't blame him; I mean, Hymen.'

  'It is a male name, you know,' I said. 'Hymen was a Greek deity; the son of Apollo.'

  'Wow,' Roadkill said admiringly. 'You know a lot about this holy stuff, don't you?'

  I smiled. 'Well, you might say it's my job.' (Zeb guffawed, then looked a little fearfully at me, but I just smiled.)

  'What exactly are you supposed to be?' Roadkill asked.

  'I am the Elect of God,' I told her. 'The third generation of our family born on the twenty-ninth of February.'

  'Wow.'

  'In my case, I was born on the twenty-ninth of February nineteen seventy-six. Officially, if you were to ask me what age I am, I would have to say that I am four and three-quarters.'

  'Shit.' Roadkill laughed.

  'Not four and three-quarter years of course; four and three-quarter quadquennia. I am nineteen years old.'

  'Hmm.' Roadkill looked thoughtful. 'So what sign does that make you?'

  'Astrologically? It is our belief that the Elect have no sign. It is one aspect of our holy separateness.'

  'Freaky.' She shook her head. 'Shit, you must have to have a hell of a birthday party if it only comes round every four years.'

  'We try to make it special,' I agreed.

  'Tell Roadkill about the Festival, Is,' Zeb suggested, putting together the first real sentence I'd heard him utter since I'd arrived.

  'You mean you haven't, Brother?' I asked.

  'He ain't told me nothin' about this sect of yours,' Roadkill said, hitting Zeb on the forearm with her free hand.

  'Well. Shit. You know. Complicated,' Zeb said, reverting. Actually I was glad he hadn't. While any festival is by its very nature not something one can really keep secret, Salvador did prefer us not to bruit the details of ours about too much, for the media-sensitive reasons I have already gone into. However, I judged that telling Roadkill was probably a reasonable course of action.

  'It happens at the end of May every year before a leap year,' I told her. 'We ask those wishing to participate to perform the act of love without contraception as frequently as possible around that date, to increase the chances of another Elect being born.'

  'Fuck,' Roadkill said after a moment's thought. 'An orgy?'

  'Well, that's a pejorative term, isn't it?' I said. 'No; that implies exclusively group sex, I believe, whereas the Festival is concerned to promote all forms of potentially procreative activity. Really, it's just a huge celebration; the public side of it wouldn't embarrass the most prudish soul. What goes on behind closed doors afterwards is up to the individuals concerned.'

  'Oh yeah?' Roadkill said.

  'Well then, why not come and visit us?' I suggested. 'You and Zeb would be very welcome at any time, of course, but especially so if you came for the Festival,' I said to her.

  Roadkill glanced at Zeb, who frowned down at the pavement. 'I dunno,' she said. 'He hasn't said nothin' about it.'

  Zeb glanced at me and I frowned at him.

  'Well, you should come,' I told Roadkill. 'Not necessarily to take part in the procreative side of the Festival, but just because it's such an enjoyable time; we have music and dancing and feasts and the children stage little plays… It's a time of celebration, of rejoicing,' I told her. I laughed. 'There is absolutely no compulsion to engage in constant sex if you don't want to, believe me.'

  'Hmm; right,' Roadkill said, noncommittally.

  As I'd spoken the words, though, I'd wondered who I was trying to convince. As far as I was concerned there was indeed a degree, if not of compulsion then certainly of expectation that I would be taking a full part in this Festival, even if Morag did show up (I, recalled that remark of Grandfather's to the effect that I was looking 'healthy' and telling me I had a duty to enjoy myself, just a couple of days ago). The pressure I'd be under if my cousin didn't come to the Festival hardly bore thinking about. Great things - it seemed to me - might be expected of my ovaries.

  Roadkill had obviously been thinking along the same lines. 'So,' she said, smiling at me and flexing one pink-rinsed eyebrow. 'Were you under-age last time, or is this your big… you know; big occasion? This Festival.'

  I smiled as confidently as I could. 'Well, yes, it's possible that I might be expected to be one of the centres of attention, this time round.'

  'Wow,' Roadkill said. 'You got anybody lined up yet, as a father I mean?'

  I shrugged. 'I'm still thinking it over,' I said, which contained an amount of truth.

  'So do you have to get married first or anything?'

  'No. We regard marriage as optional to love and procreation; some people actually treat their partners better without that form of commitment, and some people are better as single parents, especially in our Community, where child care can be shared. But if I did want to marry, I could. In fact, I could marry myself,' I told Roadkill, who looked a little dubious at this. I explained. 'As an officer of the Luskentyrian Sect I'm empowered to officiate at all religious ceremonies including marriages, and there is a precedent for the officiating cleric himself - or herself - being one of the parties to the marriage.'

  'Freaky,' Roadkill said.

  'Hmm,' I said. 'Ah.' I nodded at the lane that led round to the back of the squat. 'Here we are.'

  * * *

  In February 1949 my Grandfather decided to marry Aasni and Zhobelia Asis; he had - not just with God's permission but indeed at Their insistence - bestowed upon himself the title Very Reverend, which meant that he could carry out religious ceremonies. The sisters agreed that their ménage à trois ought to be regularised, and a ceremony was duly held in the specially decorated hall of the old seaweed factory. The only witness was Eoin McIlone, the farmer who had given the sisters and later Grandfather shelter and succour. He and Salvador had taken to playing draughts several evenings a week in the spare room-cum-study at Luskentyre Farm, a couple of miles along the road from the seaweed factory. They argued incessantly each even
ing, and with increasing vehemence as they gradually drank more and more of Mr McIlone's whisky, but - partly because they both enjoyed arguing and partly because neither could ever remember what they had been arguing about when they woke up the following morning (Mr McIlone alone in his narrow bunk set into the wall of his old farm house, Grandfather in between the two Asis sisters in his bed on the floor of the old factory office) -they both entirely looked forward to their draughts games, whisky and arguments.

  Salvador and his two brides spent their wedding night in the seaweed factory as usual, but the sisters had redecorated a different room in the offices and moved the bed - two mattresses covered with bedding - through to their candle-lit marital suite. That night, a rat ran across the bed, terrifying the two sisters and rather spoiling the whole event, and the next day Salvador constructed a kind of huge, three-person hammock out of various lengths of rope, stout wooden battens and a large piece of sailcloth, all of which he'd found washed ashore over the previous few months while he'd been scouring the shores for the lost canvas grip.

  Slung from the iron roof-beams of the old factory office in their giant hammock, the sisters felt much safer, and when the factory and almost everything in it were burned a few months later by a crowd of indignant locals with flaming torches and Grandfather and his two wives moved into a barn at Mr McIlone's farm, the one thing the girls had rescued from the fire and bundled into the back of the van - apart of course from Great-aunt Zhobelia's special chest sent to her from Khalmakistan by her grandmother, and repository of the zhlonjiz - had been the giant hammock.

  Actually I strongly suspect, from hints dropped by Calli and Astar, who heard the original story from Aasni and Zhobelia, that it was a very small crowd of indignant locals, and I know that it was late one Friday night, and that drink had been taken, and the men concerned had probably heard some grotesque exaggeration of Grandfather and the sisters' marital arrangements, and they probably didn't mean to torch the factory, they were just looking for Salvador to give him a good hiding. He was, however, already hiding, having taken refuge in the sisters' van which was outside; they had concealed him beneath some bolts of reject tartan they'd picked up for a song from a fire-sale in Portree, but being drunk and clumsy one of the men fell and smashed his lantern and the fire started and the rest ran away while Grandfather cooried deeper under the bales of tartan and the sisters at first tried to put the fire out and then just saved what they could. But the way Grandfather tells it is better.