by Iain Banks
He didn't go looking for Sheila. He decided to go wandering. He would slip away. He had always liked slipping away from things. At parties he would just quietly leave when nobody was watching him, so that only much later would anybody wonder where he was. When he was out with a group of other kids, playing kick-the-can or soldiers, he would often sneak away, so that they would never find him, or think he had fallen down a hole or into a burn or a loch. It was a wonderful feeling, to disappear like that; it made him feel different and special. He gloried in the cunningness of it, the feeling of having outwitted the others, of knowing what they did not; that he was out and away and they were back there where he'd left them, ignorantly worrying where he was, searching; wondering.
He slunk out through the doors while they were clapping the band after finishing one of their noisy, interminable Highland dances.
It was cooler in the lobby. He drew himself upright and walked confidently through the bit of the lobby that gave onto the Cocktail Lounge, where ruddy-faced men stood panting and laughing, sleeves rolled up, ties loose, queuing for drinks or holding trays of them, laughing loudly in deep voices.
He went through another set of doors, down some steps, round a corner, and found the hotel's single small lift. He pulled both sets of gates open with an effort, entered, then closed them again. The lift was a little bigger than a phone box. He pressed the brass button for the top floor. The lift jerked into motion and set off, humming. The white-washed walls of the lift shaft moved smoothly downwards as the lift ascended. Stencilled letters painted inside the shaft said 1st Floor… 2nd Floor… God, he thought, Americans must think they're in the Stone Age when they come to stay in a place like this.
He felt ashamed.
The top floor was boring. He went from one end to the other of the U-shaped hotel, up and down steps that marked the boundaries of the three separate buildings that made up the Steam Packet Hotel. There were no windows; only skylights, each spattered with rain drops and lined with little rivulets of running water. He'd been hoping for windows, and a view over the bay or the town.
He trod the corridors again, looking for an unlocked door. Maybe the maids would have left some of the rooms open, if there was nobody staying in them just now. He tried a few handles. The only open door led to a broom cupboard.
Then at the next door he heard giggling. He looked at the number. It was room 48. 48 was a good number; not as good as 32 or 64, but better than, say, 49, and much better than 47 (though that was interesting too because it was a prime). The very best numbers were numbers like 20, 23, 30, 40, 57, 75, 105 and 155. Calibre numbers; gun numbers. Those were luckiest. But 48 was all right.
More giggling. He looked back down the corridor, then crouched and looked through the key-hole. It was a bit cliched, but what did people expect in a boring hotel like this in a boring town like this in a boring country like this? It was all you could do.
There was no key in the lock, so he could see in through the big old-fashioned key-hole. He saw a large dressing table sitting in a broad bay window. The dressing-table held a big, tippable mirror, and most of the rest of the room was visible in it. In the mirror Rory saw his sister Fiona, and then Fergus Urvill. They were making the big double bed.
Fiona still wore her peach-coloured bridesmaid's dress, very long and smooth-looking. There were flowers in her hair, which made her look quite good. Rory suspected she looked so good because she didn't live here any more; she lived in London, and Aunt Ilsa had got her a job working for a television company. Fiona sold time to people. That was how she put it. She sold advertising space. She sold time. Rory thought that sounded pretty interesting.
Fergus Urvill was on the other side of the bed, dressed in a kilt, shirt and waistcoat. Rory knew Fergus was aged with Kenneth, but somehow he always seemed older. Maybe it was because he had gone to a private high school. Rory didn't really know Fergus Urvill very well; although he did sometimes visit Lochgair, he spoke differently — posher — and seemed to spend a lot of his time shooting at birds and animals with other rich people.
Rory had always found Fergus Urvill to be a little frightening. Kenneth had told him the story, years ago, about when Fergus put Lachy Watt's eye out; he'd stuck a fossil bone in it, or something. Rory thought now that his brother must have exaggerated the story, made it more horrific than it really had been, and he certainly didn't believe that Lachy had run away to sea just so that he could wear an eye-patch and pretend he was a pirate. He had joined the merchant navy — Rory had asked dad about that — but he had an artificial eye, not a patch. Rory knew because he'd been with mum once when they'd met Lachy and a woman in the street in Lochgilphead. Rory had looked very hard but hadn't been able to decide which was the false eye.
His own eye smarted, exposed to the draft coming through the key-hole. He blinked, then used his other eye.
Fiona and Fergus were making the bed, but doing it in a funny sort of way; the bottom sheet had been doubled up half-way down the bed. They were both chuckling to themselves, and talking in quiet, urgent whispers. Fiona glanced off to one side a couple of times. Rory worked out she was looking at the door he was crouched behind.
They made the bed up, so that it looked ordinary. Rory got ready to run away down the corridor. But they didn't leave the room; instead, Fiona and Fergus, still breathless with giggles, still chattering excitedly away, started to turn the furniture in the room upside down. They left the bed, of course, but they turned a table, a chest of drawers, two bedside cabinets, two chairs and an easy chair upside down. They carefully replaced lights and vases and other bits and pieces as they went along. They stood before the dressing table for a while, looking at it and discussing it, apparently, but eventually just turned it round so that it faced the wrong way, rather than turn it upside down.
Fiona leant back against the rear of the dressing table, breathing hard, and waved one hand, wafting air over her face. Her cheeks were pink, and a couple of coils of copper hair had fallen from her hairdo, one on each side of her head. She pulled at her bodice, blew down, went "Whoo!" Rory couldn't see Fergus Urvill. Then he reappeared, stood by Fiona. He was holding a key and a couple of toilet rolls; he said something Rory didn't catch. "Oh no," Fiona said, touching Fergus's arm. Her face looked amused but concerned. "No, that's naughty…»
Fergus stood there for a moment. Rory couldn't see his face, but Fiona's looked glowing and bright. "I like being naughty," he heard Fergus say, and then he stepped forward and took Fiona in his arms, still holding the key and the toilet rolls.
What? thought Rory. This really was something. Sister Fiona and big Fergus Urvill? Stupid girl; probably only after her body.
Ferg!" Fiona said, breaking away. Her face looked surprised, cheeks even redder. She smiled broadly, held Fergus's elbows. "Well, this is… unexpected."
"I've always… " Fergus lowered his voice as he bent to kiss her again, face in her hair and then his mouth on hers. Rory missed the exact words.
Go on, thought Rory. Go on. Do it. Let me see!
Fergus's hands dropped the key and the toilet rolls, grabbed Fiona's bum. She pushed away from him. «Ferg…» she said, breathless, lip-stick smeared.
"Fiona," Fergus moaned, clutching her. "I want you! I need you!"
"Well," Fiona said, gulping. "That's very, ah… but not here, eh?"
Fergus pulled her close again. "Let me drive you home tonight."
"Umm, well, I think we were getting a taxi."
"Please; let me. Please. Fiona. You don't know… " Fergus stuck his nose into her hair again, made a sort of moaning noise. "Feel me." And he guided one of Fiona's hands to the front of his kilt.
Good God, thought Rory. He took another quick glance down the hall, then looked back through the key-hole.
Fiona took her hand away. "Hmm. Yes; actually I already could, Fergus."
"I need you!" He pulled her close again.
"Not here, Fergus."
"Fiona; please…»
"All ri
ght; all right, Fergus. I'll try. We'll see, okay?"
"Yes; yes, thank you!" Fergus gathered Fiona's hands in his.
"Right," she laughed. "Well, come on; let's get out of here before the happy couple arrive. Put those back in the loo." She pointed at the toilet rolls. Fergus retrieved them. She busied herself with her hair, restoring it. Fergus turned and disappeared from Rory's view. "And put some cold water on that," Fiona said, grinning. "Looks like your sporran's trying to levitate."
She came towards the door. Rory leapt back, staggered on legs that had gone half to sleep, and only just scrambled into the broom cupboard and got the door shut before the bedroom door opened. The broom cupboard key-hole didn't let him see anything. He heard muffled conversation but no footsteps.
He waited, breathless, heart hammering in the darkness, one hand in his trouser pocket, stroking himself.
* * *
"Do you know where the twins were conceived?"
"No idea," he said, and belched.
"Fucking McCaig's Folly, that's where."
"What, Oban?"
"The very place."
"Good grief."
"You don't mind me saying this, I mean talking about Fiona like this, do you?"
"No, no." He waved one hand. "Your wife; you talk about her. No, no, that's bad, that sounds bad. I'm all for women's lib."
"Might have bloody known. Might have bloody known you would be. Bloody typical, if you ask me. You're a Bolshie bastard, McHoan."
"And you are the unacceptable face of Capitalism, Ferg."
"Don't quote that fairy at me, you Bolshie bastard. And don't call me Ferg."
"Beg your pardon. Some more whisky?"
"Don't mind if I do."
Rory got up out of the creaking wooden seat and walked unsteadily over to where Fergus lay on the bare wooden floorboards, head against the ancient, burst couch. The fire crackled in the grate, its light competing with that of the little gas lamp. Rory unscrewed the top from the bottle of Bells carefully and topped up Fergus's little silver cup. Fergus had brought a leather case with him; it held three of the silver cups and a big hip flask. Rory had brought the bottle in his rucksack.
"There you go."
"Ta much. You're a decent fellow for a Bolshie bastard."
"One tries, old bean," Rory said. He walked carefully to his seat, picked his little cup up from the floor and went to the room's single window. It was black outside. There had been a moon when they'd first arrived, but the clouds had come while they were chopping wood, and the rain while they'd cooked dinner on the two little primus stoves.
He turned from the darkness. Fergus looked like he was almost asleep. He was dressed in plus fours, tweed waistcoat (the jacket, and his waxed Barbour were hanging behind the door of the bothy), thick socks, brogues, and a fawn country shirt with a button-down collar. God, he even had his tie on still. Rory wore cords, mountain-hiking boots and a plain M&S shirt. His nylon waterproofs were draped over a chair.
What an odd pair we make, he thought.
He had been back from his travels for a while, staying first in London then at Lochgair, while he tried to work out what to do with his life. He had the impression things were sliding past him somehow. He'd made a good start but now he was faltering, and the focus of attention was drifting slowly away from him.
He had returned to discover that — like his brother before him — Ken had given up being a teacher. Hamish had taken up the managerial place at the factory that everyone had expected would be Kenneth's, when Kenneth had decided to teach. Now Ken too was quitting the profession to try something else: writing children's stories. Rory had always thought of Hamish as a sort of ponderously eccentric fool, and Ken a kind of failure because he had so much wanted to travel, and instead had settled down with Mary, stayed in the same wee corner of the world as he'd been born and raised in, and not only raised his own children, but chosen to teach others', too. Rory had felt slightly sorry for his elder brother, then. Now he felt envious. Ken seemed happy; happy with his wife, with his children, and now with his work; not rich, but doing what he wanted to do.
And why hadn't Ken told him he was writing too? He might have been able to help him, but even if Ken had wanted to do it all without any assistance from his younger brother, he might at least have told him what he was doing. Instead Rory had found out only when Ken had had his first story published, and now it was as though they were passing each other travelling in opposite directions; Ken slowly but surely building up a reputation as a children's story-teller while his own supposed career as a professional recounter of traveller's tales sank gradually in the west. Books people forgot about and articles in Sunday supplements that were only one notch above the sort of shit tourist boards put out.
And so he'd left London, to come here, hoping to lick the closing wise wound of whatever talent it was he had.
He'd spent a lot of time just wandering in the hills. Sometimes Ken came too, or one of the boys if they were in the mood, but mostly he went by himself, trying to sort himself out. What it boiled down to was: there was here, where he had friends and family, or there was London where he had a few friends and a lot of contacts, and it felt like things were happening, and where you could fill time with something no matter how mixed up and fraudulent you felt… or there was abroad, of course; the rest of the world; India (to take the most extreme example he'd found so far), where you felt like an alien, lumbering and self-conscious, materially far more rich and spiritually far more poor than the people who thronged the place, where just by that intensity of touching, that very sweating crowdedness, you felt more apart, more consigned to a different, echoing place inside yourself.
One day, on a long walk, he'd almost literally bumped into Fergus Urvill, crouching in a hide up amongst the folds in the hills, waiting with telescope and.303 for a wounded Sika deer. Fergus had motioned him to sit down with him behind the hide, and to keep quiet. Rory had waited with the older man — silent for quarter of an hour apart from a whispered hello and a quick explanation of what was going on — until the herd of deer appeared, brown shapes on the brown hill. One animal was holding the rest back; limping heavily. Fergus waited until the herd was as close as it looked like it was going to come, then sighted on the limping beast, still two hundred yards away.
The sound of the shot left Rory's ears ringing. The Sika's head jerked; it dropped to its knees and keeled over. The rest raced off, bouncing across the heather.
He helped Fergus drag the small corpse down the slope to the track, where the Land Rover was parked, and accepted a lift back to the road.
"Hardly recognised you, Roderick," Fergus said, as he drove. "Not seen you since Fi and I got shackled. Must be at least that long."
"I've been away."
"Of course; your travels. I've got that India book of yours, you know."
"Ah." Rory watched the trees slide past the Land Rover's windows.
"Done any others?"
"There was one about the States and Mexico. Last year."
"Really?" Fergus looked over at him briefly. "I didn't hear about that,"
Rory smiled thinly. "No," he said.
Fergus made a grunting noise, changed gear as they bumped down the track towards the main road. "Ken said something about you living in a squat in London… or something ridiculous like that. That right?"
"Housing cooperative."
"Ah-ha." Fergus drove on for a while. "Always wanted to take a look at India myself, you know," he said suddenly. "Keep meaning to go; never quite get around to it, know what I mean?"
"Well, it isn't the sort of place you can just take a look at."
"No?"
"Not really."
The Land Rover came down to the main road between Lochgilphead and Lochgair. "Look, we've got a do on this evening, in the town — " Fergus glanced at his watch. " — bit late already, to tell the truth. But how about coming round tomorrow for… In fact, d'you fish?"
"Fish? Yeah, I used to."
"No. India didn't change me that much."
"Well, then; come fishing with me tomorrow. Pool on the Add with a monster trout in it; been after the swine for months. Plenty of smaller stuff too, though. Fancy it? Course, I'll never talk to you again if you catch the big feller, but might make a fun afternoon. What do you say?"
"Okay," he said.
So they became friends, after a fashion. Most of Rory's pals in London were in the International Marxist Group, but here he was wandering the hills with an upper class dingbat who just happened to be married to his sister and who lived for huntin', shootin" and fishin" (and seemed to spend the absolute minimum amount of time in his castle with his wife), and who had just last year rationalised half the work force in the glass factory out of a job. Still, they got on together, somehow, and Fergus was an undemanding companion; company of a sort, but not taxing; none of Ken's garrulousness, Lewis's moodiness or Prentice or James's ceaseless questioning. It was almost like walking the hills on your own.
And a couple of days ago Fergus had suggested they go for a longer hike, up into the trackless hills where the Landy couldn't reach. They would take collapsible rods, a couple of guns, and have to fish and shoot to eat. They could stay in the old lodge; it would save taking a tent.
So here they were, on the first floor of the old lodge, which was now used just as a bothy. The room they were in contained a single big dormer window, a fireplace, a couch, a table and two seats, and two bunkbeds. There were other rooms with more beds, but keeping to one room meant only lighting one fire; the autumn weather had turned chilly early.
No," Fergus said, looking up from where he lay, slumped against the couch. "But you don't mind me talking about Fiona like this, do you? I mean, your sister. My wife. You sure you don't mind, do you?"
