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Authors: Iain Banks

The Wasp Factory (19 page)

BOOK: The Wasp Factory
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I locked up the Bunker and went back along the beach to the house, my head down again and even more thoughtful and troubled than I had been on the outward journey.
 
I spent the rest of the day in the house, reading books and magazines, watching television, and thinking all the time. I could not do anything about Eric from the inside, so I had to change the direction of my attack. My personal mythology, with the Factory behind it, was flexible enough to accept the failure it had just suffered and use such a defeat as a pointer to the real solution. My advance troops had had their fingers burned, but I still had all my other resources. I would prevail, but not through the direct application of my powers. At least, not through the direct application of any other power but imaginative intelligence, and that, ultimately, was the bedrock for everything else. If it could not meet the challenge that Eric represented, then I deserved to be destroyed.
My father was still painting, hauling his way up ladders to windows with the paint-tin and brush clenched between his teeth. I offered to help, but he insisted on doing it himself. I had used the ladders myself several times in the past when I was trying to find a way into my father’s study, but he had special locks on the windows, and even kept the blinds down and curtains drawn. I was glad to see the difficulty he had making his way up the ladder. He’d never make it up into the loft. It crossed my mind that it was just as well the house was the height it was, or he might just have been able to climb a ladder to the roof and be able to see through the skylights into the loft. But we were both safe, our respective citadels secure for the foreseeable future.
For once my father let me make the dinner, and I made a vegetable curry we would both find acceptable while watching an Open University programme on geology on the portable television, which I had taken through to the kitchen for the purpose. Once the business with Eric was over, I decided, I really must restart my campaign to persuade my father to get a VTR. It was too easy to miss good programmes on fine days.
After our meal my father went into town. This was unusual, but I didn’t ask why he was going. He looked tired after his day spent climbing and reaching, but he went up to his room, changed into his town clothes, and came limping back into the lounge to bid me farewell.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said. He looked round the lounge as though searching for some evidence I had started some heinous mischief already, before he had even left. I watched the TV and nodded without looking at him.
‘Right you are,’ I said.
‘I won’t be late. You don’t have to lock up.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll be all right, then?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I looked at him, crossed my arms and settled deeper into the old easy chair. He stepped back, so that both feet were in the hall and his body was canted into the lounge, only his hand on the door-knob stopping him from falling in. He nodded again, the cap on his head dipping once.
‘Right. I’ll see you later. See you behave yourself.’
I smiled and looked back to the screen. ‘Yes, Dad. See you.’
‘Hnnh,’ he said, and with one last look round the lounge, as if still checking for vanished silver, he closed the door and I heard him clicking down the hall and out the front door. I watched him go up the path, sat for a while, then went up and tested the door to the study, which, as usual, as always, was so firm it might as well have been part of the wall.
I had fallen asleep. The light outside was waning, some awful American crime series was on the television, and my head was sore. I blinked through gummed eyes, yawned to unstick my lips and get some air into my stale-tasting mouth. I yawned and stretched, then froze; I could hear the telephone.
I leaped out of the seat, stumbled, almost fell, then got to the door, the hall, the stairs and finally the phone as quickly as I could. I lifted the receiver with my right hand, which hurt. I pressed the phone to my ear.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Hi, Frankie lad, how’s it goin’?’ said Jamie. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I sighed.
‘Ah, Jamie. OK. How are you?’
‘Off work. Dropped a plank on my foot this morning and it’s all swollen.’
‘Nothing too serious, though?’
‘Naw. I’ll get the rest of the week off if I’m lucky. I’m goin’ to see the doctor tomorrow for a sick line. Just thought I’d let you know I’ll be at home during the day. You can bring me grapes sometime if you want.’
‘OK. I’ll come round maybe tomorrow. I’ll give you a call first to let you know.’
‘Great. Any more word from you-know-who?’
‘Nup. I thought that might have been him when you called.’
‘Aye, I thought you might think that. Don’t worry about it. I haven’t heard of anything strange happening in the town, so he probably isn’t here yet.’
‘Yeah, but I want to see him again. I just don’t want him to start doing all the daft things he did before. I know he’ll have to go back, even if he doesn’t, but I’d like to see him. I want both things, know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, yeah. It’ll be OK. I think it’ll all be all right in the end. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Good. Well, I’m off to buy a few pints of anaesthetic down the Arms. Fancy comin’ along?’
‘No, thanks. I’m pretty tired. I was up early this morning. I might see you tomorrow.’
‘Great. Well, take care an’ that. See you, Frank.’
‘Right, Jamie, ’bye.’
‘Bye,’ said Jamie. I hung up and went downstairs to turn the television over to something more sensible, but got no farther than the bottom step when the phone went again. I went back up. Just as I did so, a tingle went through me that it might be Eric, but no pips sounded. I grinned and said: ‘Yeah? What did you forget?’
‘
Forget?
I didn’t forget
anything
! I remember everything!
Everything!
’ screamed a familiar voice at the other end of the line.
I froze, then gulped, said: ‘Er—’
‘Why are you accusing me of forgetting things?
What
are you accusing me of forgetting? What? I
haven’t
forgotten
anything
!’ Eric gasped and spluttered.
‘Eric, I’m sorry! I thought you were somebody else!’
‘I’m
me
!’ he yelled. ‘I’m not anybody else! I’m me!
Me!
’
‘I thought you were Jamie!’ I wailed, closing my eyes.
‘
That
dwarf? You bastard!’
‘I’m sorry, I—’ Then I broke off and thought. ‘What do you mean, “that dwarf”, in that tone? He’s my friend. It isn’t his fault he’s small,’ I told him.
‘Oh, yeah?’ came the reply. ‘How do
you
know?’
‘What do you mean how do I know? It wasn’t his fault he was born like that!’ I said, getting quite angry.
‘You only have his word for that.’
‘I only have his word for
what
?’ I said.
‘That he’s a dwarf!’ Eric spat.
‘What?’ I shouted, scarcely able to believe my ears. ‘I can
see
he’s a dwarf, you idiot!’
‘That’s what he
wants
you to think! Maybe he’s really an
alien
! Maybe the rest of them are even smaller than
he
is! How do you know he isn’t really a giant alien from a very small race of aliens? Eh?’
‘Don’t be
stupid
!’ I screamed into the phone, gripping it sorely with my burned hand.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Eric shouted.
‘Don’t worry!’ I shouted back.
‘Anyway,’ Eric said in a suddenly calm voice, so that for a second or two I thought somebody else had come on the line, and I was left somewhat nonplussed as he went on in level, ordinary speech: ‘How are you?’
‘Eh?’ I said, confused. ‘Ah . . . fine. Fine. How are you?’
‘Oh, not too bad. Nearly there.’
‘What? Here?’
‘No. There. Christ, it can’t be a bad line over this distance, can it?’
‘What distance? Eh? Can it? I don’t know.’ I put my other hand to my forehead, getting the feeling that I was losing the thread of the conversation entirely.
‘I’m nearly
there
,’ Eric explained tiredly, with a calm sigh. ‘Not nearly
here
. I’m already here. How else could I be calling you from here?’
‘But where’s “here”?’ I said.
‘You mean you don’t know where you
are
again?’ Eric exclaimed incredulously. I closed my eyes again and moaned. He went on, ‘And you accuse
me
of forgetting things. Ha!’
‘Look, you bloody madman!’ I screamed into the green plastic as I gripped it hard and sent spears of pain up my right arm and felt my face contort. ‘I’m getting fed up with you calling me up here and being deliberately awkward!
Stop playing games!
’ I gasped for breath. ‘You know damn well what I mean when I ask where “here” is! I mean where the hell are you! I
know
where I am and you know where I am. Just stop trying to mess me about,
OK
?’
‘H’m. Sure, Frank,’ Eric said, sounding uninterested. ‘Sorry if I was rubbing you up the wrong way.’
‘Well—’ I started to shout again, then controlled myself and quieted down, breathing hard. ‘Well . . . just . . . just don’t do that to me. I was only asking where you are.’
‘Yeah, that’s OK, Frank; I understand,’ Eric said evenly. ‘But I can’t actually tell you where I am or somebody might overhear. Surely you can see that, can’t you?’
‘All right. All right,’ I said. ‘But you’re not in a call-box, are you?’
‘Well, of course I’m not in a call-box,’ he said with a bit of an edge in his voice again; then I heard him control his tone. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m in somebody’s house. Well, a cottage actually.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Who? Whose?’
‘
I
don’t know,’ he replied, and I could almost hear him shrug. ‘I suppose I could find out if you’re really that interested. Are you really that interested?’
‘What? No. Yes. I mean, no. What does it matter? But where - I mean how - I mean who do you—?’
‘Look, Frank,’ Eric said tiredly, ‘it’s just somebody’s little holiday cottage or weekend retreat or something, right? I don’t know whose it is; but, as you so perceptively put it, it doesn’t matter, all right?’
‘You mean you’ve
broken in
to somebody’s
home
?’ I said.
‘Yeah; so what? I didn’t even have to break in, in fact. I found the key to the back door in the guttering. What’s wrong? It’s a very nice little place.’
‘Aren’t you frightened of getting caught?’
‘Not much. I’m sitting here in the front room looking down the drive and I can see way down the road. No problem. I’ve got food and there’s a bath and there’s a phone and there’s a freezer - Christ, you could fit an Alsatian in there - and a bed and everything. Luxury.’
‘An
Alsatian
!’ I screeched.
‘Well, yes, if I had one. I don’t, but if I did I could have kept
that
in there. As it is—’
‘Don’t,’ I interrupted, closing my eyes yet again and holding up my hand as though he was there in the house with me. ‘
Don’t
tell me.’
‘OK. Well, I just thought I’d ring you and tell you I’m all right, and see how you are.’
‘I’m fine. Are you sure you’re OK, too?’
‘Yeah; never felt better. Feeling great. I think it’s my diet; all—’
‘Listen!’ I broke in desperately, feeling my eyes widen as I thought of what I wanted to ask him. ‘You didn’t
feel
anything this morning, did you? About dawn? Anything? I mean, anything at all? Nothing inside you - ah - you didn’t feel anything? Did you feel anything?’
‘What
are
you gibbering about?’ Eric said, slightly angrily.
‘Did you feel anything this morning, very early?’
‘What on earth do you mean - “feel anything”?’
‘I mean did you
experience
anything; anything at all about dawn this morning?’
‘Well,’ Eric said in measured tones, and slowly, ‘Funny you should say that . . .’
‘Yes? Yes?’ I said excitedly, pressing the receiver so close to my mouth that my teeth clattered off the mouthpiece.
‘Not a damn thing. This morning was one of the few I can honestly say I experienced not a thing,’ Eric informed me urbanely. ‘I was asleep.’
‘But you said you didn’t sleep!’ I said furiously.
‘Christ, Frank, nobody’s perfect.’ I could hear him start to laugh.
‘But—’ I started. I closed my mouth and gritted my teeth. Once more, I closed my eyes.
He said: ‘Anyway, Frank, old sport; to be quite honest, this is getting boring. I might call you again but, either way, I’ll see you soon. Ta ta.’
BOOK: The Wasp Factory
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