The Wasp Factory (24 page)
Authors: Iain Banks
‘Shit!’ I said. I could guess what had happened and I had hoped my father might have left the study unlocked. Eric must have called. Dad gets the call, is shocked, gets drunk. Probably heading for the town to get more drink. Gone to the off-licence, or - I glanced at my watch - was this the weekend the Rob Roy’s all-day licence started? I shook my head; it didn’t matter. Eric must have called. My father was drunk. He was probably going to town to get more drunk, or to see Diggs. Or maybe Eric had arranged a rendezvous. No, that wasn’t likely; surely he would contact me first.
I ran upstairs, went up into the close heat of the loft, opened the land-side skylight again and surveyed the approaches through the glasses. I came back down, locked the house and went back out, jogging to the bridge and up the path, making detours for all the tall dunes once more. Everything looked normal. I stopped at the place I had last seen my father, just on the crest of the hill leading down to the Jump. I scratched my crotch in exasperation, wondering what was the best thing to do. I didn’t feel right about leaving the island, but I had a suspicion that it was in or near the town that things might start happening. I thought of calling Jamie up, but he probably wasn’t in the best condition to go traipsing round Porteneil looking for Father or keeping his nostrils open for the smell of burning dog.
I sat down on the path and tried to think. What would Eric’s next move be? He might wait for night to approach (I was sure he would approach; he wouldn’t come all this way just to turn away at the last moment, would he?), or he might have risked enough already in telephoning and consider he had little left to lose by heading for the house right away. But of course he might as well have done that yesterday, so what was keeping him? He was planning something. Or maybe I had been too abrupt with him on the phone. Why had I hung up on him? Idiot! Perhaps he was going to give himself up, or turn tail! All because I had rejected him, his own brother!
I shook my head angrily and stood up. None of this was getting me anywhere. I had to assume that Eric was going to get in touch. That meant that I had to go back to the house, where either he would phone me or he would arrive sooner or later. Besides, it was the centre of my power and strength, and also the place I had the most need to protect. Thus resolved, heart lightened now that I had a definite plan - even if it was more a plan of inaction than anything else - I turned for the house and jogged back.
The house had grown still more stuffy while I had been away. I plonked myself down in a chair in the kitchen, then got up to wash the glass and dispose of the whisky-bottle. I had a long drink of orange juice, then filled a pitcher full of juice and ice, took a couple of apples, half a loaf of bread and some cheese and transported the lot up into the attic. I got the chair which normally sits in the Factory and propped it up on a platform of ancient encyclopedias, swung the skylight facing the mainland right back, and made a cushion from some old, faded curtains. I settled into my little throne and started watching through the binoculars. After a while I fished out the old bakelite-and-valves radio from the back of a box of toys and plugged it into the second light fixture with an adaptor. I turned on Radio Three, which was playing a Wagner opera; just the thing to put me in the mood, I thought. I went back to the skylight.
Holes had broken in the cloud-cover in a few places; they moved slowly, putting patches of land into a brassy, glaring sunlight. Sometimes the light shone on the house; I watched the shadow of my shed move slowly round as the late afternoon became early evening and the sun moved round above the frayed clouds. A slow pattern of reflecting windows glinted from the new housing estate in the trees, slightly above the old part of the town. Gradually one set of windows stopped reflecting, gradually others took their place, all punctuated by occasional stabs as windows were shut or opened, or cars moved in the council streets. I drank some of the juice, held ice cubes in my mouth, while the hot breath of the house wafted out around me. I kept the binoculars on their steady sweepings, scanning as far to the north and south as I could without falling out of the skylight. The opera ended, was replaced by some awful modern music for what sounded like Heretic-on-a-rack and Burning Dog, which I let play because it was stopping me from getting sleepy.
Just after half-past six, the phone rang. I leaped out of the chair, dived down the door out of the loft and skidded down the stairs, flicking the phone off the cradle and up to my mouth in one clean movement. I felt a buzz of excitement at how well co-ordinated I was today, and said, quite calmly: ‘Yes?’
‘Frang?’ my father’s voice said, slow and slurred. ‘Frang, iss ’at you?’
I let the contempt I felt creep into my voice: ‘Yes, Dad, it’s me. What is it?’
‘’M in the town, son,’ he said quietly, as though he was about to start crying. I heard him take a deep breath. ‘Frang, you know ’ve always loved you . . . ’m . . . ’m callin’ . . . callin’ from the town, son. Want you to come here, son, want you to come . . . come here. They’ve caught Eric, son.’
I froze. I stared at the wallpaper above the little table in the corner of the turn of the stairs where the phone sat. The wallpaper was a leafy pattern, green on white, with a sort of trellis-work peeping through the greenery in places. It was slightly squint. I hadn’t really noticed that wallpaper for years, certainly not in all the years I had been answering the phone. It was horrible. My father was a fool to have chosen it.
‘Frang?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Frank, son?’ he said, almost clearly, then relapsed: ‘Frang, ari therr? Say somin, son. ’S me. Say somin, son. Ah said they caugh’ Eric. Ji hear, son? Frang, istill therr?’
‘I—’ My dry mouth tripped me, and the sentence died. I cleared my throat carefully, began again. ‘I heard you, Dad. They’ve caught Eric. I heard. I’ll be right in. Where’ll I meet you, at the police station?’
‘Naw, naw, son. Naw, mee’ me ou’side the . . . ou’side the . . . lib’ary. Yeah, the lib’ary. Mee’ me therr.’
‘The
library
?’ I said. ‘Why there?’
library
?’ I said. ‘Why there?’
‘Righ’, see y’, son. Mon hurry up, eh?’ I heard him clatter the receiver for a few seconds, then the line went quiet. I put the phone down slowly, feeling a sharpness in my lungs, a steely sensation that went with the thudding of my heart and my lightened head.
I stood for a while, then went back up the stairs to the loft to close the skylight and turn the radio off. My legs were a little sore and tired, I realised; perhaps I had been overdoing things a bit recently.
The breaks in the cloud overhead were moving slowly inland as I walked back up the path towards the town. It was dark for half-seven, a summery gloom of soft light everywhere over the dry land. A few birds stirred themselves lethargically as I went past. Quite a few were perching on the wires of the telephone line snaking its way to the island on skinny poles. Sheep made their ugly, broken noises, little lambs bleated back. Birds sat on barbed-wire fences farther on, where the snagged tufts of dirty wool showed the sheep trails underneath. Despite all the water I had drunk during the day, my head was starting to ache dully again. I sighed and kept on walking, through the slowly diminishing dunes and past the rough fields and straggly pastureland.
I sat down, back against sand, just before I left the dunes entirely, and wiped my brow. I flicked a little sweat from my fingers, looked out over the static sheep and the perched birds. In the town I could hear bells, probably from the Catholic chapel. Or maybe the word had spread their bloody dogs were safe. I sneered, snorted through my nose in a sort of half-laugh, and looked over the grass and scrub and weed to the steeple of the Church of Scotland. I could almost see the library from here. I felt my feet complain, and knew that I shouldn’t have sat down. They’d be sore when I started walking again. I knew damn well that I was just delaying getting to the town, just as I had delayed leaving the house after my father had telephoned. I looked back at the birds, strung like notes along the same wires which had brought the news. They were avoiding one section, I noticed.
I frowned, looked closer, frowned again. I felt for my binoculars, but I touched my own chest; I had left them back at the house. I got up and started walking across the rough ground, away from the path, then I jogged; then I ran, finally sprinting across the weeds and rushes, vaulting a fence on to the pasture where the sheep rose and scattered, cackling plaintively.
I was breathless by the time I got to the telephone line.
And it was down. The freshly cut wire hung against the wood of the land-side pole. I looked up, made sure I wasn’t seeing things. A few of the birds nearby had flown off, and they circled, calling in their dark voices through the almost still air over the parched grass. I ran down to the island-side pole on the other side of the break. An ear, covered in short white and black fur, and still bleeding, was nailed to the wood. I touched it and I smiled. I looked round wildly, then calmed myself again. I set my face to the town where the steeple pointed like a finger, accusatory.
‘You lying bastard,’ I breathed, then took off for the island again, gathering pace as I went, hitting the path and letting rip, pounding down its beaten surface, careering down to the Jump and sailing over it. I shouted and whooped, then I shut up, and kept my precious breath for running.
I got back to the house, yet again, and raced up lathered in sweat to the loft, stopping briefly at the telephone to check it. Sure enough, it was quite dead. I ran on upstairs, back to the loft and the skylight, took a quick look round with the glasses, then got myself together, arming and checking. I settled back into the chair, switched the radio back on, and kept looking.
He was out there somewhere. Thank God for the birds. My stomach thrilled, sending a wave of gut-joy through me, making me shiver despite the heat. That lying old shit, trying to lure me away from the house just because
he
was too frightened to face Eric. My God, I had been stupid not to hear the sheer mendacity in his sodden voice. And he had the nerve to shout at me for drinking. At least I did it when I knew I could afford to, not when I knew I’d need all my faculties at their peak to deal with a crisis. The shit. Call himself a man!
he
was too frightened to face Eric. My God, I had been stupid not to hear the sheer mendacity in his sodden voice. And he had the nerve to shout at me for drinking. At least I did it when I knew I could afford to, not when I knew I’d need all my faculties at their peak to deal with a crisis. The shit. Call himself a man!
I had a few more drinks from the still cool jug of orange, ate an apple and some bread and cheese, went on scanning. The evening darkened quickly as the sun dipped and the cloud closed up. The thermals which had opened the holes over the land were dying, and the blanket hanging over the hills and the plain reasserted itself, grey and featureless. After a while I heard thunder again, and something in the air turned sharp and threatening. I was keyed up, and couldn’t help waiting for the phone to ring, though I knew that it wouldn’t. How long would it take for my father to realise I was late? Had he expected me to come by bike? Had he fallen down in a gutter somewhere, or was he already staggering at the head of some posse of townies heading for the island with burning torches to apprehend the Dog Killer?
No matter. I would see anybody coming, even in this light, and could go out to welcome my brother or escape the house to hide out on the island if the vigilantes appeared. I turned the radio off so I could hear any shouts from the mainland, and strained my eyes to search through the fading light. After a while I raced down to the kitchen and got a small packed meal together and stuffed it into a canvas bag in the loft. It was just in case I did have to leave the house and did meet Eric. He might be hungry. I settled into the seat, scanning the shadows over the darkening land. In the far distance, at the base of the hills, lights moved on the road, glittering in the dusk, flashing like irregular lighthouses through the trees, round corners, over hills. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, trying to get the weariness out of my system.
I thought ahead, added some painkillers to the bag I would take out of the house if I had to. This sort of weather might bring on Eric’s migraine, and he might need some relief. I hoped he didn’t have one.
I yawned, widened my eyes, ate another apple. The vague shadows under the clouds turned darker.
I woke up.
It was dark, I was still in the chair, arms crossed under my head, resting on the metal surround of the skylight. And something, a noise inside the house, had woken me. I sat for a second, feeling my heart race, feeling my back complain about the position it had been in for so long. Blood made its painful way into the parts of my arms the weight of my head had restricted the supply to. I spun round in the chair, quickly and quietly. The loft was black, but I didn’t sense anything. I touched a button on my watch, discovered it was after eleven. I had slept for hours. Idiot! Then I heard somebody moving about downstairs; indistinct footsteps, a door closing, other noises. Glass smashed. I felt the hair on the back of my neck go up; the second time in one week. I clenched my jaw, told myself to stop taking fright and
do something:
It might be Eric or it might be my father. I would go down and find out. To be safe, I would take my knife.
do something:
It might be Eric or it might be my father. I would go down and find out. To be safe, I would take my knife.
I got off the seat, went carefully to where the door was, feeling my way round the roughness of the chimney bricks. I stopped there, took the tail of my shirt out and let it hang over my cords, concealing the knife where it hung from my belt. I eased myself silently down into the dark landing. A light was on in the hall, right at the bottom, and it cast strange sets of shadows, yellow and dim, up over the landing walls. I went along to the banisters, looked over the rail. I couldn’t see anything. The noises had stopped. I sniffed the air.
Other books
About Last Night... by Stephanie Bond
The Legend of de Marco by Abby Green
El juez de Egipto 1 - La pirámide asesinada by Christian Jacq
Stolen Life by Rudy Wiebe
Heaven Sent Rain by Lauraine Snelling
Blood Born by Manning, Jamie
Grand Canary by A. J. Cronin
Faraday 02 Network Virus by Michael Hillier
Whitney by Jade Parker
Booked for Trouble by Eva Gates
