Iain Banks The Crow Road

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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.'
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'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.'
'Not against your vegetarian principles, is it?'
'No. India didn't change me that much.'
'Well, then; come fishing with me tomorrow. Pool on the Add with a monster
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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?'
'Positive.'
'Good man.'
'McCaig's Folly, eh?'
'Hmm? Oh; well yes . . . at least I think so. Got the idea from Charlotte,
actually.'
'What, your sister?'
'Mmm. The one that married that chap Walker, from Edinburgh.'
'Oh yeah; I remember.' Rory went over to the seat that held his jacket.
'Funny girl, Charlie; had this thing about . . . antiquity. Got Walker to
deflower her under this ancient fucking yew tree in Perthshire. So she told
me, anyway.'
'Uh-huh.' Rory rummaged in his jacket pockets.
'Fiona and I thought we'd try something like that, one time we were in Oban,
for some do. You know; put a bit of sparkle back in . . . You sure you don't
mind me talking about your sister like this?'
'Yeah.' Rory took his tobacco tin from the jacket. He held the tin up. 'As
long as you don't mind me having a little smoke?'
'Not at all, not at all. Bloody cold it was, in that damn folly. Had to sit on
a - Oh,'Fergus said, suddenly realising. 'You mean the old wacky baccy.'
Rory smiled, sat down. 'That's the stuff.'
'Not at all,' Fergus said, waving one hand. 'Go ahead.' He watched carefully [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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