Once upon a time, long ago, there was a rich merchant who thought that the city where he lived was full of bad people, and especially bad children."
"Were they Slow Children?"
"Some of them were, as a matter of fact, but at the time they didn't have the signs to tell them so."
"Are the Slow Children only in Lochgair, dad?"
"No; there are Slow Children in various places; watch out for the road-signs. Now; back to the story. The rich merchant thought the children should always salute him and call him 'sir' when they passed him in the street. He hated beggars and old people who couldn't work any more. He hated untidiness and waste; he thought that babies who threw things from their cradles should be punished, and children who wouldn't eat their food should be starved until they ate what they had been given in the first place,"
"Dad, what if it had gone rotten?"
"Even if it had gone rotten."
"Aw, dad! Even if it had maggots and things in it and it was all horrible?"
"Yes; that would teach them, he thought."
"Awwrr! Yuk!"
"Well, the rich merchant was very powerful, and he came to control things in the city, and he made everybody do as he thought they ought to do; snowball-throwing was made illegal, and children had to eat up all their food. Leaves were forbidden to fall from the trees because they made a mess, and when the trees took no notice of this they had their leaves glued onto their branches… but that didn't work, so they were fined; every time they dropped leaves, they had twigs and then branches sawn off. And so eventually, of course, they had no twigs left, then no branches left, and in the end the trees were cut right down. The same happened with flowers and bushes too.
"Some people kept little trees in secret courtyards, and flowers in their houses, but they weren't supposed to, and if their neighbours reported them to the police the people would have their trees chopped down and the flowers taken away and they would be fined or put in prison, where they had to work very hard, rubbing out writing on bits of paper so they could be used again."
"Is this story pretend, dad?"
"Yes. It's not real; I made it up."
"Who makes up real things, dad?"
"Nobody and everybody; they make themselves up. The thing is that because the real stories just happen, they don't always tell you very much. Sometimes they do, but usually they're too… messy."
"So the rich merchant wouldn't like them?"
"That's right. In the city, nobody was allowed to tell stories. Nobody was allowed to hum, or whistle or listen to music, either, because the merchant thought that people should save their breath the way they saved their money.
"But people didn't like living the way the merchant wanted them to; most mums and dads wouldn't serve their children rotten food, and hated having to pretend that they did. People missed the trees and flowers… and having to walk around with one eye covered by an eye-patch."
"Why was that, dad? Why did they have —»
"Because the merchant thought it was a waste of light to have both eyes open; why not save the light the way you save money?"
"Were they like Mr Lachy, dad?"
"Well, not exactly, no; Lachlan Watt only has one eye; the other one looks like a real one but it's glass. The people in the city could change from one eye to the other on different days, but Lachlan —»
"Aye, dad, but they're like him sort of, aren't they?"
"Well, sort of."
"Why has Mr Lachy only got one eye, dad?"
"Uncle Fergus punched him! Eh, dad?"
"No, Prentice. Uncle Fergus didn't punch him. It was an accident. Fergus and Lachy were fighting and Fergus meant to hit Lachy but he didn't mean to put his eye out. Now; do you two want to hear this story or not?"
"Aye, dad."
"Aye, dad."
"Right. Well, the city wasn't a nice place to live because of all the silly laws the merchant had passed, and people started to leave it and go to other towns and other countries, and the merchant was spending so much time passing new laws and trying to make people obey the ones he'd already passed that his own business started to fail, and eventually the city was almost deserted, and the merchant found that he owed people much more money than he had in the bank, and even though he sold his house and everything he owned he was still broke; he was thrown out of his house and out of the city too, because he had become a beggar, and beggars weren't allowed in the city.
"So he wandered the countryside for a long time, starving and having to beg for food, and sleeping in barns and under trees, and eventually he found a little town where all the beggars and old people he'd had thrown out of the city had gone; they were very poor, of course, but by all helping each other they had more than the merchant had. He asked if he could stay with them, and eventually they agreed that he could, but only if he worked. So they gave him a special job."
"What, dad?"
"What was the job, dad?"
"He had to make brooms."
"Brooms?"
"Old fashioned brushes made from bundles of twigs tied to a wooden handle. You know up in the forest you sometimes see those things for beating out fires?"
"The big flappy things?"
"Yes; they're big bits of rubber — old tyres — attached to wooden handles, for beating out fires on the ground. Well, in the old days, those used to be made from twigs, and even longer ago people used to use brooms like that to sweep the streets and even to sweep their houses. Not all that long ago, either; I can remember seeing a man sweeping the paths in the park in Gallanach with a broom like that, when I was older than either of you are now."
"Ah, but dad, you're ancient!"
"Ha ha ha ha!"
"That's enough. Now listen; about these brooms, right?"
"What?"
"What, dad?"
The man who had been a rich merchant, and who was now a beggar, had to make brooms for the town. He had a little hut with a stone floor, and a supply of handles and twigs. But to teach the man a lesson they had given him a supply of twigs that were old and weak; poor twigs for making brooms with.
"So, by the time he had made one broom the floor of the hut was covered in bits of twigs, and he had to use the broom he'd just made to sweep the floor of his hut clean before he could start making the next broom. But by the time he'd cleaned the floor to his satisfaction, the broom had worn right away, right down to the handle. So he had to start on another one. And the same thing happened with that broom, too. And the next, and the next; the mess made making each broom had to be cleared up with that same broom, and wore it away. So at the end of the day there was a great big pile of twigs outside the hut, but not one broom left."
"That's silly!"
"That's a waste, sure it is, dad?"
"Both. But the people had done it to teach the man a lesson."
"What lesson, dad?"
"Ah-hah. You'll have to work that out for yourselves."
"Aw, dad!"
"Dad, I know!"
"What?" Kenneth asked Prentice.
"Not to be so damn silly!"
Kenneth laughed. He reached up and ruffled Prentice's hair in the semi-darkness; the boy's head was hanging out over the top bunk. "Well, maybe," he said.
"Dad," James said from the lower bunk. "What happened to the merchant?"
Kenneth sighed, scratched his bearded chin. "Well, some people say he died in the town, always trying to make a broom that would last; others say he just gave up and wasted away, others that he got somebody else to make the brooms and found somebody to provide better twigs, and got people to sell the brooms in other towns and cities, and hired more people to make more brooms, and built a broom-making factory, and made lots of money and had a splendid house made… And other people say he just lived quietly in the town after learning his lesson. That's a thing about stories, sometimes; they have different endings according to who you listen to, and some have sort of open endings, and some don't actually have proper endings yet."
"Aw, but dad…»
"But one thing's definite."
"What, dad?"
"It's light-out time."
"Aw…»
"Night-night."
"Night, dad."
"Yeah; night."
"Sleep tight."
"Don't let the bugs bite."
"Right. Now lie down properly; noddles on pillows."
He made sure they were both tucked in and went to the door. The night-light glowed softly on the top of the chest of drawers.
"Okay… Dad?"
"What?"
"Did the man not have any family, dad?" Prentice asked. "In the story: the merchant. Did he not have any family?"
"No," Kenneth said, holding the door open. "He did, once, but he threw them out of his house; he thought he wasted too much time telling his two youngest sons bed-time stories."
"Aww…»
"Aww…»
He smiled, padded back into the room, kissed the boys" foreheads. "But then he was a silly man, wasn't he?"
They left Margot to look after the children and set off in the car, heading for Gallanach. Kenneth smiled when he saw the hand-painted sign at the outskirts of the village that said, "Thank You."
"What are you grinning at?" Mary asked him. She was bending down in her seat, staring into the little mirror that hinged up from the glove-box flap, inspecting her lip-stick.
"Just that sign," he said. "The one that goes with the Slow Children sign at the other end of the village."
"Huh," Mary said. "Slow children, indeed. I hope you weren't telling my bairns horrible stories that'll keep them awake all night."
«Na» he said. The Volvo estate accelerated down the straight through the forest towards Port Ann. "Though maggoty meat and people with one eye did come into it at one point.
"Hmm," Mary said. She snapped the glove-box closed. "I heard Lachy Watt's back in the town; is that true?"
"Apparently." Kenneth rotated his shoulders as he drove, trying to ease the nagging pain in them that too much drink the night before always seemed to give him these days.
They had spent Hogmanay at home, welcoming the groups of people roaming the village as they came round. The last revellers had finally been seen off at nine in the morning; they and Margot had done some cleaning up before going to bed, though Ken had anyway had a couple of hours" sleep between three and five, when he'd fallen into a deep slumber on the wicker couch in the conservatory. The boys had gone out to play on the forestry tracks with their new bikes on what had proved a bright but cold day; Mary had got three hours" sleep before they came back, noisily demanding to be fed.
"Haven't seem him for… what? Ten years?" Mary said. "Has he been away at sea all that time?"
"Well, hardly," Ken said. "He was in Australia, wasn't he? Settled down there for a while. Had some sort of job in Sydney, I heard."
"What was he doing?"
"Don't know; you could ask him yourself. Supposed to be coming to Hamish and Tone's shindig tonight."
"Is he?" Mary said. The Volvo hissed along the dark road; a couple of cars went past, holes of white light in the night, scattering spray which the water jets and wipers of the Volvo swept away again. Mary took a perfume spray from her handbag, applied the scent to wrists and neck. "Fergus and Fiona are coming tonight, aren't they?"
"Should be," Ken nodded.
"Do you know if Lachy and Fergus still talk to each other?"
"No idea." He laughed. "Don't even know what they'd talk about; a member of the factory-owning Scottish gentry and a second mate — or whatever Lachy is these days — who's spent the last few years in Oz. What is there to say; aye-aye, captain of light industry?"
"Fergus isn't gentry, anyway," Mary said.
"Well, good as. Might not have a title, but he acts like he does sometimes. Got a castle; what more do you want?" Kenneth laughed lightly again. "Aye-aye. Ha ha."
The lights of Lochgilphead swung into view ahead, just as rain started to spot the windscreen. Kenneth put the wipers on. "Aye-aye!" he sniggered.
Mary shook her head.
"Going to the dogs, if you ask me."
"Fergus, people like you have been saying that since somebody invented the wheel. Things get better. They're always looking up."
"Yes, Kenneth, but you're basically Bolshie, so you would think so.
Kenneth grinned, took a drink of his whisky and water. "It's been a good year," he nodded. Fergus looked suitably disgusted, and threw back the remains of his own whisky and soda in one gulp.
They stood in the lounge of Hamish and Antonia's house, watching the others help themselves to the buffet Antonia had prepared. Neither of the two men had felt hungry.
"You might not be saying that when the refugees come back from Australia," Fergus said sourly. Kenneth glanced at him, then looked round for Lachlan Watt; he was sitting on a distant chair, a plate of food balanced on his knees, talking to Shona Watt, his sister-in-law.
Kenneth laughed as Fergus refilled his glass from one of the whisky bottles on the drinks trolley behind them. Fergus, you re not talking about the Domino Theory by any chance, are you?"
"Don't care what you call it, McHoan; not saying it'll be next, either, but you just watch."
"Fergus, for God's sake; not even that asshole Kissinger believes in the Domino Theory any more. The Vietnamese have finally got control of their own country after forty years of war; defeated the Japs, the French, us, and the most powerful nation in the history of the planet in succession, with bicycles, guns and guts, been bombed back into the bronze age in the process and all you can do is spout some tired nonsense about little yellow men infiltrating the steaming jungles of the Nullarbor Plain and turning the Aussies into Commies; I think a Highland League side winning the European Cup is marginally more likely."
"I'm not saying they won't pause to draw breath, Kenneth, but I can't help feeling the future looks black for those of us interested in freedom."
"Fergus, you're a Tory. When Tories say freedom they mean money; the freedom to send your child to a private school means the money to send your child to a private school. The freedom to invest in South Africa means the money to invest there so you can make even more. And don't tell me you're interested in freedom unless you support the freedom of blacks to come here from abroad, which I know you don't, so there." Kenneth clinked his glass against Fergus's. "Cheers. To the future."
"Huh," said Fergus. "The future. You know, I'm not saying your lot won't win, but I hope it doesn't happen in my lifetime. But things really are going to the dogs." Fergus sounded genuinely morose, Kenneth thought.
"Ah, you're just peeved your lot have elected a woman leader. Even that's good news… even if she is the milk snatcher."
"We got rid of an old woman and replaced him with a younger one," Fergus said, mouth turned down at the corners, staring over his whisky tumbler and across the room to where his wife was talking to Antoma. That's not progress."
"It is, Fergus. Even the Tories are subject to change. You should be proud."
Fergus looked at Kenneth, a wealth of sombre disdain in his slightly watery-eyed look. Kenneth gave him a big smile. Fergus turned away again. Kenneth looked at the other man's heavily jowled, prematurely aged face and shook his head. Chiang-Kai-Shek and Franco dead, Angola independent, Vietnam free at last… Kenneth thought it had been a great year. The whole tide of history seemed to be quickening as it moved remorselessly leftwards. He felt vaguely sorry for Fergus. His shower had had their reign, he thought, and grinned to himself.
It had been a good year for Kenneth personally, too. The BBC, bless its cotton socks, had taken some of the stories from his first collection; a whole week of Jackanory to himself, just six weeks before Christmas! At this rate he could start thinking about giving up teaching in a year or two.
"I wish I shared your enthusiasm for change." Fergus sighed, and drank deeply.
"Change is what it's all about, Ferg. Shuffling the genes; trying new ideas. Jeez, where would your damn factory be if you didn't try new processes?"
"Better off," Fergus said. He looked sourly at Kenneth. "We're just about making enough from traditional paperweights to keep the Specialist Division afloat. All this hi-tech stuff just loses us money."
"Well, it must be making money for somebody; maybe you weren't able to invest enough. Maybe the big boys'll take over. That's the way things go; capitalists all want to have a monopoly. Only natural. Don't get depressed about it."
"You won't be saying that if we have to close the factory and put everybody out of work."
"God, Ferg, it isn't that bad, is it?"
Fergus shrugged heavily. "Yes, it is. We've told them it might come to that; the shop-stewards, anyway. Another strike, or too big a pay rise, and we might go under."
"Hmm," Kenneth said, sipping at his whisky. He wondered how serious the other man was. Industrialists often made that sort of threat, but they rarely seemed to be carried out. Kenneth was a little surprised that Hamish hadn't said anything about the factory being in such dire straits, but then his brother did seem to put the church and the factory above family and friends.
"I don't know." Fergus shook his head. "If we weren't tied to this bit of the country, I'd almost think about chucking it all in and heading off somewhere different — Canada, or Australia, or South Africa."
It was Kenneth's turn to look sour. "Yes," he said. "Well, you'd probably get on fine in the RSA, Ferg. Though that's the one place I wouldn't recommend if you want to keep well away from the red tide."
"Hmm," Fergus nodded, still watching his wife, now talking to Shona Watt. "Yes, you may be right." He knocked back his drink, turned to the bottle-loaded table behind and poured himself another large whisky.
Antonia clapped her hands, singing out: "Come on, you boring lot; let's all play charades!"
Kenneth drained his glass, murmured. "God, I hate charades."
"Henriss… never liked him either; fat lipped beggar… queer, y'know; thass wha he's singing you know; d'you know that? 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy… disgussin… absluley disgussin…»
"Fergus, do shut up."
"'Scuse me, while I kiss this guy'… bloody poofter coon."
"I'm sorry about this, Lachy."
"That's okay, Mrs U. You no goin to put your seat belt on, no.
"No; not for short journeys —»
"Lachy? Lachy… Lachy! Lachy; I'm sorry about your eye really really sorry; never forgave myself, never… here, shake…»
Fergus tried to lever himself up from the rear bench seat of the old Rover, but failed. He got as far as lifting his head and getting one shoulder off the seat, but then collapsed back onto the leather, and let his eyes close.
The car rumbled about him… even more restful than the noise of train wheels in the old days; he tried to remember the old days…
"You sure you don't mind doing this, Lachy?" Fiona said, swinging the car off the main road and onto the drive that led to the castle. The headlights made a tunnel of the trees and rhododendrons. "Na, it's okay."
Lachlan Watt had been about to leave Hamish and Antonia's party when Fergus had fallen over and Fiona had decided it was time to take her husband home; she had offered Lachy a lift back to his brother's house, but when they'd got there Fergus had seemed fast asleep, snoring loudly and taking no apparent notice of Fiona shaking him and shouting at him; Lachy had volunteered to come back to the castle to help get Fergus out of the car and upstairs to bed; Fiona would run Lachy back afterwards.
"God that man's a nuisance," Fiona said, as they turned the corner in the drive and the lights of the castle came into view against the coal-dark night. "Like I say; I could have got the baby-sitter to help me with him, but she's just a skelf… not our regular girl. She's built like a rugby player, could probably put Ferg over her shoulder, but not this girl. Leanne's her name… that's her car there; doesn't look old enough to drive if you ask me…»
Fiona brought the Rover to a halt behind a beaten-up mini, standing on the gravel in front of the castle's main entrance. "This really is awful good of you, Lachy."
"Aye, it's no problem, Mrs U."
Fiona turned to him. She smiled. "Lachy; it's Fiona. You make me feel old when you call me Mrs U."
"Sorry; Fiona." Lachy grinned.
He had been a thin, light-framed boy, and he had grown to become a lean, wiry man; the years of life on merchant ships, and then in Australia, had left his skin looking well-used, like soft and fine-grained — but slightly distressed — leather. His hair was unfashionably short, and both eyes glittered. It was a spare, uncluttered, characterful face, especially compared to Fergus's.
"That's better." Fiona smiled. She turned and looked in disgust at the body in the back seat, just as Fergus started to snore again. "Well; better get this lump out of the car, I suppose."
Fergus had gone back into a deep sleep. They couldn't wake him. Fiona went in to tell the baby sitter she was free to go, while Lachy tried to rouse Fergus.
"Hoi you; Fergus. Ferg; wake up, man."
"Aarg… Henriss, bassard."
"Fergus; wake up, Fergus." Lachlan tried slapping the man's cheeks; his heavy jowls wobbled like jellies.
"Hhnn..:
'Wake up," Lachlan said, slapping Fergus's cheeks again, harder. "Wake up," he said quietly. "Ye upper class cunt ye." He fairly walloped Ferg on one chop.
Fergus awoke suddenly; arms waving about, eyes wild and bright, making no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Then he rolled off the seat into the footwell and immediately started snoring again.
"Any luck with the sleeping beauty?" Fiona said, coming down the steps alongside a slim, blonde-haired girl who was zipping up an anorak.
Lachlan turned round. "Na; he's sound."
"That'll be the day," muttered Fiona. She glanced in at Fergus, then turned to the girl. "Thanks, Leanne, dear; now drive carefully, won't you?"
"Aye, Mrs Urvill," the girl said, taking out some keys and heading for the mini. "Night-night."
"Bye now."
Fiona and Lachy took an end of Fergus each; Lachy held him under the shoulders, Fiona by the ankles. They struggled up the steps, through the entrance hall, rested in the main hall, then took him up to the first floor.
"In here," Fiona said, nodding.
Lachy supported Fergus's shoulders with one knee while he twisted the handle of a darkly-stained wooden door. It swung open to darkness.
"There's a light, aye?"
"Just there; down a bit."
The room was small and bright; there was a single bed, a dressing table and chair, and a wardrobe. There was a print of a hunting scene on one wall, opposite a small window.
"Guest room's good enough for him tonight," Fiona grunted as they swung him onto the bed and dropped him.
"Shooch!" Fiona said, collapsing onto the floor. Lachy sat down on the pillow at the head of the bed, breathing hard. Fiona wiped her brow. She got up shakily.
"That was hard work," she said. She pulled Fergus's shoes off and nodded to the door. "Come on; let's break into the old bugger's best malt before we run you back. You deserve it."
"Fair enough," Lachy said, smiling. "No takin his clothes off, no?"
"Ugh. Certainly not," Fiona said. She drew back a little against the door to let Lachy go past her into the hallway. "He's lucky we didn't leave him in the car." She turned out the light.
Fergus woke in utter darkness, wondering where he was; he felt as though he was falling backwards forever into darkness. For an instant he thought perhaps he was dead, consigned to perdition and gloom until the end of time, his only sensation that of falling back and back and back, head over heels forever. He heard himself moan, and felt with his hands: bedclothes. He was still wearing his own clothes, too. Here was his shirt on his wrist; there his trousers, sweater… shoes off. He flexed his feet, feeling his toes in his socks. His hands found the sides of the bed; it was a single, then.
It was still totally dark. He tried to remember where he'd been last.
The party; Hamish and Antonia McHoan's. Of course. He must still be there, as this wasn't his own bed. Put to bed. Bit bad, that; probably in the dog-house as far as the lady wife was concerned, too, but then what was new?
He put one hand out, feeling for a table; he found what felt like one, and then a long cold metal stem. Reaching up, he felt a switch.
The light clicked on and suddenly everything was white and horribly bright. He shielded his eyes. God, his head felt fuzzy, and sore. He needed a drink very badly; water would do.
He looked round the white-painted room, thinking that it looked somehow familiar. Perhaps he had slept here before. Or maybe he'd given the McHoans some bits and pieces of furniture.
He listened but couldn't hear anything. The door of the room looked familiar, too. Odd to find a door so comforting, somehow.
He got up, wobbled across to the door. He was quite cold. He opened the door; a dark hall. Funny; the place didn't smell like the McHoans" house did. It smelled of wood and a sort of quite pleasant mustiness. This place smelled of stone and polish. Bit like the castle.
He went out into the hallway, felt along the wall for a light switch; he found one, switched it on. Stairs led up; the wood-panelled hall led to another set of stairs going down. There were old paintings on the walls. He felt very dizzy, and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. He was home. This was the castle.
He got up, walked up the stairs. The door to the short flight of stairs that led to the two topmost floors was locked. He didn't understand. He searched his pockets but could find no key.
He pushed at the door again. He gathered a chestful of air to shout at Fiona — dozy bitch had locked him out of his own fucking castle, his own bedroom — but then thought of the children. Might wake the little beggars up. Didn't want that.
He went down through the lower hall to the kitchen, drank some water. His watch said it was two o'clock; so did the kitchen clock. There ought to have been keys hanging by the door to the utility room, but they weren't there. Bloody fishy. Had Fiona hidden them? Did she think he was dangerous, was that it?
Maybe she thought he would get up in some drunken stupor and ravish her. "Huh, that'll be right," he said to himself. His voice sounded rough in the quiet kitchen; he cleared his throat, coughed, and felt the dull pounding of his headache suddenly sharpen.
Damn it all. Perhaps he was being punished. Maybe she was punishing him for getting drunk. Had he done anything disgraceful? He couldn't remember, but he doubted it. He usually held his drink well, and behaved like a gentleman even when he did have one too many.
He looked at his reflection in the window over the sink. He pulled one splayed hand through his hair. Maybe he ought to have a shower or something. There was always the bathroom on the first floor…
He felt bloody annoyed, Fi locking him out of their apartments like that.
Then he remembered the observatory.
You could get up to it by the stairs to the roof. He'd been up there, in the roof space when the men had been installing the dome. For that matter, he'd seen that loft being put together, knew it almost as well as that self-opinionated young architect had. He'd crawled around in there, him and the builder, with a torch, discussing where the observatory could be built; what joists and supports would have to go, what extra bracing would be needed.
He chuckled to himself, put down the cup he'd been drinking the water from, wiped his lips.
He padded through the hall, up the four flights of stairs to the little landing where you either went straight ahead and out onto the battlements, or ducked through the wee door into the observatory.
It was bitterly cold inside the aluminium hemisphere. He wished he'd thought to put shoes on before he'd started on this piece of nonsense; feet felt like blocks of ice. Still.
He opened the door that gave into the extended cupboard under the roof. Dark. Damn; should have thought to bring a torch, too.
"Sloppy, Urvill, bloody sloppy," he breathed to himself.
He squeezed inside the little cupboard. Really must lose some weight. Well, festive period well and truly over now; time to go on a diet, or do a bit more exercise. He wriggled to the rear of the cupboard; felt for the wooden battens on the panel at the end of the dark space. The panel came away after a little while; he put it on the floor in front of him, and wriggled through on his elbows and knees into the darkness beyond.
"Getting too old for this sort of thing," he told himself. It was very nearly totally dark in the roof space; only a little light came from behind him, through the cupboard from the dome of the observatory. He felt his way across the joists in front of him, got his legs free from the cupboard and was able to get up into a crouch, balancing on a joist, hands just above his head, holding on to rough, undressed wood.
He swung one foot out, to the next joist, then put out one hand and felt for the next rafter; he transferred his weight carefully. There; did it. He was aware of the lath and plaster clinging to the bottom of the joists; put a foot through that and you'd be right through the ceiling below; chap could fall slap into the bath from here, probably; or into the twins" room, maybe; perish the thought; daddy coming crashing through the ceiling, give the little perishers nightmares for the rest of their lives.
He swivelled from joist to joist, rafter to rafter, feeling horribly like a monkey and getting very cold feet in the process even though he was breaking out in a sweat at the same time. His knees and his neck were making ghastly creaking noises and protesting like hell.
He looked back at the light coming from the observatory cupboard, now a good twenty feet away, and thought about going back; this whole prank was becoming a bit much, really. But he'd started, so he'd finish.
He saw the faintest of glows ahead, from between two of the joists. He smiled. "That's the ticket," he breathed to himself. With the next joist it came closer; then he could see one edge of the little hatch; then he was over it. A soft light gave away the outline of the door. He heard voices. God, the silly woman had probably left the radio on.
He got down on his knees again, feet supported on the joist behind; his knees gave sharp twinges of pain, taking almost all his weight.
He felt for the edges of the square door, found them and lifted it gently. What a locked-room mystery this would present the old girl with, if he could get in without her hearing him, and get undressed and slide in beside her! She'd never be able to work it out. Of course, he thought, as he levered the hatch door open slowly, letting more soft light spill out from underneath, he'd have to cover his tracks in the morning; damn silly to have left the cupboard back there open, and the light on in the dome. But never mind. Fi hardly ever went up there anyway.
He'd lifted the near edge of the door up about three inches above the top of the joist in front of him. He held it there, lowered his head, peeped into the room, smiling, wondering if he could see Fi from this angle. Voices. Warm air and voices.
"Oh… God, God, God, God; yes, yes, yes, yes…»
It took him a moment to work out what was going on.
But then he realised.
That was Fiona, in the bed, on the bed, covers half off, the only light in the room coming from a little candle by the bedside, her hair spilled on the pillow (the other pillow was on the floor)… and that was Lachlan Watt, wrapped round her, body bucking like some horse, his hands at her neck, at one breast, in her hair, cupping her neck; the covers sliding off, Fiona putting her arms wide, clutching at the bottom sheet of the bed at one side, clutching the edge of the bedside table with the other. Her head beat from side to side and she said, "Yes, yes, yes, yes," again, then Lachlan — wiry, athletic-looking, skinny shanks ramming back and forth like some skinny bull — reached under her, pulled her up, his legs spreading, kneeling; she hung onto him, arms round his neck, then after a few vertical stabs he threw her down, back onto the bed; she grunted, arms still tight round his back, then she brought her legs up, right up over his thin, plunging, globe-buttocked behind, until her ankles were in the small of his back, rocking to and fro, feet crossed one over the other, locked there; with one splayed hand she held onto his back, pressing him to her, and with the other hand she felt down the length of his body, over ribs and waist and hips, and with another grunt reached round and under, taking his balls in her hand, pressing them and kneading them and squeezing them.
"Aw Christ!" he heard Lachlan Watt say, body arching. Fiona shuddered, her voice almost a squeal as she took a series of sudden, deep in-rushing breaths, and buried her head in the hollow between Lachlan Watt's shoulder and neck.
Fergus let the little door down without making a noise.
He felt very cold, and he had pissed himself. The urine was warm around his balls and tepid down his leg, but it was cold at his knees. He knelt there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the subsiding passion in the room below, then swivelled silently and with even greater care than before, and feeling far more sober, moved back towards the thin, escaping light at the far end of the chill, cramped roof space.