The Crow Road

Table of Contents

 

 

Praise for
The Crow Road:

῾Brilliantly done’
Daily Mail

 
῾Tight with detail and close observation and creates a strong sense of a particular period of growing up’
Independent

 
Banks has woven a warm and funny story, rich with characters and adventures ... an utterly enchanting piece of fiction’ New Woman

 
῾Magnificent... a poignant, very funny study of life growing up in Banks’s native Scotland. At times as wonderfully light and colourful as its setting on the west coast of Scotland, and as darkly comic as
The Wasp Factory ...’ For Him

 
῾This substantial novel indicates a restless author very firmly in the driver’s seat, back on what appears to be a Scottish route with intriguing potential destinations’
The Scotsman

 
῾What makes Banks a significant novelist is the love and effort that go into his works, and his acute sense of the ways in which people can suffer ... this is Banks’s finest novel yet’
Independent on Sunday

 
῾Prentice is a most engaging narrator, self-deprecating, funny and hopelessly self-deceiving’
Daily Telegraph

Iain Banks sprang to widespread and controversial public notice with the publication of his first novel,
The Wasp Factory
, in 1984. Since then he has gained enormous and popular critical acclaim with further works of both fiction and science fiction, all of which are available in either Abacus or Orbit paperbacks. In 1993 he was acknowledged as one of the Best of Young British Writers. In 1996 his number one bestseller,
The Crow Road
was adapted for television.
The Times
has acclaimed Iain Banks ‘the most imaginative British novelist of his generation’.

Iain Banks lives in Fife, Scotland.

 
THE WASP FACTORY
 
WALKING ON GLASS
 
THE BRIDGE
 
ESPEDAIR STREET
 
CANAL DREAMS
 
THE CROW ROAD
 
COMPLICITY
 
WHIT
 
A SONG OF STONE
 
THE BUSINESS
 
DEAD AIR
 
THE STEEP APPROACH TO GARBADALE 
 
 
 
And as Iain M. Banks
 
CONSIDER PHLEBAS
 
THE PLAYER OF GAMES
 
USE OF WEAPONS
 
THE STATE OF THE ART
 
AGAINST A DARK BACKGROUND
 
FEERSUM ENDJINN
 
EXCESSION
 
INVERSIONS
 
LOOK TO WINDWARD
 
THE ALGEBRAIST
 
MATTER

 
 
 

 
The Crow Road

 

 
IAIN BANKS

 
 
Hachette Digital

 
Published by Hachette Digital 2008

 
Copyright © lain Banks 1992

 
The right of lain Banks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
 
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. 
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

 
ISBN 978 0 7481 0993 7

 
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

 
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY

 

 
An Hachette Livre UK Company

Again, for Ann,
And with thanks to:
 
James Hale,
Mic Cheetham,
Andy Watson
and Steve Hatton

CHAPTER 1

It was the day my grandmother exploded. I sat in the crematorium, listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snoring in harmony to Bach’s Mass in B Minor, and I reflected that it always seemed to be death that drew me back to Gallanach.

I looked at my father, sitting two rows away in the front line of seats in the cold, echoing chapel. His broad, greying-brown head was massive above his tweed jacket (a black arm-band was his concession to the solemnity of the occasion). His ears were moving in a slow, oscillatory manner, rather in the way John Wayne’s shoulders moved when he walked; my father was grinding his teeth. Probably he was annoyed that my grandmother had chosen religious music for her funeral ceremony. I didn’t think she had done it to upset him; doubtless she had simply liked the tune, and had not anticipated the effect its non-secular nature might have on her eldest son.

My younger brother, James, sat to my father’s left. It was the first time in years I’d seen him without his Walkman, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable, fiddling with his single earring. To my father’s right my mother sat, upright and trim, neatly filling a black coat and sporting a dramatic black hat shaped like a flying saucer. The UFO dipped briefly to one side as she whispered something to my father. In that movement and that moment, I felt a pang of loss that did not entirely belong to my recently departed grandmother, yet was connected with her memory. How her moles would be itching today if she was somehow suddenly reborn!

῾Prentice!’ My Aunt Antonia, sitting next to me, with Uncle Hamish snoring mellifluously on her other side, tapped my sleeve and pointed at my feet as she murmured my name. I looked down.

I had dressed in black that morning, in the cold high room of my aunt and uncle’s house. The floorboards had creaked and my breath had smoked. There had been ice inside the small dormer window, obscuring the view over Gallanach in a crystalline mist. I’d pulled on a pair of black underpants I’d brought especially from Glasgow, a white shirt (fresh from Marks and Sparks, the pack-lines still ridging the cold crisp cotton) and my black 501s. I’d shivered, and sat on the bed, looking at two pairs of socks; one black, one white. I’d intended to wear the black pair under my nine-eye Docs with the twin ankle buckles, but suddenly I had felt that the boots were wrong. Maybe it was because they were matt finish ...

The last funeral I’d been to here - also the first funeral I’d ever been to - this gear had all seemed pretty appropriate, but now I was pondering the propriety of the Docs, the 501s and the black biker’s jacket. I’d hauled my white trainers out of the bag, tried one Nike on and one boot (unlaced); I’d stood in front of the tilted full-length mirror, shivering, my breath going out in clouds, while the floorboards creaked and a smell of cooking bacon and burned toast insinuated its way up from the kitchen.

The trainers, I’d decided.

So I peered down at them in the crematorium; they looked crumpled and tea-stained on the severe black granite of the chapel floor. Oh-oh; one black sock, one white. I wriggled in my seat, pulled my jeans down to cover my oddly-packaged ankles. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry, Aunt Tone.’

My Aunt Antonia - a ball of pink-rinse hair above the bulk of her black coat, like candy floss stuck upon a hearse - patted my leather jacket. ‘Never mind, dear,’ she sighed. ‘I doubt old Margot would have minded.’

‘No,’ I nodded. My gaze fell back to the trainers. It struck me that on the toe of the right one there was still discernible the tyre mark from Grandma Margot’s wheelchair. I lifted the left trainer onto the right, and rubbed without enthusiasm at the black herring-bone pattern the oily wheel had left. I remembered the day, six months earlier, when I had pushed old Margot out of the house and through the courtyard, past the outhouses and down the drive under the trees towards the loch and the sea.

 
 
 
‘Prentice, what is going on between you and Kenneth?’

The courtyard was cobbled; her wheelchair wobbled and jerked under my hands as I pushed her. ‘We’ve fallen out, gran,’ I told her.

‘I’m not stupid, Prentice, I can see that.’ She looked up at me. Her eyes were fierce and grey, as they always had been. Her hair was grey now, too, and thinning. The summer sun cleared the surrounding oaks and I could see her pale scalp through the wisps of white.

‘No, gran, I know you’re not stupid.’

‘Well, then?’ She waved her stick towards the outhouses. ‘Let’s see if that damn car’s still there.’ She glanced back at me again as I wheeled the chair round on its new heading, towards the green double doors of one of the courtyard garages. ‘Well, then?’ she repeated.

I sighed. ‘It’s a matter of principle, gran.’ Stopping at the garage doors, she used her stick to knock the hasp off its staple, pushed at one door till its planks bowed slightly, then, wedging her stick into the resulting gap, levered the other door open, a bolt at one corner scraping and tinkling through a groove worn in the cobbles. I pulled the chair back to let the garage door swing. Inside it was dark. Motes swirled in the sunlight falling across the black entrance. I could just make out the corner of a thin green tarpaulin, draped angularly about level with my waist. Grandma Margot lifted the edge of the tarp with her stick, and flicked it away with surprising strength. The cover fell away from the front of the car and I pushed her further into the garage.

‘Principle?’ she said, leaning forward in the chair to inspect the long dark bonnet of the car, and pushing the tarp back still further until she had revealed the auto up to its windscreen. The wheels had no tyres; the car rested on blocks of wood. ‘What principle? The principle of not entering your father’s house? Your own family home?’ Another flick of the cane and the covering moved up the screen, then fell back again.

‘Let me do that, gran.’ I stepped to the side of the car and pulled the tarpaulin back until it lay crumpled on the boot, revealing that the car had a missing rear window. More dust revolved in the light from outside, turning Grandma Margot into a seated silhouette, her almost transparent hair shining like a halo.

She sighed. I looked at the car. It was long and quite beautiful, in a recently-old-fashioned way. Beneath the patina of dust it was a very dark green. The roof above the missing rear window was battered and dented, as was the exposed part of the boot lid.

‘Poor old thing,’ I whispered, shaking my head.

Grandma Margot sat upright. ‘It or me?’ she said sharply.

‘Gran ...’ I said, tutting. I was aware that she could see me very well, sunlit from behind her, while all I could see of her was a dark shape, a subtraction of the light.

‘Anyway,’ she said, relaxing and poking at one of the car’s wire wheels with her walking stick. ‘What’s all this nonsense about a matter of principle?’

I turned away, rubbing my fingers along the chrome guttering over a rear door. ‘Well ... dad’s angry at me because I told him I believed in ... God, or in something, anyway.’ I shrugged, not daring to look at her. ‘He won’t ... well, I won’t ... We’re not talking to each other, so I won’t come into the house.’

Grandma Margot made a clucking noise with her mouth. ‘That’s it?’

I nodded, glancing at her. ‘That’s it, gran.’