Free The Crow Road by Iain Banks Page B

complexion all I could think was: Wow; Lloyd Cole city! Because she had perfect skin.
    ‘That’ll do.’ She took something from my hand. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Hey! That’s a library ticket!’ I grabbed it back. ‘Here.’ I handed her half a book token my mother had given me.
    ‘Thanks.’ She started cutting it with a little pair of scissors.
    ‘It’s just a tokin’ token,’ I told her, squatting down beside her.
    She grunted with laughter, and my heart performed manoeuvres that the connecting plumbing makes topologically impossible.
    ‘All set for the big move, bro?’ Lewis grinned down from the wee seat under the eye-piece of the telescope. He reached over to the table where I’d set the tray down and started pouring coffee into the mugs. My big brother has always seemed more than two years older than me; a little taller than my 1.85, and a little more thick-set, he looked bigger still at the time thanks to a beard of the burst-sofa persuasion. Back then, it was his turn to be in disgrace with my father, because he’d just dropped out of University.
    ‘Yeah, all set,’ I told him. ‘Found a place to stay.’ I nodded at the telescope. ‘Anything interesting tonight?’
    ‘Got it on the Pleiades just now. Take a look.’
    We took turns star-gazing, playing cards, crouching round the little electric heater, and constructing joints. I’d brought a half bottle of whisky, and the twins had some brandy, which we used to beef up the coffee. The munchies struck again an hour or so after we’d polished off the last of the sausage rolls; the twins mounted an expedition into the depths of the castle in search of the mythical Soup Dragon (we spoke in Clanger while they were gone) and returned with a steaming tureen and a half-dozen bowls.
    ‘Where’re you staying in Glasgow, Prentice?’ Darren Watt asked.
    ‘Hyndland,’ I said, slurping my soup. ‘Lauderdale Gardens.’
    ‘Ah, that’s no far from us. Going to be around on the thirtieth? We’re having a party.’
    ‘Oh, ah, yeah; probably.’ (Actually, I’d been going to come home that weekend, but I could juggle things.)
    ‘Ah well, come along; should be fun.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Darren Watt was in his last year at Art School and - for me, at least - had been the epitome of cool since New Year two years earlier. After the bells, mum had driven Lewis and me into Gallanach; we went to a party Droid and his chums were giving. Darren had been there; blond, lean, drop-dead bone structure, and exuding style. I’d admired the looped silk scarf he’d worn over a red velvet jacket that would have looked silly on most people but in which he looked totally poised. He’d given me the scarf, and - when I’d tried to demur - explained he was growing bored with it; better it went to somebody who would appreciate it, though he hoped I’d hand it on too, if I ever tired of it.
    So I took it. It was just an ordinary silk scarf, given a half twist and the ends carefully sewn together, but that, of course, made it a Möbius scarf, the very idea of which I just thought was wonderful. I thought Darren was pretty wonderful, too, and for a while wondered if maybe I was gay, too, but decided against it. In fact, a large part of the attraction of an invite to a party at Darren’s place was due to the fact his flat-mates were three salivatingly attractive and reputedly enthusiastically heterosexual female arts students (I’d met them when he’d brought them to Gallanach on a day trip the previous year).
    ‘You still making models of these wave-powered hoodjie-ma-flips?’ I asked him, finishing my soup. Darren was wiping his plate with a bit of bread, and I found myself copying him.
    ‘Aye,’ he said, looking thoughtful. ‘Looks like I’ve found a sponsor for the real thing, too.’
    ‘What? Really?’
    Darren grinned. ‘Big cement company’s interested; talking about a serious money grant.’
    ‘Wow! Congratulations.’
    For the last eighteen months or so, Darren