[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
clicked her fingers. She bent her head towards the bowl, seemingly listening
for something. I frowned, wondered what she was up to.
She turned and faced the bowl, went 'Ah,' in a high-pitched voice, then
listened again, head tilted, smiling this time.
'Ashley, what exactly are you doing?'
She nodded at the bowl. 'Crystal; you can make it ring by producing the right
noise.' She grinned like a little girl. 'Good, eh?' She looked behind me.
'That's you,' she said, nodding at the screen.
I hit Play. We stood, watched.
' . . . talked to Rupert Paxton-Marr of the Inquirer, one of the journalists
held by the
Iraqis, and asked him how he'd felt,' said the BBC man in Amman.
I couldn't resist a thin smile, one journalist asking another how he felt.
Rupert Paxton-Marr was a tall, blond, blue-eyed man with exactly the jaw-line
I'd have chosen for myself, given the opportunity; sickeningly handsome, he
had an accent to match. 'Well, Michael,' he said. ('Air, hair lair,' I said to
myself.) 'I don't think we were really in much danger; clearly international
attention has fixed on Iraq, and I think they knew we knew that, and accepted
we were . . . weren't a threat to them. Umm . . . our driver had taken a wrong
turning, and that was that. Of course, one does remember what happened to, ah,
Farhzad Bazhoft, but I don't think you can let that stop you; in the end one
has a job to do.'
'Thank you, Rupert. And now, reporting fr - '
I hit Stop and turned to Ashley, standing beside me. She was still looking at
the blank screen where the little green zero symbol sat in one corner,
wobbling almost imperceptibly. She had sucked her cheeks in and her lips were
pursed. There was a whoop of laughter from somewhere downstairs. Ash nodded
slowly, looked at me. 'That's ma boy,' she said.
'You're sure about that?' I said.
'I'm sure.' She looked serious. She looked pretty good, too, now I looked
properly; I couldn't remember ever seeing Ashley wearing make-up, and you'd
have thought that not having had the practice she'd be crap at it, but she
looked great; maybe a little over-enthusiastic with the dark stuff round the
eyes, but why quibble? She nodded. 'Don't look at me like that; I'm really
sure.'
'Sorry. I believe you,' I said. I spun the tape back, to play it again. Ashley
put one hand on my arm and rested her chin against the shoulder of my Prince
Charlie jacket.
'Turn the sound down,' she said. 'That guy's voice is like chewing on silver
paper.'
I turned the sound down. The noise of people laughing and talking in the
marquee came through the double glazing and the heavy burgundy of the velvet
curtains. I heard an amplified voice outside say, 'Testing.' It was probably
Dean Watt; he and his band had been hired by Lewis and
Verity to play during the afternoon (for the evening they'd booked a more
traditional wheech-your-
partner fiddle and accordion band).
I ran the clip again. 'Definitely, officer,' Ashley said, tapping the top
corner of the TV.
'Recognise him anywhere, even with his clothes on.'
I switched the TV off and ejected the cassette. I stood for a moment, rubbing
my chin.
'Whoops,' Ashley said, and delicately rubbed a little of that transferred
make-up from the black shoulder of my jacket.
I waited till she'd finished, then went to dad's desk, unlocked a lower drawer
and took out a slide tray; one of those plastic things that holds a few
hundred transparencies. 'So, when you saw this guy, Paxton-Marr,' I said,
opening the tray and putting the lid on the desk, 'in Berlin, in this hotel,
in the Jacuzzi . . . ' I looked up at Ashley, standing sceptically by the TV,
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one elbow resting on it as she watched me. 'What was the hotel called again?'
'I told you,' she said. 'I can't remember. I called June, and neither could
she. It's probably the only place she ever stayed and forgot to nick a towel
or yet another emergency sewing kit or
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt (131 of
187) [5/21/03 1:52:25 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt
whatever.' Ash shrugged. 'Frankly, Prentice, I was stoned out of my brains
most of the time I was there. All I can remember is it had a big pool in the
basement with a Jacuzzi at one end, and they did really good breakfasts.' She
sighed. 'Excellent hopple-popple.' Her eyebrows flicked once.
'Hopple-popple?'I grimaced.
'Scrambled eggs,' Ash smiled. 'Take me to Berlin and I'll find it for you. It
was somewhere near the zoo.'
I put the tray down on the desk, went over to Ashley, holding out a little
piece of cardboard;
it was the front cover off a book of matches, torn off the piece that held the
matches.
'Wasn't the Schweizerhof, was it?' I asked her.
She looked steadily into my eyes for a little while, then took the piece of
card, looked at it and turned it over.
'Twenty-seven eleven eighty-nine,' she muttered. She nodded and handed me the
cover back.
'Yeah,' she said, frowning. 'Yeah; it was. That was the place.'
I put the little torn bit of cardboard back in the slide tray. It was the
second last one, out of about forty of them.
'What's the significance of the date?' Ashley asked, coming over to the desk.
Outside, I could hear the sound ot an electric guitar chord and a few drum
beats.
'I think that was when dad received it.' I picked the latest torn cover out of
the tray. 'This one arrived just after he died.' We both sat on the edge of
the desk; Ashley looked at the little piece of glossy cardboard.
'Woo,' she whistled. 'Amman Hilton. Spooky, or what?'
'Yeah. Spooky ' I said, as fuck,tapping the cover with one fingernail. 'And
I'm sure I
recognise that guy Paxton-Marr, too. From Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or here. I've
met him. In the flesh, I think.'
Ash put her elbow on my shoulder. 'And damn firm, tanned flesh it was too, let
me tell you,'
she said.
I looked into those grey eyes, smiling. 'But not as firm and tanned as your
programmer from
Texas.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl karpacz24.htw.pl
clicked her fingers. She bent her head towards the bowl, seemingly listening
for something. I frowned, wondered what she was up to.
She turned and faced the bowl, went 'Ah,' in a high-pitched voice, then
listened again, head tilted, smiling this time.
'Ashley, what exactly are you doing?'
She nodded at the bowl. 'Crystal; you can make it ring by producing the right
noise.' She grinned like a little girl. 'Good, eh?' She looked behind me.
'That's you,' she said, nodding at the screen.
I hit Play. We stood, watched.
' . . . talked to Rupert Paxton-Marr of the Inquirer, one of the journalists
held by the
Iraqis, and asked him how he'd felt,' said the BBC man in Amman.
I couldn't resist a thin smile, one journalist asking another how he felt.
Rupert Paxton-Marr was a tall, blond, blue-eyed man with exactly the jaw-line
I'd have chosen for myself, given the opportunity; sickeningly handsome, he
had an accent to match. 'Well, Michael,' he said. ('Air, hair lair,' I said to
myself.) 'I don't think we were really in much danger; clearly international
attention has fixed on Iraq, and I think they knew we knew that, and accepted
we were . . . weren't a threat to them. Umm . . . our driver had taken a wrong
turning, and that was that. Of course, one does remember what happened to, ah,
Farhzad Bazhoft, but I don't think you can let that stop you; in the end one
has a job to do.'
'Thank you, Rupert. And now, reporting fr - '
I hit Stop and turned to Ashley, standing beside me. She was still looking at
the blank screen where the little green zero symbol sat in one corner,
wobbling almost imperceptibly. She had sucked her cheeks in and her lips were
pursed. There was a whoop of laughter from somewhere downstairs. Ash nodded
slowly, looked at me. 'That's ma boy,' she said.
'You're sure about that?' I said.
'I'm sure.' She looked serious. She looked pretty good, too, now I looked
properly; I couldn't remember ever seeing Ashley wearing make-up, and you'd
have thought that not having had the practice she'd be crap at it, but she
looked great; maybe a little over-enthusiastic with the dark stuff round the
eyes, but why quibble? She nodded. 'Don't look at me like that; I'm really
sure.'
'Sorry. I believe you,' I said. I spun the tape back, to play it again. Ashley
put one hand on my arm and rested her chin against the shoulder of my Prince
Charlie jacket.
'Turn the sound down,' she said. 'That guy's voice is like chewing on silver
paper.'
I turned the sound down. The noise of people laughing and talking in the
marquee came through the double glazing and the heavy burgundy of the velvet
curtains. I heard an amplified voice outside say, 'Testing.' It was probably
Dean Watt; he and his band had been hired by Lewis and
Verity to play during the afternoon (for the evening they'd booked a more
traditional wheech-your-
partner fiddle and accordion band).
I ran the clip again. 'Definitely, officer,' Ashley said, tapping the top
corner of the TV.
'Recognise him anywhere, even with his clothes on.'
I switched the TV off and ejected the cassette. I stood for a moment, rubbing
my chin.
'Whoops,' Ashley said, and delicately rubbed a little of that transferred
make-up from the black shoulder of my jacket.
I waited till she'd finished, then went to dad's desk, unlocked a lower drawer
and took out a slide tray; one of those plastic things that holds a few
hundred transparencies. 'So, when you saw this guy, Paxton-Marr,' I said,
opening the tray and putting the lid on the desk, 'in Berlin, in this hotel,
in the Jacuzzi . . . ' I looked up at Ashley, standing sceptically by the TV,
Page 171
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
one elbow resting on it as she watched me. 'What was the hotel called again?'
'I told you,' she said. 'I can't remember. I called June, and neither could
she. It's probably the only place she ever stayed and forgot to nick a towel
or yet another emergency sewing kit or
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt (131 of
187) [5/21/03 1:52:25 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,%20Iain%20-%20The%20Crow%20Road.txt
whatever.' Ash shrugged. 'Frankly, Prentice, I was stoned out of my brains
most of the time I was there. All I can remember is it had a big pool in the
basement with a Jacuzzi at one end, and they did really good breakfasts.' She
sighed. 'Excellent hopple-popple.' Her eyebrows flicked once.
'Hopple-popple?'I grimaced.
'Scrambled eggs,' Ash smiled. 'Take me to Berlin and I'll find it for you. It
was somewhere near the zoo.'
I put the tray down on the desk, went over to Ashley, holding out a little
piece of cardboard;
it was the front cover off a book of matches, torn off the piece that held the
matches.
'Wasn't the Schweizerhof, was it?' I asked her.
She looked steadily into my eyes for a little while, then took the piece of
card, looked at it and turned it over.
'Twenty-seven eleven eighty-nine,' she muttered. She nodded and handed me the
cover back.
'Yeah,' she said, frowning. 'Yeah; it was. That was the place.'
I put the little torn bit of cardboard back in the slide tray. It was the
second last one, out of about forty of them.
'What's the significance of the date?' Ashley asked, coming over to the desk.
Outside, I could hear the sound ot an electric guitar chord and a few drum
beats.
'I think that was when dad received it.' I picked the latest torn cover out of
the tray. 'This one arrived just after he died.' We both sat on the edge of
the desk; Ashley looked at the little piece of glossy cardboard.
'Woo,' she whistled. 'Amman Hilton. Spooky, or what?'
'Yeah. Spooky ' I said, as fuck,tapping the cover with one fingernail. 'And
I'm sure I
recognise that guy Paxton-Marr, too. From Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or here. I've
met him. In the flesh, I think.'
Ash put her elbow on my shoulder. 'And damn firm, tanned flesh it was too, let
me tell you,'
she said.
I looked into those grey eyes, smiling. 'But not as firm and tanned as your
programmer from
Texas.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]