Banks, Iain M - Complicity

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Complicity

Complicity (v2.0)

Iain Banks, 1993

CONTENTS

1 Independent Deterrent

2 Chill Filter

3 Despot

4 Injection

5 Naked Flame

6 Exocet Deck

7 Lux Europae

8 Friendly Fire

9 Growth

10 Carse of Speld

11 Slab

12 Basra Road

13 Sleep When I'm Dead

Chapter 1 : INDEPENDENT DETERRENT

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Complicity

You hear the car after an hour and a half. During that time you've been here in the darkness, sitting on the

small telephone seat near the front door, waiting. You only moved once, after half an hour, when you

went back through to the kitchen to check on the maid. She was still there, eyes white in the half-

darkness. There was a strange, sharp smell in the air and you thought of cats, though you know he doesn't

have cats. Then you realised the maid had pissed herself. You felt a moment of disgust, and then a little

guilt.

She whimpered behind the black masking-tape when you approached. You tested the tape securing her to

the little kitchen chair, and the rope holding it against the still-warm Aga. The tape looked just as you'd

left it; either she hadn't been struggling or she had but it had had no effect. The rope was good and taut.

You glanced at the shaded windows, then shone your torch at her hands, taped to the rear legs of the chair.

Her fingers looked all right; it was a little difficult to tell because of her dark olive Filipino skin, but you

didn't think you'd cut off her circulation. You looked at her feet, tiny in the low-heeled black slippers;

they appeared healthy too. A drop of urine fell and joined a pool on the tiled floor beneath the chair.

She was quivering with fear when you looked into her face. You knew you looked terrifying in the dark

balaclava, but there was nothing you could do about that. You patted her shoulder as reassuringly as you

could. Then you went back to the telephone seat by the front door. There were three phone calls; you

listened to the answer-machine intercept them.

'You know what to do,' his scratchily recorded voice said to each caller. His voice is quick, clipped and

vaguely upper-class. 'Do it after the beep.'

'Tobias, old chap. How the devil are you? Geoff. Wondering how you're fixed next Saturday. Fancy a

foursome out at sunny Sunningdale? Give me a tinkle. Bye.'

(beep)

'Ah ... yes, ahh, Sir Toby. Mark Bain again. Ah, I rang earlier, and the last couple of days. Umm ... well,

I'd still very much like to interview you, as I've said, Sir Toby, but, well, I know you don't usually give

interviews, but I do assure you I've no axe to grind, and I do very much appreciate, as a fellow

professional, what you've achieved, and would genuinely like to find out more about your views.

Anyway. Clearly it is up to you, of course, and I do respect that. I'll ... ah, I'll try your office in the

morning. Thank you. Thank you very much. Good evening.'

(beep)

'You abrupt old bastard, Tobes. Give me a ring about that diary story; I'm still not happy. And get that

bloody car phone repaired.'

You smiled at that one. That rough, colonial voice, its commanding tone contrasting with the Harrovian

chumminess of the first message and the whining, working-class Midland entreaties of the middle one.

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The proprietor. Now there was a man you'd like to meet. You glanced up into the darkness towards the

wall at the foot of the stairs, where there are various framed photographs. There is one of Sir Toby Bissett

with Mrs Thatcher, both smiling. You smiled, too.

Then you just sat there, breathing carefully, thinking, keeping calm. You took the gun out once, reaching

round under your thin canvas jacket to the small of your back and easing it from between shirt and jeans.

The Browning felt warm through your thin leather gloves. You snicked the magazine out and back in

again a couple of times and ran your thumb over the safety catch, making sure it was on. You put the gun

back again.

Then you reached down, pulled up the right leg of your jeans and slipped the Marttiini out of its lightly

oiled sheath. The knife's slim blade refused to glint, until you tipped it just so and it reflected the little,

flashing red light on the answer-machine. There was a small greasy smudge on the steel blade. You blew

on it and rubbed it with one gloved finger, then inspected it again. Satisfied, you slid the knife back into

its leather sheath and rolled the denim back down. And waited until the Jaguar drew up outside, engine

idling in the quiet square, bringing you back to the present.

You stand up and look through the spyhole in the broad wooden door. You see the dark square outside,

distorted by the lens. You can see the steps down to the pavement, the railings on either side of the steps,

the parked cars sitting at the kerb and the dark masses of the trees in the centre of the square. The Jag is

right outside, beyond the cars at the kerb. Street lights reflect orange on the car's door as it swings open. A

man and a woman get out.

He's not alone. You watch the woman straighten the skirt of her suit as the man says something to the

driver and then closes the Jaguar's door.

'Shit,' you whisper. Your heart is pounding.

The man and the woman walk towards the steps. The man is holding a briefcase. It's him: Sir Toby

Bissett, the man with the quick, clipped voice on the answer-machine. As he and the woman reach the

pavement and make for the steps, he takes the woman's right elbow in his hand, shepherding her towards

the door you're looking through.

'Shit!' you whisper again, and glance back down the side of the stairs towards the hall and the kitchen,

where the maid is and where the window through which you entered is still half open. You hear their

footsteps on the pavement. The skin on your forehead prickles beneath the balaclava. He lets go of the

woman's elbow, switches the briefcase to his other hand and reaches into a trouser pocket. They are

halfway up the steps. You start to panic, and stare at the heavy chain hanging at the side of the door by the

bulky Chubb. Then you hear the sound of his key in the lock, startlingly close, and hear him say

something, and hear the woman's nervous laugh and you know that it's too late and you become calm,

standing away from the door until your back is against the coats on the coat-stand, and you slide your

hand into the pocket of the canvas jacket and it closes round the thick weight of the shot-filled leather

cosh.

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The door opens, towards you. You hear the Jag's engine purring away. The hall light comes on. He says,

'Here we are.'

Then the door closes and they are there in front of you and in that instant you see him turned slightly

away, putting his briefcase down on the table beside the answer-machine. The girl - blonde, tan, mid-

twenties, holding a slim briefcase - glances at you. She does a double-take. You are smiling behind the

mask, putting one finger up to your lips. She hesitates. You hear the answer-machine spin back,

squeaking. As the girl starts to open her mouth, you step forward, behind him.

You swing the cosh and hit him very hard across the back of the head, a hand's width above his jacket

collar. He collapses instantly, falling against the wall and down over the table, dislodging the answer-

machine as you turn to the girl.

She opens her mouth, watching the man crumple to the carpet. She looks at you and you think she's going

to scream and you tense, ready to punch her. Then she drops the slim briefcase and holds her shaking

hands out in front of her, glancing down once at the man lying still on the floor. Her jaw is trembling.

'Look,' she says, 'just don't do anything to me.' Her voice is steadier than her hands or her jaw. She

glances down at the man on the carpet. 'I don't know who - ' she gulps, eyelids fluttering nervously. You

watch her trying to speak through a dry mouth. '- who you are, but I don't want anything ... Just don't do

anything to me. I've got money; you can have it. But this isn't anything to do with me, right? Just don't do

anything to me. Okay? Please.'

She has a refined voice, a Sloane voice, a Roedean voice. You half-despise her attitude, half-admire it.

You glance down at the man; he looks very still. The answer-machine lying on the carpet clicks to a stop

at the end of the tape. You look back to her and nod slowly. You move your head to indicate the kitchen.

She looks that way, hesitating. You point towards the kitchen with the cosh.

'Okay,' she says. 'Okay.' She walks backwards down the hall, hands still in front of her. She backs into the

kitchen door, swinging it fully open. You follow her through and turn on the light. She keeps walking

backwards and you hold up one hand to make her stop. She sees the maid in the chair tied to the stove.

You motion her to another of the red kitchen chairs. She glances at the wide-eyed maid again and then

seems to come to a decision, and sits.

You move away from her towards the working surface where the roll of black masking-tape sits. You

cover her with the gun as you push the balaclava away from your mouth and pull out a length of tape with

your teeth. She looks calmly, steadily at the gun, some of the colour gone from her face. You keep the gun

pressed into her waist as you loop the tape round her slim, gold-braceleted wrists. You keep glancing

through the doorway, down the length of the hall to the dark shape crumpled at the front door, knowing

you are taking an extra, unnecessary risk. Then you put the gun away and secure her dark-stockinged

ankles. She smells of Paris.

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Complicity

You put a ten-centimetre strip across her mouth and leave the kitchen, putting the light out and closing the

door.

You go back to Sir Toby. He hasn't moved. You remove the balaclava and stuff it in a jacket pocket, lift

your crash helmet from behind the coat-stand and put it on, then take him under the armpits and haul him

upstairs, past the framed photographs. His heels bump on each step. Your breath sounds loud inside the

helmet; he's heavier than you expected. He smells of something expensive you can't identify; a strand of

his long grey hair falls to one side, onto his shoulder.

You drag him into the sitting room on the first floor, shouldering the door to the hall closed as you enter.

The room is lit only by the street lights outside, and in the semi-darkness you stumble and almost fall over

a coffee table; something falls and breaks.

'Shit,' you whisper, but keep pulling him towards the tall french windows looking out over a small

balcony onto the square. You prop him against the wall by the side of the windows and look outside. A

couple pass on the street; you give them two minutes to leave the square and wait for a couple of cars to

pass, then you open the windows and step outside, into the warm Belgravia night. The square seems quiet;

the city is a faint background roar in the orange darkness beyond. You look down at the marble steps

leading to the front door and the tall, black spiked railings on either side of them, then you go back in,

take him under the armpits again, lift him through the windows and prop him against the stone parapet of

the waist-high balcony.

A last glance around: a car passes across the top of the square. You hoist him up so that he's sitting on the

parapet; his head tips back and he moans. Sweat dribbles into your eyes. You feel him move weakly in

your arms as you manoeuvre him into the right position, glancing down at the railings, three or four

metres below. Then you tip him backwards over the edge.

He falls onto the railings, hitting with his head, hip and leg; there is a surprisingly dry cracking, crunching

noise; his head twists to one side and one of the railing spikes appears through the socket of his right eye.

His body sags, arms hanging to each side of the railings, over the marble steps and the stairwell leading to

the basement flat beneath; his right leg hangs over the steps. There is another faint crunching noise as the

body spasms once and then goes limp. Blood spreads blackly from his mouth over the collar of his white

shirt and starts to drip onto the pale marble of the steps. You back away from the parapet, glancing from

side to side. Some people walk into the far end of the square, maybe forty metres away, approaching.

You turn and go back into the sitting room, locking the windows and avoiding the coffee table and the

broken vase lying on the carpet. You go downstairs and walk through the kitchen, where the two women

sit tied to their chairs; you leave via the same window you entered by, walking calmly through the small

back garden into the mews where the motorbike is parked.

You hear the first faint, distant screams just as you take the bike's key from your pocket. You feel

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Complicity

suddenly elated.

You're glad you didn't have to hurt the women.

It's a clear cold October day, fresh and bright with a few puffy little clouds scudding above the mountains

on the chilly breeze. I look through the binoculars towards the shallow slant of Helensburgh's grid-pattern

streets, then move the view up to the slopes and woods behind, then track left, across the hills on the far

side of the loch and the mountains beyond. Further round still, towards the head of the loch, I can make

out the gantries, jetties and buildings of the naval base. There are some distant shouts and the noise of

hooters over the buzz of boat and helicopter engines; I look down to the little spit of shingle straight

across from me, where a few hundred demonstrators and locals are gathered, stamping their feet and

waving banners. A chopper clatters overhead. I look out into the firth, where another three helicopters are

circling above the black mass of the submarine. The tug, escorting police launches and circling inflatables

move slowly into the mass of CND boats. A Jet Ski cuts across the view on a wall of spray.

I put the glasses down and let them hang from my neck while I light another Silk Cut.

I'm standing on the roof of an empty freight container on a bit of waste ground near the shore in a village

called Roseneath, looking out over the Gare Loch, watching the Vanguard arrive. I lift the binoculars

again and look out at the submarine. It fills the view now, black and almost featureless, though I can just

make out the different textures of the hull's sloped and upper surfaces.

The protesters' inflatables buzz round the perimeter of the sub's satellite system of escorting boats, trying

to find a way through; the MOD inflatables are larger than the CND boats and they have bigger engines;

the servicemen wear black berets and dark overalls while the CND people wear bright jackets and wave

big yellow flags. The huge submarine in the centre moves forward in their midst, ploughing sedately

towards the narrows. The RN tug is leading the submarine in, though not towing it. A grey fisheries patrol

boat follows the flotilla. The big helicopters bark overhead.

'Hi you; give us a hand up, ya bastart.'

I look over to the edge of the container and see the head and arms of Iain Garnet. He waves.

'Following our lead as usual, eh, Iain?' I ask him, hauling him up from the top of the same oil-drum I'd

used.

'Fuck off, Colley,' Garnet says amiably, bending to dust off the knees of his trousers. Iain works for our

Glaswegian competitor, the Dispatch. He's late thirties, getting heavy round the waist and thin on top.

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He's wearing what looks like a late-'seventies skiing jacket over his crumpled grey suit. He nods at the

cigarette in my mouth. 'Can I take a fag?'

I offer him one. His face wrinkles with disdain when he sees the packet but he takes one anyway. 'Jeez,

Cameron, really; Silk Cut? The cigarette for people who like to think they're giving up? I had you down

as one of the last of the serious lung abusers. What happened to the Marlboros?'

'They're for cowboys like you,' I tell him, lighting his cigarette. 'What happened to your fags?'

'Left them in the car,' he says. We both turn and stand there, looking out across the blue-glittering waves

at the small armada surrounding the giant submarine. The Vanguard is even bigger than I'd expected;

huge, fat and black, like the biggest, blackest slug in all the world, with a few thin fins stuck here and

there as an afterthought. It looks too big to fit through the narrows in front of us.

'Some fuckin beast, eh?' Iain says.

'Half a billion quid's worth, sixteen thousand tonnes -'

'Aye, aye,' Iain says wearily. 'And long as two football pitches. You got anything original though but?'

I shrug. 'Not telling you; read the article.'

'Big wean.' He looks around. 'Where's your man with the Instamatic and the dodgy model-release forms?'

I nod towards a small speedboat waiting near the entrance to the narrows. 'Getting a fish-eye view. What

about yours?'

'Two,' Iain says. 'One here somewhere, the other one sharing a chopper with the Beeb.'

We both look into the sky. I count four Navy Sea Kings. Iain and I look at each other.

'Cutting it a bit fine with the helicopter, aren't they?' I ask.

He shrugs. 'Probably arguing about who tips the pilot.'

We both stare out at the sub again. The protesters' boats are constantly charging in towards the Vanguard,

only to be headed off each time by the MOD boats, bulging rubber hulls bumping off each other and then

bouncing over the chopping waves. Preceded by the tug, the Trident sub's bulbous nose moves smoothly

towards the narrows. Ratings wearing yellow life-jackets stand at ease on the deck of the huge ship, some

in front of the tall conning tower, some behind. The people on the spit of land across from us are shouting

and jeering. A few might be cheering.

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'Give us a shot of your binocs,' Iain says.

I hand him the glasses and he squints through them as the Navy tug leading the sub moves slowly through

the narrows. Roisterer, says its nameplate.

'How's things at the Caley these days, anyway?' Iain asks.

'Oh, same as usual.'

'Wow!' he says, taking his eyes away from the glasses and looking shocked. 'Steady now; sure you want

to say that? We're still on the record, you know.'

'You'll be on the fucking Record, you hack.'

'You east-coast boys are just jealous of our computer system because ours works.'

'Oh, sure.'

We watch the long, grossly phallic shape slide into the narrows, its tall hull obscuring the crowd of people

on the spit of land across from us. Little capped heads sticking out of the top of the conning tower look

over and down at us. I wave. One of them waves back. I feel a strange, guilty happiness. The helicopters

are noisy overhead; the swirling pattern of CND and MOD boats is compressed by the narrows; the

inflatables dance and bob around each other, bumping together. It looks a bit like spastics trying to dance

an Eightsome Reel, but that isn't an image I'd use in the article.

'Some demo down in London yesterday, eh?' Iain says, handing me back the binoculars.

I nod. Last night I watched television pictures of the drenched crowds as they wound slowly through the

London streets, protesting against the mine closures.

'Yeah,' I say. I grind the cigarette out on the container's rusting roof. 'Six years too late to do any good,

people realise Scargill was right.'

'Aye, he's still a bumptious cunt, though but.'

'Doesn't matter; he was right.'

'That's what I said; a right bumptious cunt.' Garnet grins at me.

I shake my head and nod at the fisheries boat tailing the small fleet squeezing its way through the

narrows. 'What do you think; would you say that boat's bringing up the rear, or bringing up the stern? I

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mean, we are talking nautical here.'

Iain squints at the ship as the huge bulk of the submarine continues to slide past us. I can see him trying to

think of a remark, thinking there must be something on the lines of, No, it's bringing up its dinner, or

something equally strained about a nautical remark, but they're both poor-quality leads and he obviously

realises this because he just shrugs and takes out his notebook and says, 'Search me, pal.'

He starts scribbling squiggles. Garnet must be one of the last of the shorthanders; few people of our

generation trust in Pitman any more, preferring to rely on Olympus Pearlcorders.

'You still off-diary this weather then, Cameron?'

'Yeah, a roving news-hound without portfolio, that's me.'

'Uh-huh. Hear you've got a tame blemish on the face of the body public feeding you morsels these days,

that right, Cameron?' Garnet says quietly, not looking up from his shorthand notation.

I look at him. 'What?'

'A massive harbour breakwater,' he says, grinning toothily at me.

I stare at him.

'A facial blemish,' he says. 'A breakwater; a small insectivorous subterranean furry animal. No get it?' He

shakes his head at the grossness of my ignorance. 'A mole,' he says patiently.

'Oh?' I say, hoping I appear suitably mystified.

He looks hurt. 'So, is it true?'

'What?'

That you've got some mole in the security services or something equally hush-hush feeding you tasty stuff

about some big story in the offing.'

I shake my head. 'No,' I tell him.

He looks disappointed. 'Who told you this, anyway?' I ask him. 'Was it Frank?'

His brows go up, his mouth makes an O and he draws in a breath. 'Sorry, Cameron; can't reveal my

sources.'

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I give him a pained look, then we both turn to watch the submarine.

There is a faint, distant cheer as one of the CND inflatables finally manages to break through the

encircling military boats, evades the police launches and speeds in to bump into the sloping black stern of

the Trident submarine, sliding briefly up onto its rump like a gnat trying to mount an elephant, before

being chased away again. A TV crew capture the moment. I grin, feeling vicariously pleased for the

protesters. After a while the tall grey shape of the patrol boat Orkney hums past, following the huge

submarine.

'Orkney,' Garnet says thoughtfully. 'Orkney ... '

I can almost hear his brain working, trying to make a connection with tomorrow's big Home News event,

when the report into the Orkney child-abuse fiasco will be published. Knowing Garnet, a comment

involving seamen is far from out of the question.

I keep quiet, trying not to encourage him.

He throws his cigarette butt away. Perhaps misinterpreting the gesture, somebody at the stern of the

Orkney waves at us. Iain waves cheerily back. 'Aye, get yer cox'n, lads!' he calls, not loud enough for

anyone on the boat to hear. He sounds pleased with himself.

'How amusing, Iain,' I say, stepping to the edge of the container. 'Fancy a pint later?' I jump down via the

oil-drum.

'Going already, are you?' Iain says. Then, 'Na. Got to interview the Faslane Commander and get back to

the office.'

'Yeah, I'm heading for the base too,' I tell him. 'See you there.' I turn and walk across the waste ground

towards the car.

'Don't give us a hand down then, ya snobby Edinburgh bastart!' he calls.

I hold up one hand as I walk away. 'Okay!'

I pass the submarine a minute later as I drive out of the village and towards the head of the loch and the

naval base on the far side. The submarine looks oddly, menacingly beautiful in the bright sunshine, a

blackly gleaming hole in the scape of land and water. I shake my head. Twelve billion quid to take out

some probably already empty silos and incinerate a few tens of millions of Russian men, women and

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ComplicityComplicity(v2.0)IainBanks,1993CONTENTS1IndependentDeterrent2ChillFilter3Despot4Injection5NakedFlame6ExocetDeck7LuxEuropae8FriendlyFire9Growth10CarseofSpeld11Slab12BasraRoad13SleepWhenI'mDeadChapter1:INDEPENDENTDETERRENTfile:///F|/rah/Iain%20Banks/Banks,_Iain_-_Complicity_(v2).html(1of\213)...

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