Iain Banks - Walking on Glass

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v1.0 : 14 June 2001 : HugHug using JSTextify

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SYNOPSIS

Graham Park is in love. But Sara Ffitch is an enigma to him, a creature of almost perverse

mystery. Steven Grout is paranoid - and with justice. He knows that They are out to get him.

They are. Quiss, insecure in his fabulous if ramshackle castle, is forced to play interminable

impossible games. The solution to the oldest of all paradoxical riddles will release him. But he

must find an answer before he knows the question.

Park, Grout, Quiss - no trio could be further apart. But their separate courses are set for

collision...

'A feast of horrors, variously spiced with incest, conspiracy, and cheerful descriptions of

torture... fine writing' The Times

'The author's powerful imagination is displayed again here every bit as vividly as in his debut'

Financial Times

'Establishes beyond doubt that lain Banks is a novelist of remarkable talents' Daily Telegraph

ABACUS FICTION

ISBN 0-349-10178-7

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CONTENTS

PART ONE

Theobald's Road

Mr Smith

One-Dimensional Chess

PART TWO

Rosebery Avenue

Clerk Starke

Open-Plan Go

PART THREE

Am well Street

Mrs Short

Spotless Dominoes

PART FOUR

Penton Street

Mr Sharpe

Chinese Scrabble

PART FIVE

Half Moon Crescent

Dr Shawcross

Tunnel

PART SIX

Truth and Consequences

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PART ONE

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-THEOBALD'S ROAD-

He walked through the white corridors, past the noticeboards with their offers of small

rooms and old cars, past the coffee bar where people sat at tables, past a hole in the white floor

where an old chair stood sentry over an opened conduit in which a torch shone and a man crawled,

and as he left he looked at his watch:

TU 28

3:33

He stood on the steps for a second, smiling at the figures on the face of the watch.

Three three three. A good omen. Today was a day things would come together, a day events would

coalesce.

It was bright outside, even after the painted lightness of the marble-flaked corridor.

The air was warm, slightly humid but not sultry. The walk would be a pleasure today. That was

good too, because he didn't want to arrive at her place hot and flustered; not today, not with her

at the end of the walk, not with that subtle but unequivocal promise there, waiting, ready.

Graham Park stepped out on to the broad grey pavement outside the School and during a

break in the traffic jogged across Theobald's Road to its north side. He relaxed to a walk on the

pavement outside the White Hart pub, his large black portfolio held easily at his side by its

single handle. Drawings of her.

He looked up at the sky, above the blocks and squat towers of the medium-rise office

blocks, and smiled at its blue, city-grimed segmentings.

Everything seemed fresher, brighter, more real today, as though all his quite normal,

perfectly standard surroundings had until this point been actors fumbling behind some thin stage

curtain, struggling to get out, but now stood, triumphant expression frozen on face, hands spread,

going Ta-Raah!' on the boards at last. He found this young-love rapture almost embarrassing in

its intensity; it was something he was delighted to have, determined to hide, and wary of

examining. It was enough to know it was there, and the very commonness of it was reassuring in a

way. Let others have felt this way, let them feel it now; it would never be exactly like this,

never be identical. Revel in it, he thought, why not?

A worn and grubby old man stood with his back against the wall of another tall grey-and-

brickred building. He wore a heavy grey-green coat, even in that heat, and one of his shoes was

open at the toe, baring skin inside. He held two huge boxes of mushrooms. It was the sort of

sight - the poor, the strange - which usually alarmed Graham.

So many strange people in London. So many of the poor and the decrepit, the still

spinning shrapnel, walking wounded of society. Usually they oppressed and threatened him, these

people with little threat to offer, and much to fear. But not today; today the old man, hot in

his thick coat, blinking from his grey face, clammy hands round his two two-pound boxes of

mushrooms was merely interesting, just a possible subject for a drawing. He passed the Post

Office, where a young black man, tall and well dressed, stood talking quietly to himself. Again

no fear. He realised that maybe he really was after all, just a little, the country hick he had

tried so hard to avoid being. He had been so determined to be ungullible, city-wise that perhaps

he had gone too far in the other direction, and so read a threat in everything the big city had to

offer. Only now, with the promise of the strength she might give him, could he afford the luxury

of thinking so closely about himself (you had to have armour in the city, you had to know where

you stood).

He had opted for the cynical, guarded approach, and now he could see that for all the

safety it had brought him - here he was, in his second year, still solvent, heart intact, unmugged

and even succeeding in his studies, despite all his mother's fears - every defence had its price,

and he had paid in a separating distance, incomprehension. Perhaps the young black man was not

mad; people did talk to themselves. Perhaps the old man with the torn shoe was not some desperate

down-and-out with fists full of stolen mushrooms; maybe he was just an ordinary person whose shoes

had split that lunchtime, while shopping. He looked at the traffic roaring by, and over it

through railings at the leafy greenness of Gray's Inn, edging into view on his right. He would

remember this day, this walk. Even if she did not... even if all his dreams, his hopes did not...

ah, but they would. He could feel it.

'Put that fantasy down. Park, you don't know where it's been.'

He turned quickly to the voice and there was Slater, bounding down the steps of Holborn

Library, wearing a pair of one-and-a-half-legged jeans, with a shiny black shoe on one foot and a

knee-length boot on the other; the jeans were cut to suit, so that one leg ended normally, in a

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stitched hem over the shoe, while the other leg came to a frayed stop just above the top of the

boot. Above, Slater sported a well-worn hacking jacket over a black shirt and a black bow tie

which appeared to have lots of small, dull red stones set in it. On his head sat a tartan cap,

predominantly red. Graham looked at his friend and laughed. Slater responded with a look of

pretended chilliness. 'I see nothing to cause such hilarity.'

'You look like -' Graham shook his head and waved one hand at Slater's jeans and footwear,

and spared a glance for his cap.

'What I look like,' Slater said, coming forward and taking Graham by the elbow to continue

walking, 'is somebody who has discovered an old pair of RAF pilot's boots at a market stall in

Camden.'

'And taken a knife to them,' Graham said, looking down at Slater's legs and shrugging his

arm free of the light grip which held it.

Slater smiled, put his hands in the pockets of his mutilated jeans. 'There you show your

ignorance, young man. If you had looked carefully, or if you knew enough, you would appreciate

that these are, in fact, specially designed pilot's boots which, with the aid of a couple of zips,

convert into what was doubtless, in the forties, a pretty neat-looking pair of shoes. The whole

point is that if the intrepid aviator got shot down while blasting Gerry out of the skies above

enemy territory, he could simply unzip his boot-legs and have a pair of civilian-looking shoes on

his feet, and thus pass for a native and so escape those dreadful SS men in their tight little

black uniforms. I have merely adapted -'

'You look silly,' Graham interrupted.

'Why you straight old straight,' Slater said. They were walking slowly now; Slater never

liked to rush. Graham was only a little impatient, and he knew better than to try to hurry Slater

up. He had left in plenty of time, there was no hurry. More time to savour. 'I just don't know

_why_ you turn me on at all,' Slater said, then peered closely at the other young man's face and

said pointedly, 'Are you _listening_ to me, Park?'

Graham shook his head, grinning slightly, but said, 'Yes, I'm listening. You don't have

to camp it up with me.'

'Oh my God, pardon _me_,' Slater said melodramatically, one hand fanned over his upper

chest, 'I'm offending the poor hetero boy. Under twenty-one as well; oh _say_ it ain't so!'

'You're a fraud, Richard,' Graham said, turning to look at his friend. 'I sometimes think

you aren't even gay at all. Anyway,' he went on, attempting to increase their pace a little,

'what have you been up to? I haven't seen you around for a couple of days.'

'Ah, the change-of-subject,' Slater laughed, staring ahead. He grimaced and scratched his

short, curly black hair where it stuck out from under his tartan cap. His thin, pale face

contorted as he said, 'Well, I shan't go into the seamy details... the more basic facets of life,

but on a cleaner if more frustrating theme, I have been trying to seduce that lovely Dickson boy

over the last week. You know: the one with the shoulders,'

'What,' Graham said contemptuously, annoyed, 'that tall bloke with the bleached hair in

first year? He's thick,'

'Hmm, well,' Slater said, bobbing his head in an arc - a gesture somewhere between a nod

and a shake - 'thick set, certainly, and not awfully bright, but God those shoulders. That waist,

those hips! I don't care about his head; from the neck down he's a genius,'

'Idiot,' said Graham.

'Trouble is,' Slater mused, 'he either doesn't realise what I'm up to, or he doesn't care.

And he has this awful friend, called Claude... I keep telling _him_ how earthy I think he is, but

he hasn't got it yet. Now he really _is_ thick. I asked him what he thought of Magritte the

other day, and he thought I was talking about some girl in first year. And I _can't_ get him away

from Roger. I shall _die_ if he's gay. I mean if he got there first. I'm sure Roger isn't

really stupid, it's just his friend who's infectious,'

'Ha ha,' Graham said. He always felt slightly uncomfortable when Slater talked about

being gay, though his friend was rarely specific, and Graham was hardly ever directly involved -

he had, for example, only ever met one of Slater's (supposedly many) lovers, at least as far as he

knew.

'Do you know,' Slater said, suddenly brightening, as they crossed John Street, 'I've had

this really good _idea_.'

Graham gritted his teeth: 'Well, what is it this time? Another new religion, or just a

way of making lots of money? Or both?'

'This is a literary idea.'

'If it's _The Sands of Love_, I've already heard it.'

That was a great plot. No, it isn't romantic fiction this time.' They stopped at the

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corner of Gray's Inn Road, waiting for the lights to change. A couple of punks on the far side,

also waiting to cross, were pointing at the oblivious Slater and laughing. Graham looked up at

the skies and sighed.

'Imagine, if you will,' Slater said dramatically, sweeping his arms out wide, 'a -'

'Keep it short,' Graham told him.

Slater looked hurt. 'It's a sort of Byzantine future, a degenerate technocratic empire

with -'

'Oh, not science fiction again.'

'Well, no, it's not really, smart-ass,' Slater said. 'It's a... fable. I could make it a

fairy-tale instead, if I wanted to. Anyway. It's the capital of the empire; a courtier starts a

liaison with one of the princesses; the demands she and the Emperor make on his time get to be too

much, so he secretly has an android made to impersonate him at the endless court rituals and

boring receptions; nobody notices. Later he has the android's brain upgraded so it can cope with

hunting expeditions and personal meetings, even Cabinet discussions with the Emperor present, all

so that he can spend more time dallying with the princess. But he gets killed in some over-

energetic love-play. The android continues to fulfil all its courtly duties and even becomes a

trusted confidant of the Emperor, and the princess discovers it actually makes a better lover than

the original. The android can fit in all its commitments because it never has to sleep. But it

develops a conscience, and has to tell the Emperor the truth. The Emperor smiles, opens up an

inspection panel in his chest and says, "Well, by a funny coincidence..." End of story. Pretty

good, eh? What do you think?'

Graham took a deep breath, thought, then said. 'These pilots: so they could disguise

their boots. What about their uniforms?' He frowned seriously.

Slater stopped, a look of horror and confusion on his face. '_What_?' he said, aghast.

Suddenly Graham realised - with a small, disquieting feeling in his stomach - that they

were standing right outside a place which always made him feel apprehensive.

It was only a small picture-framing shop which sold prints and posters and more-tasteful-

than-average lampshades, but it was the name which held unpleasant associations for Graham:

Stocks. That name chilled him.

Stock was his rival, the great threat, the cloud hanging over him and Sara. Stock the

biker, the macho black-leathered never-properly-seen image of Nemesis. (He had looked up the name

in the London telephone directory; there were one-and-a-half columns of them; enough for quite a

few coincidences, even in a city of six-and-a-half million people.)

Slater was saying, '- to do with it?'

'It just occurred to me,' Graham said defensively. He wished now he hadn't decided to

tease Slater.

'You haven't listened to a word I've said,' Slater gasped. Graham nodded to indicate they

should keep on walking.

'Of course I have,' he said. They passed Terry's fruitstall next, with its smell of fresh

strawberries, then a chemist's. They were at the junction of Clerkenwell Road and Rosebery

Avenue. By the side of Gray's Inn Buildings, which led on up the Avenue, some tall green wooden

hoardings jutted out over part of the street and pavement, shielding some roadworks. Graham and

Slater walked down the narrow alley formed by the seedy, decaying stonework and the painted wood;

Graham saw the grimy glass of cracked windows; fading political posters flapped in a slight

breeze.

'But don't you think it's a laugh?' Slater said, trying to edge round Graham to peer into

his face. Graham avoided his friend's eyes. He wondered if Slater intended to walk the whole way

with him, or whether he was only going as far as the Air Gallery, now only just across the street,

where he sometimes went in the afternoons. Graham didn't mind Slater knowing about Sara - he had

introduced them to each other, after all - but he wanted to keep this day private. Besides, he

got embarrassed at the stares people gave Slater, even if Slater himself didn't seem to notice.

The least he could do, Graham thought, was take off that ridiculous tartan cap.

'It's... all right,' he conceded as they came out from between the decaying buildings and

the green hoardings, 'but...' he smiled and looked at Slater, 'don't give up your day job.'

'And don't you quote my own lines back at me, you young pup!'

'Okay,' Graham said, looking at Slater again. 'Stick to ceramics.'

'You make me sound like a glaze.'

'That's your expression.'

'Oh-ho,' Slater said, 'well, touche, or toushe, anyway.' He stopped by the pedestrian

crossing which led over Rosebery Avenue to the square, red-brick building of the Air Gallery.

Graham turned to face him. 'But don't you like the latest scenario?'

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'Well,' Graham said slowly, deciding he had better say something nice, 'it's good, but

perhaps it needs a little work.'

'Huh,' Slater said, stepping back and rolling his eyes. He came forward again, eyes

narrowed, pushing his face close to Graham's so that the younger man shrank back just a little.'

"A little work", eh? Well, bang goes your commission from the National Portrait Gallery when I'm

famous.'

'Are you going over there?' Graham indicated the far side of the road.

Slater slouched a little and nodded, looking over the road to the gallery.

'I suppose so. You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you?'

'No I'm not.'

'Yes you are. You've been hurrying me all the way.'

'No, I wasn't,' Graham protested. 'It's just that you walk slowly.'

'I was talking to you.'

'Well, I can walk and listen at the same time.'

'Oh, wow, the Gerry Ford of the Art School. Anyway, not to worry; I bet I know where

you're off to, hmm?'

'Oh?' Graham said, trying to look innocent.

'Yes, I can tell,' Slater said. 'Stop trying to look so damn nonchalant.' A smile appeared

on his face like oil surfacing on still water. 'You've got the hots for our Sara, haven't you?'

'Oh, intensely,' Graham said, trying to over-play it; but he could see Slater wasn't taken

in. But it wasn't like that; it wasn't that crude, or even if it was it shouldn't be talked of in

such a way; not now, not yet.

They aren't worth it, kid,' Slater said, shaking his head sadly and wisely. 'She'll let

you down. Later if not now. They always do.'

Graham felt happier with this direct assault; this was just gay misogyny, not even genuine

at that, but another of Slater's roles. He laughed and shook his head.

Slater shrugged and said, 'Well, when it does go wrong, at least you know you _can_ come

running to me.' He patted his right shoulder with his other hand. 'I have very good shoulders for

crying on.'

'Not,' Graham laughed, 'while you're wearing that cap, chum.' Slater narrowed his eyes and

straightened the tartan cap on his head. 'Well,' Graham went on hurriedly, 'I really have to go

now,' and took a couple of steps backwards.

'All right, then,' Slater sighed wistfully. 'Do all the things I wouldn't dream of doing,

but don't forget what your Uncle Richard told you.' He grinned, blew Graham a kiss, waved one

hand, then stepped on to the crossing during a lull in the traffic. Graham waved back, then

walked away. 'Graham!' Slater called suddenly from the other side of the road. He turned to look,

sighing.

Slater stood outside the gallery, in front of one of its large windows. He put one hand

in his jacket pocket, and as he did so his bow tie lit up; the small red stones were really

lights. They flicked on and off. Slater started laughing as Graham shook his head and walked

away up Rosebery Avenue. 'A quick flash!' Slater bellowed in the distance.

Graham laughed to himself, then had to break his stride as a long-haired biker in dirty

denims bumped a large Moto Guzzi across the pavement in front of him and into the courtyard

entrance of the buildings called Rosebery Square. Graham looked darkly at the man pushing the

bike, then shook his head, telling himself not to be so stupid. The man looked nothing like

Stock, the bike was quite different from the big black BMW Stock rode, and anyway omens were

nonsense. Stock's time was over; he could tell that from what Sara had said over the phone that

morning.

He breathed deeply and put his shoulders back, shifted the large black portfolio from one

hand to the other. What a blue sky! What a great day! He thrilled to everything around him, no

matter what; the brightness of the June day, the smell of cheap cooking and exhaust fumes; birds

singing, people talking. Nothing would, nothing _could_ go wrong today; he ought to find a

betting shop and put some money on a horse, he felt so lucky, so good, so in tune.

-MR SMITH-

Sacked!

Lips tight, fists clenched, eyes narrow, breath held, back straight, stomach in, chest

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out, shoulders back, Steven Grout stamped away from the depot he had just been fired from, away

from their stupid job and those awful people. He came to a car parked by the kerb, stopped, took

a deep breath, then walked on. Never mind the name of the road, he thought; they would only

change it. He watched the cars and buses and vans and trucks pass by him, and calculated how far

he had to go to get to the next parked car which would shield him from them.

The pavement had been much repaired, and it was difficult to synchronise his steps so that

the middle of each foot fell exactly on the cracks between the paving stones, but with some

concentration and a few judicious half-steps he managed it; then he came to a long blue-grey line

of asphalt where a pipe had obviously been repaired, and walked along that instead, free from the

worry of the paving stones between the cracks.

He still felt hot and sticky from the attack by the Microwave Gun. He thought back,

again, to the confrontation in Mr Smith's office.

Of course, he had known they would use the Microwave Gun on him; they always did when he

was up in front of somebody, whenever he was at a disadvantage anyway and needed all the help he

could get, whenever he was going for an interview for a job, or being asked things by the Social

Security people or even clerks in the Post Office. That was when they used it on him.

Sometimes they used it on him when he was waiting to be served by a barman, or even when

he was just standing waiting to cross a busy street, but mostly it was when he was talking to

somebody official.

He had recognised the symptoms as he was standing in Mr Smith's office.

His palms were sweating, his forehead was wet and itching, he felt shivery, his voice was

shaky and his heart was beating fast; they were cooking, him with the Microwave Gun, bathing him

in its evil radiations, heating him up so that he broke out in a lathering sweat and looked like a

nervous kid.

Bastards! He'd never found the Gun, of course; they were very clever, very clever and

cunning indeed. He had given up dashing through to adjoining rooms, running to look downstairs or

above, craning his head out of windows to look for hovering helicopters, but he knew they were

there somewhere all right, he knew what they were up to.

So he had to stand there, in the office of the Roadworking Operatives Supervisor in the

Islington Council Seven Sisters Road Highways Department Depot, sweating like a pig and wondering

why they didn't just get on with it and sack him as he listened to Mr Smith and his eyes hurt and

he could smell his own body-odour again.

'... were all hoping that this would not be a continuing situation, Steve,' Mr Smith said,

droning nasally from behind the chip-board desk in his low-ceilinged office on the depot's first

floor, 'and that you would be able to consolidate your position here by forming a positive working

relationship with the remainder of the road gang, who, in all fairness, I'm sure you'd be the

first to agree, have done their very best to, well...'

Mr Smith, a man of about forty with large soft bags under his eyes, leant over his paper-

strewn desk and looked down at the No-Nonsense pen he was fiddling with. Steven watched the pen,

mesmerised for a second.

'I really do think... ah... Steve - oh, and please don't hesitate to interject if you

feel you have anything you wish to articulate; this isn't a star chamber here. I want you to play

a full and meaningful part in this discussion if you feel that thereby we can ah, resolve...'

What was that? He wasn't sure he'd heard that right. Something about a Star Chamber?

What was that? What did it mean? It didn't sound like it fitted in with this period, this

setting, this age or whatever you wanted to call it. Could Mr Smith be another Warrior, or even

further up the hierarchy of Tormentors than he'd thought?

God! Those bastards and that Gun! He could feel sweat start to gather in the lines of

his forehead and in his eyebrows. Soon it would roll down his nose, and then what? They might

think he was crying! It was unbearable! Why didn't they just throw him out? He knew it was what

they wanted to do, what they had planned to do, so why didn't they just _do_ it then?

'... resolve this apparent impasse in some viable way conducive with the efficient

operation of the department. I don't think I'm running a particularly tight ship here, Steve; we

like to think that people will appreciate...'

Steven stood smartly to attention in the middle of the office, his hard hat held tightly

under his right arm, close to his side. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see Dan

Ashton, the road-gang foreman and union representative. Ashton was leaning, thick bronzed arms

folded, against the edge of the doorway. He was about fifty, but the fittest as well as the

oldest man in the gang; he stood there grinning unpleasantly, his cap pushed back on his head, a

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damp, unlit roll-up hanging from his mouth. Grout could detect its soggy odour even over the

smell of Mr Smith's _Aramis_.

Ashton had never liked him either. None of them did, even the one or two who didn't

continually make fun of him and tease him and play jokes on him.

'... over backwards to accommodate you, but it really does look, I'm afraid, as though

this incident with the canal and the cat has to be just about the last straw... ah... Steve. I

understand from Mr Ashton here -' Smith nodded at the older man, who pursed his lips and nodded

back, '- that Mr ah...' Mr Smith looked at some of the papers on his desk for a moment,'... ah

yes. Mr Partridge had to go to hospital for a tetanus injection and stitches after you struck him

with a shovel. Now, we don't think he's going to press charges, but you must realise that if he

did you would in fact be facing a charge of assault, and coming as this does on top of your other

verbal and written warnings - all within, I'm afraid to say, Steve,' Mr Smith sat back in his seat

with a sigh and flicked through a few more of the papers on his desk, shaking his head at them, 'a

very short interval of time considering the length of your employment with us, and all regarding

previous lapses in

Partridge! He wished he'd knocked his head right off. Calling him those names! Bastard,

was he? Mad, was he? Simple, eh? That fat Cockney with his stupid tattoos and his jocular

manner and his dirty jokes; he should have dumped _him_ in the canal!

The sweat was gathering in his brows, getting ready to slide down his nose and make a

dewdrop at the end which would either stay there wobbling about very obviously and making him want

to sneeze, or force him to draw attention to it by wiping it away. To wipe his brow would be a

sign of weakness, too, though; he _wouldn't_ do it! Let them see his proud contempt! They

wouldn't break him, oh no! He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

'... appreciated what you have said about not really meaning to offend anybody, I just

can't square this version of accounts with that of your workmates, Steve, who insist, I'm afraid,

that you seemed quite serious about back-filling the canal with the tarmac allocated for laying on

Colebrook... ah... Colebrook Row, in fact. As for Mrs Morgan's cat, all we can do is -'

They were talking about cats, to him! One of the mightiest warlords in the history of

existence, and they were talking about bloody cats! Oh, how the mighty were fallen, right enough!

The sweat left his right eyebrow. It didn't roll down his nose; it went straight into his

eye instead. A terrible, furious, impotent anger filled him, making him want to strike out, to

shout and scream. He couldn't do that, though; he had to keep cool, despite the Microwave Gun,

and only answer back, if even that. Discipline; that was important.

'... but I take it you have nothing else to say?' Mr Smith said, and stopped talking.

Grout sucked in his breath; was he supposed to say something? Why didn't people make things

clear? What was the point, though? Might as well get the whole thing over with as fast as

possible.

'I was only kidding!' he heard himself say.

It had just leaped out! But it was true; it was only a sign of their stupidity - or their

fear? - that they were taking him so seriously. Of course he hadn't been going to fill the bloody

canal in! It would have taken him all day even if they'd had enough tarmac in the back of the

pickup! It was all just a sort of angry joke because the rest of the gang, and Ashton in

particular, wouldn't agree with him about the best way to fill holes in. But they would see;

those holes they'd patched in Upper Street at the start of the morning shift would soon show who

was right!

Of course, he knew speaking out would do no good, but he couldn't help it sometimes. He

had to tell people when they were doing things the wrong way.

It was more than he could bear to see the stupidity around him and just suffer it in

silence. That would drive him to madness, to the place they most wanted him, the place in which

it would be even more difficult to find the Key; an institution, a hospital where they filled you

up with all sons of disgusting drugs and deliberately kept you as stupid as the rest. That was

part of their game, of course; leave him to search for the way to escape, but alone. If he

started trying to find any others like him, other Warriors, they would have an excuse for locking

him away. It was fiendishly clever.

'... really excuse your actions Steve. Let's be fair, now; I don't expect it makes much

difference to Mrs Morgan, or her cat,' Mr Smith said, and a small smile played over his lips as he

glanced at Dan Ashton, who grunted and looked down at his feet while Smith continued, 'whether you

were joking or in deadly seriousness.'

The other eyebrow discharged its sweat, rolling it down into Grout's other eye. He

blinked furiously, almost blinded, eyes red and stinging. Intolerable!

'... typing your final written warning now, but really, Steve, without wishing to sound

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patronising in any way or form, I really do think you're going to have to mend your ways very

considerably indeed if you're to -'

'Right!' Steven shouted hoarsely, shaking his head, sniffing hard and blinking all at the

same time. 'My contempt for all... all of you is just _it_! I resign! I won't give you the

satisfaction! I quit; I resign; I throw in the towel! There, I've said it before you did! Don't

tell me I couldn't; I'm stronger than you know!' He could feel his lips trembling; he fought to

control them. Mr Smith sighed and leaned forward over his desk.

'Now, Steve -' he began tiredly.

'Don't you "Now Steve" me!' Grout shouted, standing there and quivering. 'It's "_Mr

Grout_" to you. I'm resigning; give me my papers! I demand my papers; where are my papers?' He

stepped forward towards Mr Smith's desk. Smith sat back, surprised. Grout saw him exchange looks

with Dan Ashton, and thought he could see the older man nod, or give some sort of sign or signal

to Mr Smith. Certainly the foreman was no longer leaning against the door-jamb; he was standing

properly now, arms unfolded. Maybe he thought Steven was going to offer some violence to Mr

Smith; well, let them fear! He'd show them! He wasn't frightened of any of them.

'I really do think you're being a little rash in this - ' Mr Smith began, but Steven

interrupted,

'I believe I asked for my papers, _please_! I shan't leave without my papers. _And_ my

money! Where are they? I know my rights!'

'Steve, I think you're allowing your understandable - ' Mr Smith began, pushing his chair

back from his desk slightly. The sunlight glinted on his discreet SDP lapel-badge.

'Enough!' Steven shouted. He took another step forward, and with his right hand made as

though to hit Mr Smith's desk. His hard hat, held in the crook of his right arm, fell out from

between his arm and his side and hit the floor, rolling briefly. Steven stooped quickly and

retrieved it, banging his head sharply on the front edge of Mr Smith's desk as he straightened.

He rubbed his head rapidly, feeling his face turning red. Damn that Gun!

Mr Smith was on his feet now. Dan Ashton had come forward, and was leaning over from the

side of Smith's desk, whispering something into his boss's ear. Grout glared at them both as he

rubbed his smarting head. Oh, it was easy to see what they were both up to!

'Well,' Mr Smith began, a pained expression on his face as he turned to look at Grout

again, 'if that's the way you really feel. Steve...'

Dan Ashton had smiled thinly.

So he'd won in the end. He hadn't given them the satisfaction of firing him there and

then; he'd shown them the contempt he felt for them... let them suffer!

A strange fierce joy had filled him after that, and he hadn't really heard anything Ashton

or Smith had said to him. They'd given him some papers, and somebody had gone to the cashier for

his money (it made a nice fat bulge in his hip pocket; he patted it now and again as he walked,

just to make sure it was still there) and eventually he'd signed some papers. He hadn't wanted to

sign anything, but they had said they wouldn't give him any money unless he did, so he'd pretended

to read the papers carefully, and then signed them.

Ashton had tried to see him out after that, and even wanted to shake hands with him, but

Steven had spat at his feet and made a rude sign at him.

'You bad little fucker,' Ashton had said, which was typical of him. Steven had told him

he was a foul-mouthed ignoramus, and stuffed his various papers and forms quickly into his trouser

pockets and walked off. 'Here!' Ashton had shouted after him as he strode down Seven Sisters Road,

head held high, 'Your P45. You dropped it!' At least that was what Steven thought he had shouted;

it might have been a different number, but it was something like that. He had glanced back, to

see Ashton standing at the depot gates, waving a piece of paper at him. Grout turned away,

straightened his back and brought his head up, ignoring Ashton pointedly as he walked proudly

away.

Ashton had started after him; Steven heard his trotting steps behind him; so he ran,

ignoring the older man's shouts until eventually he outdistanced him. Ashton had shouted one last

thing at him, but Steven had been too far away, breathing deeply, an expression of triumph on his

face. He'd got away from them. It was a small escape, a little rehearsal, but it was something.

So now he walked, still angry with them, but glad to be away, glad to have salvaged

something from yet another of their attempts to grind him down, make him feel small, drive him

into despair.

They wouldn't succeed that easily! They had surrounded him with horror and stupidity,

with all the paraphernalia of this so-called-human excess, and they expected it to bring him down,

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to reduce him still further from the once proud state he had fallen from, but they would not

succeed. They were trying to wear him down, but they would fail; he would find the Key, he would

find the Way Out and escape from this... joke, this awful solitary confinement for Heroes; lie

would leave them all behind and take his rightful place in the greater reality again.

He had Fallen, but he would Rise.

There was a war somewhere. He didn't know where. Not a place you could necessarily get

to by travelling anywhere from here, late Twentieth Century London, Earth, but somewhere,

sometime. It was the ultimate war, the final confrontation between Good and Evil, and he had

played a major part in the war. But something had gone wrong, he had been betrayed, lost a battle

with the forces of chaos and been ejected from the real battleground to languish here, in this

cesspit they called 'life'.

It was part punishment, part test. He could fail entirely, of course, and be demoted

still further, with no hope of escape. That was what _they_ wanted, the ones who controlled the

whole seedy show; the Tormentors.

They seemed to want him to try and call their bluff, to stand up and say: 'Right, I know

what it's all about, you can drop the pretence. Come out wherever you are and let's get it over

with', but he knew better than that. He had learned that lesson as a child, when the others had

laughed at him, and they sent him to see the school shrink. He wasn't going to try that again.

He wondered how many people in all the mental hospitals in the country - or the world,

come to that - were really fallen Warriors who had either cracked up from the strain of trying to

live in this hell-hole, or simply made the wrong choice and thought that the test was just seeing

through the whole thing and then having the courage to stand out and make that challenge.

Well, he wasn't going to end up like one of those poor bastards. He would see it through,

he would find the Way Out. And he might not even stop at simply escaping; he might just smash up

the whole foul contraption of their testing and imprisonment apparatus - this 'life' - while he

was about it.

He was starting to feel faint. He had about another ten paces to go to the next parked

car, within the wheelbase of which he would be safe from the laser-axles of the passing traffic.

All the traffic, every single vehicle which passed him was equipped with lasers in its

axles; they could register a hit on his legs unless he was above them, or shielded by a wall, or

between the wheels of a parked car, or holding his breath. Of course, he knew that the lasers

didn't hurt; you couldn't see them and they did no harm by themselves, but he knew that they were

another of the ways that they - the Tormentors - took points off him. He knew all this from

dreams, and from having worked it out. As a child he had done the same thing, as a game;

something to make life more interesting, give it some purpose... then he had begun to have dreams

about it, to come to realise that it was _real_, that he had had an insight when he started to

play the game. He _had_ to do it now; it felt horrible and uncomfortable when he tried to stop,

even just to see what it was like walking down a street breathing 'normally'. It was like the

feeling he used to get when he played another game from his childhood; that of closing his eyes

and walking for a certain number of steps along, say, a wide path in a park. No matter how

certain he might be immediately before he closed his eyes that there was plenty of space in front

of him, no matter how positive he was as he walked with eyes closed that he wasn't veering off to

one side and there was tarmac under his feet rather than grass, he still found it very hard,

almost impossible, to walk more than about twenty paces with his eyes closed. He would be

certain, positive, that he was about to walk into a tree, or a post or sign he hadn't noticed;

even that somebody had been watching from behind a tree and was about to leap out and punch him

hard on the nose.

Better to keep your eyes open; better to trust your instincts and take deep breaths

between the parked cars. You couldn't be too careful.

He got to the car and stopped opposite it, breathing deeply. He took off his hard hat and

wiped his brow, after checking for scaffolding. The safety helmet was another of his discoveries,

his good ideas. He knew how vulnerable people's heads were, and how important his own was. He

knew _they_ would just love to arrange a little 'accident' with some spanner or brick falling from

a building, or, more plausibly still, from some scaffolding. So he had worn that hard hat, since

even before he left the home. No matter what the job was, or what else he might be doing, he wore

the hat when he was outside. They had laughed at him in the road gang; who did he think he was?

they said. Poncy engineers wore hard hats everywhere, not your labourers. Or was he frightened

of pigeons then? Going a bit thin on top as well as inside, eh? Ha ha. Let them laugh. They

wouldn't get the hat off him. He had two spare hats in his room just in case he ever lost his

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usual one, or somebody stole it. People had done that before now, too.

He started walking again, treading carefully on the cracks between the paving stones. A

careful, steady stride was very important, anyway. Good for the breathing and the heart rate.

People stared at him sometimes, jumping from one paving stone border to another, then

taking some mincing little half-steps over others, his face going strange colours as he ran out of

stored air in his lungs, sweating under a hard hat with no construction sites anywhere in

evidence, but he didn't care. They'd be sorry, one day.

As he walked, he wondered what he would do today with his new-found freedom. He had lots

of money; perhaps he would get drunk... the pubs would be open soon. He supposed he ought to go

and sign on; let the unemployment people know he was out of a job again. He wished he could

remember what you were supposed to do when you wanted to register as unemployed, but he always

forgot. Obviously the whole unemployment, Social Security system had been set up to confuse,

anger and demoralise him. He kept meaning to take notes, write down all the separate moves you

were meant to make, forms fill out, offices visit, people see, but he always forgot. Anyway, he

always told himself that this would be the last time; this time he would find some really good job

in which he would get on really well and his talents would be appreciated and people would like

him and he would surprise all his Tormentors, so there would be no reason to go through the whole

fraught and sapping business of signing on again. He wondered vaguely about going back to Mrs

Short's boarding house and getting a pen and paper.

He would go back to his room. He always felt better there, and he still felt like a good

wash; he needed to get rid of all this sweat and clamminess, wash all the dust and the lead off

his face and hands. He could do that back at Mrs Short's. He would gain strength from being back

with his books, his bed and his little bits and pieces. He could have a look at the Evidence,

again; that would be good. He could start re-reading a book.

He had a lot of books. Most of them were Science Fiction or Fantasy. He had long ago

realised that if he was going to find any clues to the whereabouts of the Way Out, the location or

identity of the Key, there was a good chance he might get some ideas from that type of writing.

He knew this from the way he felt attracted to it.

It was a contemptuous sop of a clue, something they thought they could afford, but it

might be useful. Obviously they thought that by letting this sort of thing out they would have an

excuse for putting him away if he ever attempted to call their bluff. 'Ha!' they would be able to

say, 'Crazy; read too much SF. Bonkers; let us put him away and keep him under sedation and have

done with him.' That was the way their minds worked.

That realisation was supposed to put him off, but he was too clever for them. He bought

all the most fantastic 'unrealistic' fiction he could find and afford; by the rules they must have

hidden a clue away in it somewhere. One day he would open up a book - some new sword-and-sorcery

trilogy, probably - and something he would read there would trigger what he knew was locked away

in his own brain somewhere. It might be the name of a character (there was one already he was

sure sounded familiar; it was one of his bits of Evidence), it might be the description of a place

or a sequence of events... all he needed was that Key.

Escapism, they called it. Oh, they were clever all right!

His room was full of books; thick, dog-eared, broken-spined gaudy-covered paperbacks.

They lay on the floor, stacked on their sides because he didn't have any proper shelves. The

floor of his room was like a maze, with tower-blocks of books, whole walls of them set out on the

thin carpet and holed linoleum so that only small corridors for him to walk in remained between

them. He could go from bed to window and table, to cupboard and door and fire and wash-handbasin,

but only by certain routes. Making the bed was difficult. Pulling the drawers in the cupboard

out properly needed great care. Coming back to the place drunk, especially when he couldn't find

the light switch, was horrendous; he would wake to a sight like Manhattan after a severe

earthquake. In paperback.

But it was worth it. He needed both those avenues of escape; drink because it felt like

escape, a way out of their fetid reality for a while... and the books because they soothed, they

offered hope. He might lose himself in the books sometimes, but he might find the Key there, too.

A car he was heading for to draw his next breath suddenly drove off. Steven cursed

inwardly and had to step up on to a low wall above the height of the laser-axles to empty and fill

his lungs again. He got down from the wall and walked on.

He'd show them all, one day. All the people who had taunted him and hurt him and confused

him and denied him. Even the ones whose names he had forgotten. When he found the Key he'd get

them. People like Mr Smith, Dan Ashton and Partridge. He'd find that Way Out, but he wouldn't

leave until he'd found them again and sorted them out. They'd pay all right.

Couldn't even take a joke. Throw a shovelful of tarmac into the canal and they went to

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Iain Banks - Walking on Glass

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