The Flood by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: English First Novelists, Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780948275098
Publisher: Edinburgh : Polygon, 1986.
Published: 1986-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

'A cup of coffee, Mr Ancram?' asked Darroch, proud of his efficiency in the matter. Mr Ancram shook his head, still wafting his hands.

'I don't drink the stuff,' he informed the minister. 'It is an irritant.' Darroch looked at the man, making a mental note that Mr Ancram had not yet invited the new minister to address him by his Christian name, whatever that might be. Mr Ancram looked at his watch. 'Actually, I'd better be off,' he said. 'I've to pick up my wife from the supermarket in Kirkcaldy. She's doing the month's shopping.' Darroch nodded, spooning one of milk and two of coffee (just to spite the man) into a cup. 'I'm sorry I won't be here to help you move in the rest of your belongings,' Mr Ancram apologised. 'I'll drop round later and see how you're managing. Bye now.'

'Goodbye, Mr Ancram,' said Darroch, 'and thanks for your help.' He ignored the man's exit and rummaged in another, smaller box until he found the packet of cream biscuits. He

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smiled to himself. Luxury. He went through to the living room and sat in the large fireside chair. A wind was blowing through the open window. It was a good breeze. Darroch sat and drank his coffee. It was far too strong. He considered his new surroundings. It did not really matter where he was Crail, Oxgangs, Carsden - the situation and the realities were the same. The Church was in a state of acute decay, which seemed to run hand in hand with the decay of the communities. Which came first? Did either? It seemed to him that a larger, much more potent force was at work, and it was a force of evil. He could not feel God in this town. It would be his job to bring God back to these people, who were more walking shadows than real flesh and blood. The Church had become lazy. Aching gashes had opened up which now needed filling. God, let him do his job well enough. He sucked crumbs from his fingers and prayed.

Every summer, Andy Wallace began reading Cervantes' Don Quixote, and every summer he failed to finish it. He saw no reason why this summer should be any different. He had been reading the book for about three hours when he felt his eyes and his mind falling from the page. He read two pages more, but could not, having read them, remember the slightest detail of their content. He put the book down and sat staring into space. He was thinking about Mary. He was thinking about the problem he must help her surmount. There were sex manuals in his house, little more than masturbation fodder, but he had reread them anyway. They threw little light on the dilemma. He sat in his study, which had now become almost his whole existence. He had work to do. Apart from the Cervantes book, there were exercises to be set, essays and exam papers to be marked, and the part completed novel which had been sitting untouched in a drawer for three months.

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