Banks, Iain - The Wasp Factory by Banks Iain

Author:Banks, Iain
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

So I got to even up the score and have a wonderful, if demanding, week of fun acting. The flowers that I had still been clutching when they carried me back to the house had been prised from my fingers and left in a plastic bag on top of the fridge. I discovered them there, shrivelled and dead, forgotten and unnoticed, two weeks later. I took them for the shrine in the loft one night, and have them to this day, little brown twists of dried plant like old Sellotape, stuck in a little glass bottle. I wonder sometimes where my cousin ended up; at the bottom of the sea, or washed on to some craggy and deserted shore, or blown on to a high mountain face, to be eaten by gulls or eagles....

I would like to think that she died still being floated by the giant kite, that she went round the world and rose higher as she died of starvation and dehydration and so grew less weighty still, to become, eventually, a tiny skeleton riding the jetstreams of the planet; a sort of Flying Dutchwoman. But I doubt that such a romantic vision really matches the truth.

I spent most of Sunday in bed. After my binge of the previous night, I wanted rest, lots of liquid, little food, and my hangover to go away. I felt like deciding then and there never to get drunk again, but being so young I decided that this

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was probably a little unrealistic, so I determined not to get _that_ drunk again.

My father came and banged at my door when I didn't appear for breakfast.

'And what's wrong with you, as if I need ask?'

'Nothing,' I croaked at the door.

'That'll be right,' my father said sarcastically. 'And how much did you have to drink last night?'

'Not much.'

'Hnnh,' he said.

'I'II be down soon,' I said, and rocked to and fro in the bed to make noises which might make it sound as though I was getting up.

'Was that you on the phone last night?'

'What?' I asked the door, stopping my rocking.

'It was, wasn't it ? I thought it was you; you were trying to disguise your voice.

What were you doing ringing at that time?'

'Aah... I don't remember ringing, Dad, honest,' I said carefully.

'Hnnh. You're a fool, boy,' he said, and clumped off down the hall. I lay there, thinking. I was quite sure I hadn't called the house the previous night. I had been with Jamie in the pub, then with him and the girl outside, then alone when I was running, and then with Jamie and later him and his mother, then I walked home almost sober. There were no blank spots. I assumed it must have been Eric calling. From the sound of it my father couldn't have spoken to him for very long, or he would have recognised his son's voice. I lay back in my bed, hoping

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