Read Online The wasp factory: a novel by Iain Banks - Free Book Online Page B

have no access to it, and have to cart metres of black metal piping back from the town and sweat and labour over it, bending it and cutting it and boring it and crimping it and bending it again, straining with it in the vice until the bench and shed creak with my efforts. I suppose it's a craft in some ways, and certainly it is quite skilled, but I get bored with it sometimes, and only thinking of the use I'll put those little black torpedoes to keeps me heaving and bending away.
    I tidied everything away and cleaned the shed up after my bomb-making activity, then went in for dinner.
    'They're searching for him,' my father said suddenly, in between mouthfuls of cabbage and soya chunks. His dark eyes flickered at me like a long sooty flame, then he looked down again. I drank some of the beer I had opened. The new batch of home-brew tasted better than the last lot, and stronger.
    'Eric?'
    'Yes, Eric. They're looking for him on the moors.'
    'On the moors?'
    'They think he might be on the moors.'
    'Yes, that would account for them looking for him there.'
    'Indeed,' my father nodded. 'Why are you humming?'
    I cleared my throat and kept on eating my burgers, pretending I hadn't heard him properly.
    'I was thinking,' he said, then spooned some more of the green-brown mixture into his face and chewed for a long time. I waited to hear what he was going to say next. He waved his spoon slackly, pointing it vaguely upstairs, then said: 'How long would you say the flex on the telephone is?'
    'Loose or stretched?' I said quickly, putting down my glass of beer. He grunted and said nothing else, going back to his plate of food, apparently satisfied if not pleased. I drank.
    'Is there anything special you'd like me to order from the town?' he said eventually, as he rinsed his mouth with real orange juice. I shook my head, drank my beer.
    'No, just the usual,' I shrugged.
    'Instant potatoes and beefburgers and sugar and mince pies and cornflakes and junk like that, I suppose.' My father sneered slightly, though it was said evenly enough.
    I nodded. 'Yes, that'll do fine. You know my likes.'
    'You don't eat properly. I should have been more strict with you.'
    I didn't say anything, but kept on eating slowly. I could tell that my father was looking at me from the other end of the table, swilling his juice round in his glass and staring at my head as I bent over my plate. He shook his head and got up from the table, taking his plate to the sink to rinse it. 'Are you going out tonight?' he asked, turning on the tap.
    'No. I'II stay in tonight. Go out tomorrow night.'
    'I hope you won't be getting steaming drunk again. You'll be arrested some night and then where will we be?' He looked at me. 'Eh?'
    'I don't go getting steaming drunk,' I assured him. 'I just have a drink or two to be sociable and that's all.'
    'Well, you're very noisy when you come back for somebody who's only been sociable, so you are.' He looked at me darkly again and sat down.
    I shrugged. Of course I get drunk. What the hell's the point of drinking if you don't get drunk? But I'm careful; I don't want to cause any complications.
    'Well, just you be careful, then. I always know how much you've had from your farts.' He snorted, as though imitating one.
    My father has a theory about the link between mind and bowel being both crucial and very direct. It's another of his ideas which he keeps trying to interest people in; he has a manuscript on the subject ('The State of the Fart') which he also sends away to London to publishers now and again and which they of course send back by return. He has variously claimed that from farts he can tell not only what people have eaten or drunk, but also the sort of person they are, what they ought to eat, whether they are emotionally unstable or upset, whether they are keeping secrets, laughing at you behind your back or trying to ingratiate themselves with you, and even what they are thinking about at the precise moment they issue the fart (this