Pandaemonium (9 page)

Only those perceived as having been directly affected by the incident were offered places on the trip: that meant those who had actually witnessed it and, of those who didn’t, those who were close to the parties involved. Out of Caitlin’s close friends, only Claire had been in the social area that day, but she had gone down with appendicitis on Wednesday and gave up her place to someone else. A lot of people were in a similar situation, isolated from the security of their normal social circle. It would be wisest to room with a group of girls none of whom were particularly close, as they’d give each other a bit of space; while the scenario to avoid was to end up playing gooseberry to a clique.

One of the first rooms she sees is a two-bedded affair. As she draws nearer the door and is able to see further inside, she observes that Samantha Coulter has been sharp of eye
and
fleet of foot. Caitlin looks away before eye contact can be made, so that she doesn’t subject herself to the awkwardness or embarrassment of Samantha even thinking that she might have designs on the other berth in that room. They both know that the second bed is earmarked for no mere mortal. Try steerage, down the hall.

She sees the vanguard of the wayward gaggle pouring through the fire doors into the female block, and quickly skips inside a four-bedded room across the corridor. She unburdens herself of her rucksack, placing it on the bed nearest the window, and stands by, hoping for the best, bracing against the worst. A short few seconds later, Bernadette sticks her head around the door and, upon conducting a quick bed-count, hastily ushers Rosemary and Maria in to join her.

Oh God, no. No, no, no, no, no. She got here first, she had the whole deck to play with but she’s ended up bust.

It could have been worse, she tells herself. She could have found herself the designated whipping-dweeb in a room otherwise occupied by the likes of Deborah, Gillian, Yvonne, Julie and Theresa. So yeah, chin up, it really could have been worse.

Rosemary places her guitar case down on her bed alongside her holdall, from which she proceeds to remove a plastic two-litre bottle of sparkling mineral water. With the bag unzipped, Caitlin can’t help but see inside, where her eye is drawn to a large-folio paperback volume entitled
Fifty Hymns for the Guitar
.

All right, now it
is
worse.

God, what a waste if she ends up with Michelle. Nothing against the lassie, but she wouldn’t say boo to a goose so she’s hardly going to be the life and soul, staying up late, sloshing back the swally and turning folk’s hair white with her mental stories.

But oh, thank Christ. She sees Gillian up ahead, through a wire-meshed safety pane in the fire doors, Julie at her back. They’re both turning to their left, her right, so she knows which way to make for.

She feels herself walk that bit faster, but she doesn’t want to make it look like she’s literally running away from Michelle, so she restrains herself. It’s all fine, no rush. Gillian will keep her a place.

Seconds later, the sight that greets Deborah goes from dismaying to totally pathetic in the space of about two seconds. There’s four beds, all taken. She clocks the situation, understands it’s an ‘if you’re not fast, you’re last’ number: the hand she was dealt when her bag decided it fancied a wee wander around the luggage hold. It’s a disappointment, a punch in the gut, in fact, but it’s the others’ reaction that’s worse. Nobody says
anything
. It’s not like she’s due an apology or nothing, but this makes it all the more awkward. There’s this pitiful silence, everybody just standing with their glaikit expressions, not knowing what to say, all tensed up and kind of guilty, like they’re afraid she’ll start crying or like that way when you’ve just been talking about somebody and she walks in.

Actually, maybe not everybody’s quite so glaikit: is that a hint of - fucking better
not
be - a smirk on Julie’s fat coupon? Is as well. She’s loving this, the fucking cow.

‘First come, first served,’ Deborah says. Got to acknowledge the practicalities and make out it’s no big thing, because there’s a weird vibe, like it’s somehow turning
into
a big thing, and a big thing that’s putting the four of them in one camp and her alone in the other.

‘Doesn’t matter where you’re sleeping, the carry-on will still be in here, the five of us,’ says Gillian. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it actually makes Deborah’s hackles rise. She feels like she’s being talked down to, a charity case. She doesn’t understand why, but she suddenly feels like she hates Gillian right now. She also feels a lump in her throat, which is pathetic, and something she utterly can’t let develop. If anyone notices her voice tremble, never mind shed a tear, it’s a disaster. This is so weird. Where’s this all coming from?

She manages a smile and swallows before speaking. ‘Bloody right,’ she says. ‘I chipped in for that carry-out. I’ll find somewhere to dump my stuff and I’ll see yous all back here in a wee minute.’

‘Aye, okay,’ says Gillian.

‘See you in a bit,’ Theresa goes.

And it would have been fine, but then Julie weighs in.

‘I saw a bed free in Marianne’s room.’

That’s all she says. She doesn’t add anything, doesn’t lay on any emphasis, but there’s something about it that’s definitely meant as damage, maybe just the fact of underlining to everybody where Deborah is going to end up.

She feels pure acid welling inside, a no-holds retort, but stops herself saying it; stops herself losing it. If she says something, she’s just further underlining that she’s the sad-case here, papped out the club and stuck with Marianne. Besides, if she has a go at Julie, she’s as good as having a go at all of them, because once it’s over, it’s Julie who’s going to be on the same side of the door as the other three.

‘I’ll phone if I need rescued from being a human sacrifice,’ she says.

‘Aye, okay,’ says Gillian.

‘No lezzin’ it up with the vampire, but,’ goes Yvonne.

‘We’ll be checking your neck for bite marks in the morning.’

‘If it’s a lezzie vampire, it’s no’ her neck you’ll need to check,’ goes Julie.

Deborah withdraws from the room quickly but not, she hopes, conspicuously so, turning away so that they can’t see her face is burning. The tips of her ears feel hot, which only happens when she’s got a pure beamer or is totally raging. On this occasion, it’s both. Who were they calling a fucking lezzie? She must think more about sex than any of them, than all of them put together. And as for Julie, Deborah might not have done it yet, but at least she was in with a chance. That fat hump was never getting a shag. Fat ugly boot was the one that
looked
like a lesbian. Aye, maybe that was it. They did say the folk who’d something to hide were the first to be making accusations. Though even if Julie
was
a fat ugly lesbian, she still wasn’t getting a ride, not even off of another fat ugly lesbian.

‘It’s shite, but, innit?’ says Yvonne.

‘Aye,’ Gillian agrees, but she’s relieved that Deborah is gone. It was weird: she felt a bit guilty, but at the same time resented feeling that way, and wished Deborah would just fuck off and not stand there making everything awkward.

‘Is she really gaunny be stuck with Marianne?’ Yvonne asks.

‘Or is that a wind-up?’

‘Straight up,’ Julie replies, with a look that is about ninety per cent appalled and ten per cent delighted.

‘It was the only room left with any beds free,’ Gillian confirms.

‘No surprise, I suppose,’ says Theresa.

‘Need to watch Deborah doesn’t get, you know, infected with the Goth virus,’ Yvonne says.

‘If she comes out in the morning dressed in fishnets and her hair dyed jet black,’ adds Theresa, ‘we need to stage an intervention before she starts to self-harm.’

‘Aye,’ Gillian says, joining in. ‘Anybody hears her humming a My Chemical Romance song, that’s it, she doesnae get back in this room. We have to stop it spreading.’

They’re all pure gutting themselves now, and Gillian doesn’t feel guilty. None of them do. Every one of them knows it could have been them and is grateful it wasn’t, because every one of them also knows it’s devil-take-the-hindmost, no quarter asked or given. No fun being in unless somebody’s out.

Aye. Well seeing he’s on his tod in there. Nobody wants anything to do with him, but what’s annoying is that that’s actually how the fucking oddity likes it.

Kirk drops his shoulder bag to the floor, so that Matt turns round and sees him. He looks away again immediately, which is how Kirk knows he’s been noticed. That’s as much eye contact as you’d ever get from the boy anyway: just wee glances to absorb the minimum amount of information about the social aspect of his environment. That’s what it said in the paper, anyway, in a piece he read about a guy that made him think of Matt. Asperger’s Syndrome, the guy’s condition was called. Kirk doesn’t know if that’s what Matt’s got, but he certainly recognised a few of the symptoms. Big fancy name for what used to just be called being an ignorant cunt. ‘Good with numbers, not with people,’ that’s what he overheard one of the teachers say about Matt. So, what, is he meant to be fucking Rain Man or something? Kirk’s not buying it. There’s something calculating and cold about the bastard. He’s not some harmless doo-lally numpty like Davie O’Hara: that boy’s soft in the head and soft in the heart. Everybody likes Davie, and Kirk had handed out a couple of panellings to folk that tried to rip the pish out of him. But Matt is a different story. Unlike Davie, he isn’t weird thon way that he looks like his mammy dresses him. There’s something precise about his clothing and appearance that’s worse than those preening fuds Liam and Jason.

Kirk had never really noticed him much until maybe a year or so back. He went to a different primary school from Kirk and he wasn’t in any of his classes until third year. You
wouldn’t
notice him, that’s the thing. More like you become gradually aware of him. It’s creepy, anyone being so quiet, blending into the walls. Kirk doesn’t like mouthy bastards either, but there’s a happy medium, and this freaky cock comes across like he’s above talking to anybody - which made it all the more galling who he
did
fucking talk to.

Naw. Matt’s a far different story to wee daft Davie. This yin knows what he’s all about. That’s why Kirk isnae buying all the shite about him being just caught in the middle of what happened to Dunnsy. He’s a sly bastard as well as a smart one, and Kirk’s fucking well on to him now.

He stands with his arms folded, just staring, watching to see what Matt will do. He’s got his back to the door still, looking down at his bed where his rucksack is parked, but he’s not taking anything out of it. His head is down but Kirk guesses he’s not looking at the bag or the bed. He’ll be staring at the floor, looking for a reflection or a shadow that will tell him whether Kirk has moved away. Shiting it. Good. Get used to the feeling, ya weirdo prick.

Then a voice intrudes into the moment.

‘You finding yourselves rooms all right there, boys?’

It’s Mr Kane, subtly making everybody aware that he knows the score.

‘Getting there, sir,’ says Dazza, giving Kirk a look that’s asking for a skelp in the dish, still fucking sour-faced that Kirk had held them back.

Kirk lifts his bag from the floor. ‘Cannae find the bellhop,’ he says. ‘I’ll be writing a strongly worded letter to the management.’

Mr Kane gives him back a thin smile, not letting him walk away thinking they can both kid on he never saw nothing there. Fuck, why did it have to be Mr Kane? Guthrie, bring it on - he’d mix it with that purple-heided wannabe sergeant-major bastard all day, and the more authority he tried to wield, the less seriously Kirk took him. But Mr Kane was different gravy, the one guy he genuinely didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

Kirk walks away, resisting the temptation to have a look back; at Mr Kane
or
Matt Wilson. No need to incur unnecessary complications. Nothing’s changed: that fucker’s time is coming. All the better, in fact, if he knows it, and has a wee while to dwell on that. Aye, sleep well not knowing when or where you’re getting yours, ya weirdo cunt.