‘You look in?’ Adnan asks, referring to the fact that Cameron’s trip to the improvised drinks bar - tended by the cheerful Mrs McKenzie from the side door of her kitchen - had taken him past the dining room.
‘Aye. Still empty.’
They both laugh, not meaning Radar any harm. Mad bastard’s in his element in there anyway, but there’s a bit of a Catch-22. He’s taking advantage of no bugger turning up yet to bang out a load of his own faves, but the problem is that he isn’t going to tempt anyone into the hall while that stuff is playing. Glasvegas, for fuck’s sake. Muse. Korn. That said, not all of what Radar’s put on has been reveller-repellent: there’s some good danceable stuff in there, but you’ve got to call canny.
Cameron just hopes Radar doesn’t blow his wad too early by playing ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’ while there’s still tumbleweed blowing about the place. He and Radar made their own dance mix of it on Radar’s PC a couple of months back. Took them the best part of a weekend. Album version lasts sixteen minutes; theirs is pushing half an hour, but it’s fucking amazing. Perfect for a night like this. He really, really wants to dance to it, lose himself in it, but it would be all the better if it wasn’t fucking Radar, Ewan or Adnan he ended up dancing with.
Hence the cans of Irn-Bru containing nothing but Irn-Bru. A lot of folk are looking forward to getting leathered, and it’s tempting for a laugh, but not as tempting as other possibilities. He wants to stay straight tonight, at least until being forced to accept there’s no chance of getting off with anybody. So he’ll probably be steaming by half-ten.
Radar’s making a timely plea for company by flinging on ‘Human’, the floor-filler from the Killers. There’s a bit of through-traffic in reception now, a few bodies piling into the hall. Cameron sees Ewan making his way towards him, Matt in tow. Ewan makes a subtle wee gesture for Cameron’s benefit by circling his thumb and forefinger, which is when he notices Deso not so far behind. Ewan’s been talking about scoring a bit of blow, and he must have got it sorted. Cameron isn’t that fussed. Cannae be arsed going outdoors, for one thing, to say nothing of the hassle playing the ball-and-cups game with Deso, Fizzy, Marky and Beansy. As part of the strategy to prevent their collective stash getting ‘taxed’ by Kirk and his mates, they’ve been keeping the stuff moving between them, so that only two of them know for sure at any given time who is actually holding.
‘Hey, Adnan,’ Ewan says. ‘Any chance of another wee look through your telescope?’
‘Bet you that’s what all the lassies say,’ butts in Deso as he passes.
‘Fuck off, Deso,’ Ewan shoots back, laughing.
Adnan laughs too, though he thinks Ewan might be taking the piss. Folk can be a bit two-faced like that: happy enough to geek out one night, but wanting to act like they think it’s a joke in front of their cooler pals.
‘Seriously, but,’ Ewan goes on. ‘Any chance?’
And he is serious. WTF?
‘You not prefer to get down with DJ RG?’ Adnan asks.
‘Me and Matt here want to mellow out, man, if you hear what I’m saying.’
Adnan does hear what he’s saying, and he’s not sure he likes the sound of his most prized possession being entrusted to two guys with a stated intention of getting stoned.
‘You won’t see much just now. Too much light round here tonight.’
Adnan spots Marianne making her way into reception. Then he double-takes and realises there’s two of her. Unless, fucking hell, that is Deborah.
Marianne catches him staring, looks back and gives him a smile. And that changes everything.
‘Do you think we could see more if we took it outside, then?’ Ewan asks.
Cameron has clocked the Goth-chick double vision. He and Adnan share a look. They’ve both seen interesting possibilities and Ewan is offering the opportunity for swift gooseberry removal.
‘Yeah, absolutely,’ Adnan says. ‘If you take it to that clearing we came through on the way back from the hike, the trees will mask off all the light pollution from here. Go for it.’
Fear. The gravest fear. So many battles fought, wounds and scars to remember them by, never an enemy so terrifying, so blood-thirsty. No shame in this: no shame in running, in hiding.
So much slaughter. So much death.
Run.
Even if a way can be found, a way out of this labyrinth, he can never go home. He is in a different world now.
But he can survive.
‘These things are just awful, aren’t they?’ suggests Maria.
‘I know,’ Bernadette agrees. ‘Why do we need to have them? It’s like some kind of indoctrinated ritual. It’s Saturday night, so the young members of the tribe must all congregate and pretend to enjoy it.’
Caitlin is trying very hard to keep her mouth shut, though it’s difficult to keep passing up these open goals. She’s opted to accept her lot for the time being and try to be pleasant company, rather than seem huffy (or indeed look like a complete Billy No-Mates) by hanging about on her own tonight.
Since returning from the hike, Rosemary has actually been quite bearable: solicitous without being cloying. Caitlin wonders whether her lone-wolf routine on the walk sent a message, or is it that she’s just feeling a little more tolerant herself due to her guilt about blanking Rosemary all the time.
‘There has to be a party, there has to be a disco,’ Bernadette goes on. ‘It’s like primary school again. Nobody’s even interested. They’re all out here instead of in the dining room.’
‘Mmm,’ is all Rosemary can bring herself to say. It’s a murmur of agreement, one she fears may not have sounded too convincing, but Bernie’s assumptions will prevent her scrutin ising it for ambiguity. Rosemary doesn’t even know what she feels about it; or what she’s allowing herself to feel about it. The party looks pretty inviting to her: rich with the promise of something she can’t quite define. Most people are still in the reception area, but the atmosphere even out here is . . . interesting. Pregnant. Everyone looks so different dressed up; altered enough to be new to each other.
Well, most people do. Rosemary just looks dowdy in a different top. None of the boys is going to be looking twice at her; no danger of any memories to test her in the night when she gets back home on Monday. So why does that disappoint her? And why does the music and the perfume, the aftershave and hair-gel aromas tell some part of her that she could be wrong: that temptation could lie ahead, and that she deeply, deeply wants to succumb to it?
‘Some of us are interested in more than acting like idiots or “finding boys”,’ Maria says.
‘Who would want to “find” any of this lot?’ Bernie asks. ‘Bunch of morons and thugs. Michael McBean, for God’s sake. Kirk Burns.’
‘Shh,’ Rosemary warns, glancing over Bernie’s shoulder at where Kirk and his pals are gathered, the main man sprawled in a chair and his lieutenants perched on the arms. ‘He’s just over there.’
‘Oh, so what? We’re invisible to most people anyway.’
‘Well, we can’t be invisible to Paul Roxburgh,’ Maria observes, ‘because he keeps looking over here.’
Caitlin feels something racing inside her for a moment, then tells herself not to be daft. That they had shared a pleasant conversation was only proof that he was a little more polite and multifaceted than she had previously given him credit for. Maybe it’s down to the rumour about Dazza and Bernie’s big sister, and Rocks is merely casting a speculative eye over Bernadette, wondering if it runs in the family.
If so, he’s in for a disappointment.
‘I really resent the way they look down on us,’ Bernie rants. ‘Just because we’re not alcoholics or . . . out trying to have sex with everyone, it doesn’t make us square.’
Caitlin can’t hold off any longer.
‘No,’ she agrees. ‘That doesn’t make you square.’
‘In’t that right, Rocks? Rocks? Roxburgh, this is Houston. Are ye fuckin’ listenin’ tae us?’
‘Aye. Sorry. Whit?’
‘I’m not staring at anyone.’
Rocks quickly checks Dazza’s line of sight. Thank fuck: could be anybody in the milling crowd gradually making their way towards the dining room. Why is he so scared of Dazza sussing the truth, though? Does he think he’ll be disappointed? Does he not want to seem ungrateful? All of the above, maybe.
Dazza has, after all, been laying a bit of groundwork on both their behalfs.
‘Been chatting up Gillian Cole a wee bit,’ Dazza told him earlier.
‘I didnae think you liked her.’
‘You re-educated me on the bus, remember, with the use of the would-ye scale. Nae danger long-term, but I’d be happy having a bit of fun with her when we both know there’s no comeback. See, her and her pals are a good shout tonight. They know the score. If I was being harsh I’d say they’re wannabes that are trying too hard, but the bottom line is they’re up for a bit at a time like this. You want to go a wee bit further than you have before, then steam right intae Theresa or Yvonne. Just depends what you’re looking for.’
This time yesterday, Rocks would have been champing at the bit. In fact, if Dazza had said this to him over lunch, he’d have been counting the minutes until the party. But back in their room after the hike, talking almost conspiratorially while Kirk was doing yet another of his disappearing acts, it sounded shallow. Pointless. Cold.
Just depends what you’re looking for.
He can see Gillian and Theresa right now, sipping shitey white wine disguised as apple juice. He asks himself the would-ye question. The answer is no. Everything feels off: he needs to check his calibration. He asks it of Rebecca. It’s too abstract. But that’s the thing: does he feel nothing because it seems abstract, or does it seem abstract because he feels nothing?
Who are you staring at anyway?
He hasn’t stopped thinking about her since the walk. The idea of feeling her up, seeing how far he can get, seems vulgar to the point of insulting. That’s not what he wants tonight. Actually, he can’t believe what he wants tonight.
When Dazza asked what he was looking at, he felt panic: not because he couldn’t admit the answer, but because of the irrational fear that Dazza would suddenly see everything. For the past few hours, Rocks has been having thoughts he couldn’t admit to anyone - except maybe her.
He goes to steal another glance but his view is suddenly blocked by the unlikely sight of Ewan and Matt lugging a telescope towards the front doors. They make their way outside, exciting a degree of passing curiosity from all but one observer, whose interest in the spectacle is far, far keener.
‘Check that,’ Kirk says. ‘Opportunity knocks.’
Through the glass, they can see Matt and Ewan heading away from the building, into the dark.
‘Would you fuckin’ leave it?’ Dazza snaps. ‘It’s a party tonight. And I’m not missing it.’
‘Dunnsy’s missing it.’
‘And if he was here, I’m sure he’d want us to be dishing out more violence instead of all that stupit bevvying and winching shite, eh? I mean, catch a grip. You want to ruin this tonight? You want to end up on the wrong side of that big Sendak bastard?’
Kirk averts his gaze, the fire temporarily quenched.
‘Come on. You want to do something for Dunnsy? Let’s party for Dunnsy.’
‘Aye, all right.’
Kirk climbs to his feet and begins walking towards the hall, but not without another glance through the big windows at the departing stargazers.
‘It’s this way, ya zoomer,’ Dazza says, tugging Rocks’ sleeve as he fails to move from the spot. ‘Honestly, you’re wired to the moon. You coming?’
Rocks glances towards Caitlin one more time.
‘I’ll catch you up,’ he says.
Blake watches Heather finish off her glass of wine and get to her feet, stretching to suggest it was a wrench to leave the comfort of her chair. They’re taking refuge from the revelry in one of the conference rooms, suggested by Sendak for its distance from the party. They can still hear the music pretty clearly, as well as the occasional yelp, shout and hysterical screech.
‘You leaving us?’ Kane asks, unknowingly voicing Blake’s own disappointment.
‘Somebody’s got to go and help out our beleaguered deputy head. He must be like General Custer through there.’
‘Nah,’ Blake says. ‘Those kids are perfectly capable of getting pished and causing a riot without any help from us.’
Sendak gets to his feet also, perhaps prompted by the picture Kane just painted.
‘You guys chill,’ he says. ‘But you’ll understand if I got a vested interest in my place not getting razed to the ground.’
Blake looks to Heather, holding the door open for Sendak. She looks . . . Well, yes, that. All that, in fact, as the Americans say.
‘I think I’ll go too,’ Blake suggests, feeling strangely bereft as the door closes.
Kane loudly cracks the seal on another bottle of single malt and holds it up.
‘Come on, Con. Do the wrong thing.’
Blake glances at the door. He’d just be following on like a wee lap dog. What could he assist with that Guthrie, Sendak, Heather and Mrs McKenzie couldn’t handle? No. He’ll spell Guthrie later. He can have one drink. Needs to ask Kane something while he’s on his own anyway.
Kane pours him a measure, responding obediently to Blake’s cut-off gesture so that it isn’t too generous. ‘
‘Could be a taxing night,’ Blake explains, ‘and there is a balance to be struck between taking the edge off and becoming disinhibited. In charge of kids, I mean. Obviously.’
‘Yeah,’ Kane says, wearily enough to assure Blake he didn’t pick up on his stumbling elaboration. ‘One too many and there’s always the danger you’ll finally snap and end up beating Deso or Beansy to death with Rosemary Breslin’s guitar.’
Blake has a sip, the reassuring warmth of the alcohol counterbalancing his anxiety about the subject he is about to broach. He can’t even decide which aspect of it is unnerving him more: what he fears Kane might infer from it or what it’s telling him about himself. It’s all in how he couches it, though: if he plays it right, he can disguise his intent by making Kane think it’s just the usual.
‘Were you talking to Heather about me, by the way?’ he asks, making it sound like a casual curiosity.
‘When?’ Kane responds, sounding slightly defensive. That’s a yes, then.
‘We had kind of a weird conversation on the way back this afternoon. Sounded familiar, like somebody had been briefing her on my areas of theological vulnerability. You wouldn’t be using proxies on me now, would you?’
‘Now, if someone else has been worrying at the same chinks in your armour, you shouldn’t cry conspiracy. You’ll end up like those nutters you get on internet forums, who start to believe everyone who disagrees with them is a multiple alias of the same guy.’
‘What did you tell her?’ Blake asks.
‘What did you talk about?’ Kane parries.
Blake sighs. This was a mistake, inviting Kane on to him like this. What was it he wanted to know, anyway? Or did he simply want to hear that Heather had been asking about him?
‘She seemed to be under the impression that there were certain ambivalences about my faith. How do you reckon she could have reached such a conclusion?’
‘I would refer the gentleman to the answer I gave above, and add that this should be telling you something about you, not about me.’
‘Doesn’t it strike you as a coincidence that she should have independently pinpointed this as an area for discussion?’
‘Maybe you don’t hide certain things as well as you think you do, Con,’ Kane says. Blake tries to detect whether there’s layers to this, but Kane has always had a better poker face than his. ‘I didn’t put her up to anything. And if it was up to me, I’d have warned her off trying to pin you down on what you actually believe, but as for identifying an ambivale
nce about your faith, that doesn’t take a tip-off. It just takes five minutes’ discussion before you start equivocating.’
‘I’m not equivocal the way you like to portray it. There’s complexities that you prefer to interpret as conflicts.’
‘Well, faith versus evidence is a pretty big conflict in my book, and you’re pulled all over the place by it.’
Blake feels a measure of relief at the feel of familiar turf. At least one aspect of this has come off okay: Kane thinks it’s just the usual.
‘I’m not: that’s what you don’t get. Faith isn’t necessarily about ignoring the data and evidence, but about believing there’s something else beyond them. Scientists had to believe in something beyond the evidence of conventional Newtonian physics in order to develop quantum theory.’
‘But what is it you believe in, Con? We both know it’s not some Old Testament bearded guy in the sky, so you can’t hide behind that.’
‘My idea of God is something far too complex to give you a pop-quiz answer. It’s not even something that can necessarily be articulated in language.’
Kane sighs with exasperation, which was the effect Blake intended.
‘Jesus Christ. The theists say God is this being who created the world in seven days. We prove that’s rubbish, so they say “Well, God is actually something else.” Now He can’t even be defined in language? How far do you want to keep moving the goalposts?’
‘Perhaps that’s God’s way of helping us win the argument. We can move the goalposts while you’re anchored to the spot.’
‘Weighed down by hard reality? Come on, Con. What is it you’re hanging on to? I’ve heard you with the kids, telling them it’s all metaphors and symbolism or stories that grew in the telling. I know you don’t believe Jesus walked on water or fed the five thousand. Do you believe he raised Lazarus from the dead?’
‘This again. You know I don’t.’
Kane pauses. Blake sees what’s coming just a little too late.
Pandaemonium Page 25
