Pandaemonium Part 3

Adnan and Radar are earwigging, on the sniff for some embarra.s.sing admission or merely uncirc.u.mspect s.e.xual bravado that they can file away for discussion later. It's always therapeutic to be able to take the p.i.s.s out of these people in their absence, especially if you've been under their boot-heels, as is an inevitability at some point over the next few days. Throughout this latter part of their discussion, Rocks and Dazza are talking loudly enough to suggest they don't mind being overheard. It can be a canny call to acknowledge a joke from these guys, especially when it is actually funny, not least because it clarifies that you were 'laughing with' rather than 'laughing at'. Adnan glances back and scores some eye contact from Daniel McIntyre, Dazza to his inner circle. This is a calculated risk. There's always a chance of eliciting a highly counterproductive 'What the f.u.c.k has it to do with you?' response, but it's more likely that he'll notch a couple of 'wee Adnan's all right' points.

Indeed, as it transpires, he moves a little more into credit at one branch of the Bank of Bam, and this established, his eyes alight briefly upon the HQ: Kirk Burns.

WARRIOR CLa.s.s: UNDISPUTED BEST FIGHTER. UNDISPUTED BEST FIGHTER. STATUS: STATUS: f.u.c.kING MENTAL. f.u.c.kING MENTAL. STRENGTH: STRENGTH: HARD AS f.u.c.k. HARD AS f.u.c.k. WEAKNESS: WEAKNESS: NONE DOc.u.mENTED. NONE DOc.u.mENTED.

Big Kirk seems oblivious to the hilarity, his eyes trained on a fixed spot to the fore like there's a TV down there. His face is set like stone, a calculating contemplation etched so intently upon it that makes Adnan very relieved not to be its subject, but less comforted as he steals a look down the bus to confirm who is. His reticle gets a lock on Matt Wilson, sitting alone in a double seat one row behind the teachers, who are under the impression that they are protecting him.

WARRIOR CLa.s.s LONER. LONER. STRENGTH STRENGTH INSCRUTABLE. INSCRUTABLE. WEAKNESS WEAKNESS KNOWN a.s.sOCIATE OF ROBERT BARKER. KNOWN a.s.sOCIATE OF ROBERT BARKER. STATUS STATUS : ENDANGERED. : ENDANGERED.

'Seriously,' Gillian insists. 'My big sister Tracy heard she gave Dazza a w.a.n.k at Jason Mitch.e.l.l's party after the Halloween disco.'

'Who, Katherine Katherine?' Deborah asks, with an incredulity borne of this sounding too good to be true, as well as an odd little fear that it might be. Katherine Gelaghtly is in sixth year, but she's resitting French so she's in Deborah's cla.s.s for that. Her wee sister Bernadette is sitting next to Rosemary a few rows in front, with all that that entails, and Katherine has given off every impression of being just as uninterested in the opposite s.e.x; not to mention just as ill-equipped to do anything about it if she was. Yet here was a credible rumour that she'd gone a lot further than Deborah had ever dared, which was almost as dismaying as the implication that she had been invited to one of Jason's parties - something Deborah had definitely definitely never managed. never managed.

'Yeah, Katherine,' Gillian confirms with a delighted giggle.

'Heard from who, though?' Julie asks. 'If she heard it from a guy, then the truth is probably that she groped it through his jeans at the most.'

'Tracy says she told her to her face.'

'Mistake!' observes Yvonne.

'Wow,' says Julie. 'And you know what that means.'

'What?'

'Well, by the same token, if she admitted to a w.a.n.k, it might even have been a blow-job.'

'How come n.o.body's heard about this from the guy's side?' Yvonne demands, sounding like she is also surprisingly eager to debunk it, and not in defence of Katherine's virtue either.

'Getting a w.a.n.k off Katherine Gelaghtly maybe isn't something you'd want to boast about,' Julie suggests with a cackle.

'No, I don't think that's it,' Gillian responds. 'Our Tracy says your man Dazza is actually quite mature when it comes to his dealings with girls. Mature enough to know not to burn his boats by blabbing, anyway. I mean, it's not the same as if somebody was daft enough to give a w.a.n.k to a clown like Beansy or Deso. They'd tell everybody.'

'Beansy would take an advert out in the Evening Times Evening Times,' says Julie.

'Only if he couldn't raise the funds to hire one of those airs.h.i.+p efforts,' adds Gillian.

'How far do you think Bernadette's gone, then?' Yvonne asks. 'Maybe the G.o.d-squad bit is just a really sneaky camouflage for being a c.o.c.k maniac.'

'Jesus, so how much of a s.l.u.t would that make Rosemary?' asks Gillian.

They all crease up. Deborah laughs too, but she can see it getting daft now, and she wants to head that off. It's more of a thrill when it's a realistic appraisal, especially when it serves as a conduit for rumour, substantiated or not. She stretches in her seat, hands up in the air, and rolls her head around her neck, using it as an excuse to look about and remind herself of the field. She spots her top candidate right away - kicking herself that she needed a reminder, in fact - but completes the stretch for cover.

'What about Marianne?' she suggests. 'How far do you think she's gone?'

'Marianne?' asks Julie. 'The English Goth la.s.sie?'

'Yeah, the new girl,' Deborah confirms, though Julie not being sure who Deborah is talking about doesn't bode well for the emergence of any goss.

'I bet she's gone all the way,' Julie opines, confounding Deborah's pessimism.

'Why?'

'I saw her in the changing rooms at Gleniston baths. Lacy black knickers, quite see-through. Landing strip as well. That's not stuff you go in for unless you're expecting somebody else to see.'

'Or touch,' Gillian suggests.

'Or tongue,' adds Julie.

And Deborah feels it again: that mix of vicarious prurience tinged with jealousy. She is glad to hear Marianne disparaged but at the same time wishes Julie had witnessed her wearing huge granny-pants, off-white from a thousand wash cycles, on top of a bush like a burst couch. As it is, she is left with this discomfiting feeling of being somehow smaller, being somehow left behind.

Oh, make up your minds, ladies, thinks Marianne, having overheard every giddily overexcited word. Why is it that every girl who's had more s.e.xual experience than you is a s.l.u.t, and every girl who's had less is a square? Chalk another one up to Catholic education. Nah - probably the same across all denominations, just as long as they're British.

Marianne had readily identified Deborah Thomson and Gillian Cole as projecting-insecure-b.i.t.c.h material within a week or two of starting at her new school. It was hard to say, therefore, whether she had opted to generally disregard them before or after they decided that their clique should ostracise her. What she does know for sure is that her her ignoring ignoring them them has bothered them a lot more than them ignoring her. The crucial difference was in the practice: her ignoring them has consisted of, well, ignoring them; whereas their blanking her seems to be rather a theatrical undertaking. And nothing says you're ignoring somebody quite like going out of your way to tell them about it. has bothered them a lot more than them ignoring her. The crucial difference was in the practice: her ignoring them has consisted of, well, ignoring them; whereas their blanking her seems to be rather a theatrical undertaking. And nothing says you're ignoring somebody quite like going out of your way to tell them about it.

'Okay, my turn,' says Gillian. 'Caitlin.'

Must be calibrating the s.e.xual-experience barometer, Marianne reckons. Had a few hits towards the racier end and now they need to balance up by zeroing in on a bookish L7.

'You kidding?' Yvonne asks. 'She's never got off with anybody.'

'How far do you think she would go, though?' asks Deborah.

'Good-night kiss and no tongues,' Yvonne says with a glib confidence. 'Doesn't matter. There's no way any of the boys would be interested anyway.'

Rocks allows himself a second lingering look at wee Caitlin, seeing as Dazza seems happy taking his time about his own a.s.sessment. He then turns to look across Kirk and waits expectantly for Dazza's verdict. They both nod at the same time, laughing again.

'Doesnae score high on the plausibility scale, though,' Rocks concedes.

'Ah, see, you never know, though. Sometimes it's the quiet ones that surprise you. But purely hypothetically? f.u.c.k aye, I would. Probably a tidy wee bod underneath there, no' like some of the chip-shop casualties you see. If it was on offer, I'd be in about her like a dug with a bucket of mince.'

'Seriously?' Rocks says, hoping it doesn't sound like he might be seeking advance approval in the unlikely event that he and Caitlin were to hit it off.

'Well, I'm not saying she's top of my wish-list, but I thought we were just playing what-if. I'll tell you this, though: give it a year or two, and out of all the girls in our year, Caitlin could well be one of the ones you'd most want to be going out with. Just because she doesnae say much doesnae mean she's got nothing to say. La.s.sie like that, folk never notice what's there.'

Rocks thinks of Dazza getting off with Katherine Gelaghtly at that party; it was rumoured that he even s.h.a.gged her that night. It was only when Rocks saw her in Geography the next week that he realised he'd been in her cla.s.s for months without noticing her. The Katherine that showed up every day in school and the Katherine who had turned up after the Halloween disco were two very different girls. No wonder Dazza has taken a while to get his head round the idea of this game, and why he's taking so long to answer each time. Dazza's instruments of appraisal are far more sensitively tuned, and his plausibility gauge is set very differently to Rocks'.

Rocks still knows how he can really test him, though.

'Okay, I've got one: Rosemary.'

They both glance down the aisle, and for once, Dazza's verdict is instant.

'You're taking the p.i.s.s now,' he says.

Caitlin watches Rosemary climb to her feet and grip the seat back for balance as she takes a few paces down the aisle. She's got that glower about her, a look of determined disapproval and simmering indignation that anyone meeting her for the first time would be alarmed to learn is actually her neutral expression. She can do happy, but it's a forced happy, a dutiful, affected, 'Jesus says I must must be happy' mugging that's actually more intimidating than her frown. She has a crucifix round her neck, and umpteen Christian badges on her jacket: Pro-Life, SPUC, Silver Ring, True Love Waits and, of course, that b.l.o.o.d.y fish. The Silver Ring and True Love Waits b.u.t.tons make Caitlin smile every time. They really ought to be accompanied by a more honest third badge, saying: 'Chance would be a fine thing'; or maybe simply: 'As if'. It's hard to imagine anyone be happy' mugging that's actually more intimidating than her frown. She has a crucifix round her neck, and umpteen Christian badges on her jacket: Pro-Life, SPUC, Silver Ring, True Love Waits and, of course, that b.l.o.o.d.y fish. The Silver Ring and True Love Waits b.u.t.tons make Caitlin smile every time. They really ought to be accompanied by a more honest third badge, saying: 'Chance would be a fine thing'; or maybe simply: 'As if'. It's hard to imagine anyone less less interested in s.e.x. interested in s.e.x.

Caitlin has heard it remarked of some girls that they were thirteen going on thirty. She would have said Rosemary was seventeen going on forty-five if it wasn't that Rosemary had already been forty-five for a good few years before she ever turned seventeen.

Rosemary makes her way forward a couple of rows, then leans over to talk to Deputy Dan.

'Mr Guthrie, sir, would it be all right if I got out my guitar?'

f.u.c.k no, thinks Kane, before turning to share an appalled look with Heather, who puts a fist in her mouth and bites her knuckles.

'That's an excellent idea, Rosemary,' Guthrie replies. 'Singing some hymns would be most appropriate,' he adds, with a look to Blake for encouragement; or is it just to check the priest isn't wincing too?

'Whoa, whoa, whoa, steady the buffs,' Kane says quietly to Heather. 'Can we not have a vote on this?'

Guthrie gets to his feet, offering to help Rosemary take her guitar down from an overhead rack. Kane seizes this moment to send a what-the-f.u.c.k? look across to Blake, who holds up his palms in an apologetic gesture of helplessness.

'Keep it light, though,' Guthrie advises. 'Something to raise our spirits.'

Rosemary unzips the PVC carry case and removes her six-string, placing one foot on an armrest and supporting the guitar on her raised knee. Then she starts to play, at which point there really is an outpouring of religious expression.

'Oh, Glory be.'

'For Christ's sake.'

'G.o.d almighty.'

'Mother of G.o.d.'

'Christ on crutches.'

'Jesus f.u.c.k.'

Rosemary strums a few bars, then launches full-throated into a hymn.

'It's me, it's me, it's me oh Lord, Standing in the need of prayer.

Not my brother or my sister, but it's me oh Lord, Standing in the need of prayer.'

Bernadette joins in with gusto, as does Maria a split second later. Caught in the epicentre of this beamer-quake, Caitlin wants the ground to open up. She feels her cheeks burning, wants to leap to her feet and yell: 'I am not with these people.' She stares at the floor with her head down, too mortified to make eye contact with another human being right now.

'EVERYBODY, it's me, it's me, it's me oh Lord, Standing in the need of prayer . . .'

'Standing in the need of singing lessons, more like,' says Deso.

'Do you think if there was a G.o.d, he'd want to listen to that pish?' Adnan asks.

'Christ, why could it not have been her her that Barker stabbed?' Beansy moans. that Barker stabbed?' Beansy moans.

'f.u.c.k it,' says Radar, climbing over Adnan.

'Where you going?'

'I can take being without my Nintendo, but this violates my f.u.c.kin' human rights.'

Radar starts moving down the bus, looking out the window rather than at Rosemary in order to allay suspicion. She wouldn't notice anyway. She's so into her hymn that she even has her eyes closed.

Adnan pictures him as only a faint outline: STEALTH MODE POWER-UP ENGAGED.

Radar whips the guitar from Rosemary's hands and immediately turns around to block her, keeping his body between her and the instrument. With little room to manoeuvre, it's like trying to keep a beachball off someone in a phone box, so he offers it towards the nearest person, which turns out to be Caitlin. She can see the resignation in his face the moment he makes the usual wrong a.s.sumption about her being with the G.o.d-squadders, by which time the guitar is in her grasp.

'Thank you, Caitlin,' says Rosemary, reaching out expectantly and also making the same wrong a.s.sumption.

Caitlin turns round and instead offers it to the first outstretched hand. It's that Goth girl, Marianne, who Caitlin finds a bit scary, but she smiles conspiratorially as she takes possession of the guitar, and it feels like something is shared in a moment of mutual complicity.

Marianne, in turn, pa.s.ses it on to Cameron. He steps into the aisle and stands up with it, striking a pose. Behind him, Adnan can see Rosemary still trying to wrestle her way past Radar, with Guthrie getting to his feet once more at their backs. He's wondering if there's any way of getting one of these windows open so that Cam can lob the thing right out. As it stands, it's only a matter of time before it's restored to Rosemary's keeping, amid another loud reminder of how they're all 'a damp disgrace'.

Rosemary gets a foot around Radar's s.h.i.+n and draws upon the good Lord's strength to trip him to the ground, administering the sacrament of a sensible shoe up his a.r.s.e as she stomps over his sprawled figure. Cameron gets an eyeful of this and suddenly decides the guitar is a hot potato. Fortunately for Cam, Deso must have remembered his asbestos gloves, because he gratefully takes hold of the neck and pulls the box across the seat back. Standing up with one foot on his seat and the fret-board gripped in his left hand, he lets rip with a finger-flas.h.i.+ng cla.s.sical intro of a virtuosity and accomplishment so unexpected that even Rosemary pauses in her tracks.

Deso clocks Adnan's look of astonishment.

'It's what you play when you don't have Nintendo,' he says, then breaks into a strum, nodding to emphasise the beat until people realise this is a cue to clap. Beansy cottons on first, then Cam, then everybody joins in, which seems to further restrain Rosemary, who just waits with her arms folded to see and hear what will emerge.

'I want my hole, I want my hole,' Deso sings, and is immediately joined, with ecstatic enthusiasm, by everyone to the rear of the bus. Everyone except Rosemary, obviously.

'I want my hole-i-days.

To see the c.u.n.t, To see the c.u.n.t . . .'

Guthrie comes lolloping up the aisle desperately, trampling poor Radar in his panicked urgency to stem this sudden onslaught of musically accompanied damp disgrace.

'To see the c.u.n.t-a-ree.

f.u.c.k you!

f.u.c.k you . . .'