Pandaemonium

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘So what about himself?’

  Blake feels a little hunted, all of a sudden, and not just because of the corner he’s been backed into. The moment he saw it coming, he recalled a hundred such previous arguments played out, always diverting before this point, and realised Kane has always been holding this question back. He could have hit him with it at any time, but never did. Why is he taking the gloves off now?

  ‘Central tenet of your faith, Con. And it contradicts all the evidence, everything we know about medicine, about human—’

  ‘What are you trying to prove here, Stewart?’ he snaps back. ‘How long have we known each other? Do you think you’re suddenly going to change me? Why would you want to? I’m happy with who I am. I’m happy with what I do. I mean, what else is it that you think I want?’

  At this point, the door opens and Heather walks back into the room, retrieving cash from her jacket for soft drinks.

  Kane’s eyes meet Blake’s, answering every question that just passed between them.

  Dark. Cold. Hunger.

  Seek light. Seek heat. Seek flesh.

  Fires in the distance. Beacon fires. Music.

  Souls.

  Gillian is on the lookout for a few faces as she dances with Theresa, Yvonne and Julie. It’s hard to make out who is who in the semi-darkness with the lights flashing and lasers playing around the walls and ceiling. They’ve done a not bad job, right enough: the main effect being that the place seems really busy, like there’s far more folk in it than actually came on this trip. Her prior concern had been that with too few people it would end up looking like a party in someone’s living room, rather than a club. The skin on her arms looks tanned and downy because of the UV, and they’ve even got some dry ice going around the stage, where Radar’s up there, pure thinking he’s it. Of course, it could always just be smoke, as she’s heard Beansy and Deso and that lot have got some hash with them. She doesn’t think they would spark up in here, though, surely, with Guthrie prowling around, but with those two daft bastards, you never know. She’s not into it herself. Theresa and Yvonne claim to have dabbled, but Gillian’s problem is the delivery system. Smoking just gives her the boak.

  So far, she seems to be clocking everyone except who she’s looking for. Liam, Jason, Samantha and Rebecca are not so much dancing together as ordering themselves into a protective formation to prevent anyone else getting close enough to start imagining they’re attending the same gig. Roisin, Ruth, Carol-Ann and Michelle seem to be collectively dancing with Deso, Beansy, Fizzy and Marky in that indeterminate way that protects all parties from later claims that they were actually dancing with any given individual. But rather strangely - and not to mention annoyingly - two people who do seem to be unambiguously and exclusively dancing together are Paul Roxburgh and - God, she still can’t understand it - Caitlin Black.

  Leaving aside the fact that this is just wrong, what’s most concerning her is the implications for her own plans. Dazza had been coming over very friendly earlier, making out that he and his pal Rocks would be interested in a dance and maybe a little more. Dazza usually went out with lassies much older than her, and though she knew he wasn’t looking for anything serious, it could well open a few doors for the future. He’d mentioned Theresa and Yvonne as possibilities for Rocks, but Gillian reckoned it was the ideal scenario for Debs to return to the fold. Unfortunately, she hasn’t found either Dazza or Debs yet, and Rocks appears to be out of the equation.

  A gap forms in the crowd, three or four dancers moving simultaneously in the same direction, and she spies Marianne, dancing with Cameron. Good. If the Goth bitch is occupied (though Cameron must be fucking desperate), then she won’t be creeping around Debs.

  Then there’s a change in the light, reds into blues, just as Marianne turns to her right and Gillian sees that she’s not Marianne.

  Julie registers too, immediately grabbing Theresa and pointing it out. Theresa looks shocked; Julie’s just loving it.

  Gillian feels like somebody stabbed her.

  The cow. The fucking two-faced cow.

  She remembers words spoken yesterday, as a joke.

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

  Too late for that: this was self-harm. Stupid bitch. What was this supposed to be: revenge? Well fuck her. She’d made her bed. No way back from here.

  Dazza has all but had to drag Kirk over to dance with Gillian and her pals. Granted, big Julie is pounding the floor among them, but it’s not fucking first year: you’ve got to be magnanimous about things like that. Be a gentleman: that’s what experience has taught him. If you’re polite to a lassie’s fat munter of a pal, she’ll get the impression you’re soft-centred and sensitive. This in turn helps you get further with her sexually because she’s less worried you’re the type who’s just going to blab to his mates. It’s the kind of advice he’s been passing on to Rocks, but the fly bastard’s only abandoned him. Out of nowhere, man.

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he said; next thing Dazza knows, he’s cutting a rug with wee Caitlin, leaving him with Kirk, who is hardly Mr Charisma around lassies at the best of times.

  Caitlin, though? What’s the score there? Christ, now he remembers: yesterday on the bus, though it seems a week back now.

  ‘. . . 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 . . . Lassie like that, folk never notice what’s there.’

  He was only speaking hypothetically. Daft bastard: it wasn’t meant as a matchmaking suggestion. But fair play to him, and maybe it reflected quite well on Dazza’s own judgment. Course, the most action Rocks is likely to get will be a slap in the dish for trying to feel her tits, but as long as he’s enjoying himself.

  Seems like everybody’s enjoying themselves. Gillian’s face was tripping her a wee bit at first, but she’s perking up. Even Deputy Dan looks quite vibed. He’s standing to one side of the doors, arms folded but his head nodding a little to the beat. Dazza catches him looking across to Sendak, who’s on the other side of the entrance. The Sarge gives a calmly approving nod, also in time to the music, as if to say ‘everything is under control’.

  Dazza’s attention is then drawn to the ridiculous sight of Deso dancing with Beansy, the two of them acting it as usual. Bastards have got a stash, he’s sure, but from the nick of them, he’s also sure they’ve already tanned part of it. They sidle up next to Julie and Yvonne and start doing some weird figure-of-eight thing that the girls are happy to go along with. Then Beansy moves behind Yvonne and does something to the back of her neck that causes her top to fall open. She dances for a moment without realising her bra is fully on display, then does a double-take and clocks Beansy laughing. She pops the top off her bottle of water and pours it over him. Mad bastard just stands there and takes it, dancing as she drenches him. Then he starts pulling his shirt off, still dancing, doing it like a strip, while folk gather round about him, clapping and shouting.

  Yvonne cools her ire and manages a smile.

  ‘You’ve got bigger tits than me anyway.’

  Belter, Dazza thinks. He turns to share it with the Big Man, but Kirk is gone.

  Oh-oh.

  He makes his way over to Rocks, offering wee Caitlin an apologetic smile for cutting in.

  ‘You seen Kirk anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ Rocks replies. ‘Did he come in here?’

  Fuck.

  Ewan and Matt are making their way to the clearing as Adnan suggested, taking it slow in the darkness. Ewan’s eyes are getting accustomed but it’s really fucking black out here and he’s terrified of tripping over and dropping the scope. They can still hear the music from the party. Ewan smiles. It’s ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’, Cam and Radar’s dance-mix version. It’s tempting to go back for the chance to have a bit of a bop to it with everybody; tempting, in fact, just to see whether Radar gets away with
its full twenty-eight-minute running time before somebody mounts the stage and physically assaults him in their desperation to get something else played. However, if he can still hear it out here, that should be well mellow. Bit of blow, Adnan’s scope, Radar’s soundtrack, and Matt, the only guy Ewan knows who feels like great company without ever opening his gub.

  Closer.

  Beacon, yes, drawing them. Not fires: light. Heat. Music.

  Closer.

  Faster.

  Adnan and Cam climb the stage to take in the view. Marianne and Deborah have done that girl thing of both going to the toilet at the same time. Adnan hopes it hasn’t broken the spell. He’s enjoying this so much. They stand behind Radar, gaze down upon a throng of dancers in silhouette and shadow. The music’s building: beat is steady, but the layers of instrumentation are rising, filling out the sound. Heat’s building too. Adnan thought it was just him, from dancing, but he sees Sendak open a door to the darkness and immediately feels a cool breeze blow through the place.

  Beansy and Marky are dancing with Theresa and Yvonne. She took the unfastening thing in good spirit; they both seem up for a laugh. None of that snobby ‘I’m not dancing with him’ shite from school on evidence tonight. A wee flash of what he’s got in his pocket has been taken in good spirit also: seems these fine ladies are up for that as well. Could be time to make a move.

  Caitlin says something and gestures towards the door. Rocks doesn’t quite catch it, but he nods. He thinks she’s saying she’s away to the loo. His first thought is just to hope she comes back. His second is to wonder what to be doing with himself in the meantime. He follows her off the dance floor and stops by the wall as she continues on through the double doors. A moment later she’s back, looking at him quizzically.

  ‘I said can we talk,’ she tells him, laughing a little.

  He follows her out into the corridor, where she turns left instead of right, away from reception.

  ‘The big sitting area’s that way,’ he says.

  ‘I’d prefer somewhere a bit more private.’

  She leads him through a couple of turns and then stops at the top of a half-flight of stairs leading down to a grey door. She has a quick check left and right, then descends, opening it to reveal a supply room. He sees stationery, flipcharts and whiteboards, a projector for laptops. All that conference gear.

  Caitlin looks back up the stairs at him.

  ‘Are you coming, Paul?’

  ‘Eh, aye,’ he says, uncertainly. It’s not a place you’d pick out for a cosy sit-down chat. He understands what all logical deduction is telling him is happening here, but is refusing to accept it: a little incredulous because it’s quiet wee Caitlin, and also determined not to do, say, assume or even think anything that might bollocks this up.

  ‘Rocks,’ he says, to disguise that he’s largely lost for words.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Everybody calls me Rocks.’

  ‘Everybody calls me “that wee quiet lassie”. Close the door.’

  He does. Then she kisses him.

  Rebecca’s giving Liam the look he’s been waiting for. Giving it to him a lot earlier than he had been expecting, in fact, possibly because, like him, she wants to get away from this infernal, endless track that seems to have been playing for the past fortnight.

  He smiles his acknowledgment, keeping it cool, not wanting to come across over-eager. It’s easier to pull off when it’s a done deal. They agreed they’d take the opportunity presented by the party: slip away while all the wee diddies are kidding themselves they’re clubbing it. On his way to the doors, he puts on a more businesslike face as he signals silently to Jason, still dancing. Even more uncool to appear over-excited to him. He gestures a key turning a lock. Do not disturb. Jason nods.

  Gillian has been left dancing with bloody Julie now that Dazza’s disappeared and Yvonnne and Theresa have fucked off with Beansy and Marky of all people. Bloody drugs. Deserve all they get.

  She looks across the room to where the Goth doppelgänger version of Debs is now dancing with geeky Adnan, having swapped partners with Marianne. At least Cameron was halfway acceptable: you could almost, almost get away with the bloody Halloween outfit if it was purely a strategy to grab a half-decent-looking guy, and Cam just snuck into that category. But Adnan? They were still taking the piss out of him behind his back as recently as last week.

  What a washout this is turning into. Somebody has to throw her a bone, surely.

  Then she spies Liam and Rebecca leaving together, looking purposeful, and she wonders, she wonders.

  Dazza’s made it back to the room, but there’s no sign of the big man.

  Fuck.

  He’d gone off alone last night as well, before lights-out, and of course it had been his furtive wee solo expedition that had held them up when they first got off the coach. Dazza got the impression he was planking something. Better not be hash, because he never let on to anybody that he was carrying.

  He felt bad about having to come the hard man, trying to muscle Beansy and that lot out of their room (not so bad about those preening pricks Liam and Jason). It had been ages since they’d done anything like that, but Kirk was just edgy as fuck these days. You’d think he was the only one who lost somebody. They were all Dunnsy’s pals.

  Beansy finds Marky, Theresa and Yvonne waiting for him just along from the outside door at the back of the dormitory blocks. Had to nick into his room for a change of shirt, the other one being soaked. They look expectantly at him as he catches up, but this isn’t the place, he decides.

  ‘Need somewhere a bit more secluded,’ he says. ‘Anybody could stick their heid oot a windae and see us here.’

  ‘You mean Guthrie?’ asks Yvonne.

  ‘Naw, I mean that cunt Kirk. Come on,’ he says, and leads them on to the gravel path and into the starlight.

  Dazza makes his way anxiously back into the dining hall. Still can’t see Kirk. Can’t see bloody Rocks either.

  Something about this is spooking him.

  Kirk’s been acting weird for months, even before Dunnsy. There’s been this latent volatility about him. What makes it worse is that he’d calmed down towards the end of last year, in time to get the finger out and pass a shitload of exams nobody would have expected him to give a fuck about. There was some incident with Mr Kane that Kirk won’t talk about, but after that he seemed to screw the nut. He seemed to have changed. They all changed.

  Rocks used to be more mental than any of them, but now all he wants to talk about is lassies, maybe realising his wild years have set him back in that particular game. Still pretty handy when it comes to it, but he lets folk take liberties now: seldom rises to the bait. It’s a relief. Dazza cannae be bothered with aggro any more. Lassies don’t like it - that’s one of the things Rocks has cottoned on to. He seems to regard Dazza as some kind of mentor figure when it comes to women.

  Kirk, however, just isn’t interested in girls: never has been. Used to remind Daz of the joke about the definition of a Scottish poof: somebody more interested in women than in drinking and fighting. These days, though, he couldn’t say what Kirk is interested in. He’ll have a toke, but he’s not that bothered about drink. Maybe the odd can, but not into getting stocious. ‘I don’t like who I am when I’m pished,’ he once said, which suggests he’s worried about going postal, a very disturbing thought. The fighting is a comparatively rare occurrence these days, but at least in the past you could see it coming, you knew what it was about. Since the summer, he’s been totally unpredictable, which was bad enough, but since Dunnsy’s death, Kirk hasn’t hit anyone or even cracked up at anybody, which is the really worrying thing. There’s been no vent to whatever’s going on inside his head. Hardly saying a word to anybody. And increasingly fucking fixated by Matt Wilson, for no greater apparent reason than Barker isn’t around to take the blame.

  Dazza notices Adnan dancing with Marianne. That’s when he remembers. The telescope.

  ‘Check that.
Opportunity knocks.’

  Kirk paces it out, finds the spot. Last night’s wee trip was worth it for the practice. Not easy to find it in the dark, which was why he needed a dry run. He’d also needed the reassurance of checking that it was still there and hadn’t been discovered. He shifts the boulder and lifts the ziplocked bag carefully, taking hold of it by a fistful of polythene until he can safely determine which end is the handle.

  This established, he removes it from its protection and takes it in his hand, feeling the weight, placing a finger on the freezing cold steel of the blade. He feels a surge of something, some kind of higher energy running through him.

  He’s always thought knives were shitebag weapons: a sneaky edge for vicious cunts who couldn’t really fight. He doesn’t need this to take on Matt Wilson, but they both know that. It’s not about victory and defeat, pride and humiliation: it’s about fear. That weirdo cunt has never shown him any.

  To Kirk, there’s always been something intimate about violence: you and your opponent, locked together to the exclusion of everything around you in something more sincerely personal than sex. Which is why it’s at its best if you’re both into it: well matched in terms of physicality, anger, fear, desire. It means fuck-all to batter somebody who won’t fight back, which is why there’s never been any point in just going up and leathering Matt Wilson.

  Who overcomes by force hath overcome but half his foe.

  He remembers them discussing that line in Miss Ross’ English class, and like everyone else, he initially took it to be merely the usual platitude about not solving your problems through violence. However, he sees a deeper truth in it now than most people will ever understand. He could punch fuck out of Matt and he wouldn’t even be close to overcoming a tenth of his foe. Something in him - by far the greater part of him - would be undefeated. Matt knows Kirk could hammer him: it’s a given. Not even a starting point for the fucker. He is not afraid of him, not intimidated by him, not even remotely acknowledging of him. Which is why he wants to look deep into Matt Wilson’s eyes and see the impassive cunt feel something.