Pandaemonium (33 page)

‘Speaking of which . . .’

Kane tilts his head to indicate the double doors, from beyond which they can hear the sound of female whimpering.

‘Let’s go and find out who threatened to scratch whose eyes out, shall we?’ Blake says.

‘Probably over a guy, too, who’s oblivious of the pair of them.’

Kane pushes the left-hand door but it jams only a few degrees in, something blocking it. He gives the right one a try, same result. He pushes again, more forcefully, senses some give and slides it open a few inches. He can see a pair of legs on the ground.

‘Way pished,’ he says. ‘Guthrie is going to be serving up the biggest helpings of I-told-you-so for—’

Which is when he notices the blood smeared along the tiles behind the sprawled body.

‘Fuck,’ Kane says. He shoulders the door and slides the legs out of the way just enough for them both to step through the gap.

‘Roll him on to his side,’ Blake suggests. ‘Make sure the airway’s open.’

They crouch down and take hold of the body, hauling it a half-turn and revealing its face. Kane thinks it’s Liam Donnelly, but he honestly couldn’t say for sure, even though he’s known the kid since he was twelve.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Blake says. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Kane gets back to his feet in a daze. He looks at the blood trail, sees it smeared along the floor for a few yards. It ends - or presumably begins - against the wall opposite the tributary corridor, leading to one further bedroom and the emergency exit. Kane walks slowly, reluctantly closer. Still he can hear the whimpering. He reaches the junction. There is more blood outside the bedroom door: drops and pools rather than smears, a few fragments of glass scattered among them. He takes a few steps further, looks inside the room, and promptly throws up.

Blake arrives behind him. Kane signals for him to get back. One look at Kane bent over a pile of puke is enough to convey that he doesn’t need to see what precipitated it.

Still they hear the whimpering. Blake pursues the sound, passing the tributary corridor. Kane steadies himself and turns to follow. It’s only as he sees his oldest friend pass out of sight around the corner that it occurs to him that they both ought to be scared.

‘Two . . . ? They’re what? You gotta be kidding me. You gotta be fucking kidding me. Fuck.’ With which he violently slams the phone down.

‘Two what?’ Heather asks. ‘Cops?’

‘Two
hours
. That’s for armed back-up. Would be close to ninety minutes by road from Inverness even if they were ready to roll out right now.’

‘Can’t they take a helicopter?’

‘They
are
taking a helicopter. But they have to wait for it to come up from Edinburgh. And don’t even ask about the paramedics. Pile-up on the goddamn A9 at Kingussie, so they’re all a half-hour south of dispatch, and Raigmore Hospital’s air ambulance just left for Shetland. Isolation ain’t so splendid now, huh?’

Sendak finds what he’s been hunting for, which turns out to be another key. He uses it to unlock a heavily padlocked cabinet on the wall behind his desk, revealing a pump-action shotgun and a box of shells.

‘I’m gonna do a sweep, see if there’s anyone else left alive.’

‘What do you need me to do?’ Heather asks, and hopes it doesn’t sound too much like she’s dreading the answer.

He holds out the shotgun towards her.

‘Get your ass to the games hall and hold the fort.’

Heather recoils like he’s holding a snake.

‘I’ve never . . .’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ he says, thrusting the stock into her hands then reaching for the carton of ammo. He places the box in the crook of her arm and slings the medkit around her shoulder by its strap. ‘Pick yourself a spot in the room with a clear view of both doors. Then you make sure the safety’s off and shoot anything that don’t knock politely.’

He has this awful feeling of failure. He’s afraid he’s cocked it up: literally. It’s got to hit her too, surely. She’s going to be affronted, think he’s a creep.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Don’t be,’ she assures him. ‘Unless this is the part where you dump me.’

‘I was more worried it would be the part where you dump me - or at least run away screaming. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you do that.’

‘Says who?’

‘I don’t know. It just feels . . . I don’t know. Not wrong, but it’s like there’s something telling me I
ought
to feel it was wrong.’

‘It’s called Catholic guilt.
As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys
. That’s how Blake put it.’

‘Father Blake said that?’

‘No, William Blake.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Poet. Painter. He painted
The Ghost of a Flea
, that picture Mr Hazel has on the wall behind his desk in the art department.’

‘Oh aye. Gave me nightmares in first year. Big baldy scaly bastard, with a mirror.’

‘That’s the one.’

Caitlin’s face darkens a little, suddenly very serious. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this,’ she says. ‘I hope you realise that.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he insists. ‘God, not for a second, seriously, I wouldn’t . . .’

‘I know you wouldn’t. I’m saying you can’t, even if you wanted to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because nobody would believe you.’ She grins again. ‘There have to be some benefits to being the wee quiet lassie.’

‘Unless they’d heard about Bernie’s big sister,’ Rocks replies.

Caitlin gasps a little and they both laugh.

She begins buttoning up her blouse.

‘We’d better be getting back to the party,’ she says.

‘Yeah.’

They both make themselves look respectable, then head for the door. Rocks stops just before opening it.

‘So you’re definitely all right about this?’ he says. ‘You’re not feeling . . . a bit awkward.’

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of Catholic guilt too, but once you know what’s making you feel a certain way, it’s easier to resist it. They fill your head with such useless shite. We had fun. Nobody got hurt. It’s not like we’re going to Hell for it.’

Rocks holds the door open for Caitlin, then they climb the short few stairs back up to the corridor. He hears a clatter of swing doors being thrown open, accompanied by a bowel-trembling roar. They both look to their right, where a big baldy scaly bastard is lumbering towards them: the Ghost of a Flea but with horns, dangling in one hand a human head suspended by its ripped-out spine.

‘Not physically,’ Blake replies. ‘What did you find in that room?’

‘Something I’ll take to my grave. We need to get Sendak, get everybody out of here. Got to get on the phone and bring every cop in the Highlands to this place, because I think the fucking Manson family are making a comeback.’

Blake puts a hand under Rebecca’s arm and urges her to get to her feet. She just balls up tighter.

‘No. The beast will kill us. It’s going to kill us all.’

The word ‘beast’ jumps out at Kane. Its implications are horrible but curiously consoling. If some sort of animal is loose in here, then for some reason that seems less disturbing than the thought that what he has seen was wrought by a member of his own species.

He joins Blake in his crouch.

‘What did you see, Rebecca?’ Kane asks, softly but firmly, trying not to back her further into her withdrawal while conveying that she needs to answer. ‘Take your time, but you have to help us here. What did you see? What kind of beast?’

Rebecca swallows, tries to calm herself. Her voice is but a whisper:

‘Not . . .
a
beast.’

Kane and Blake trade glances but say nothing, Gillian’s earlier reference to the Devil now the elephant in the room.

‘We really can’t stay here,’ Kane tells Rebecca. She pulls her arms tighter about her legs.

The nearby fire exit door bangs with a deep, ominous impact out in the corridor. Rebecca shudders, her state of withdrawal broken by the return of immediate threat.

The door bangs again and they all get to their feet, moving back into the passage, Blake with an arm supporting Rebecca around her waist. Kane hauls a fire extinguisher from its strapping on the wall, hefting it to use as a weapon.

It bangs once more, this time accompanied by a voice.

‘Fuck’s sake, some cunt let us in.’

Kane puts the cylinder down and runs up the tributary corridor, closing the door on Julie’s corpse before he opens the fire exit. Beansy and Yvonne burst through it and make their way towards the main corridor, blood-spattered and terrified. They take in the red-smeared walls and floor, the quivering Rebecca, and it is apparent to all parties that they are on the same page.

‘It killed Marky,’ Beansy says, almost disbelieving his own words. ‘Theresa too.’

‘Oh God,’ sobs Rebecca, bending forward like she’s been punched in the gut.

‘What did?’ Kane asks. ‘What did it look like?’

Beansy searches for the words and the composure. He looks at Kane, then over Kane’s shoulder, whereupon his eyes pop.

‘That!’

They turn around to see Caitlin and Rocks running flat out towards them. Bursting through the swinging fire doors at their backs is a vision that makes Kane come over all nostalgic for the homely and comforting sight of Julie Meiklejohn’s corpse.

Something’s closing in on him, he can sense it, but he has to ask himself: is he panicking because he can sense it, or is he sensing it because he’s panicking? Don’t look back, he keeps telling himself. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. But if there’s something approaching, he needs to know where from, needs to check his six as well as his three, nine and twelve.

Okay. He can look back, but he can’t stop. Must not stop. He turns his head, feels his legs slowing in response despite his determination otherwise: some instinct overriding his conscious intentions, telling him it’s bad enough running about in the dark without ceasing to look where you’re fucking well going.

He sees nothing on his tail, but his eyes can only penetrate a few yards into the gloom. He turns his head again, thinking it’s now safe to accelerate, but instead he pulls up to prevent himself running into Ewan.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Poor bastard has been pinned to a tree by the leg of a tripod ripped from Adnan’s telescope. It’s been driven through his neck. His eyes are open but he is dead, must have been killed almost instantly. Just as well, because he’s been mutilated. Looks like something has been biting chunks out of him.
Eating
him.

Kirk can feel tears coming now. Fuck. This is him losing it. This is what he can’t run from, can’t prevent. He feels like a fucking wean, a lost wee wean that wants its mammy. It’s not just tears. It’s the whole, shaking, sniffing, snottery greeting he hasn’t done since his maw died when he was eleven.

He does want his mammy.

He’s scared. Really, really scared. Nobody thinks you’re ever scared when you’re the big man, and after a while you start to believe it, because most of the time it’s true. Most of the time. And when it’s not true, you can hide it better than anyone, because nobody is looking for it in you. Problem is, when you are scared, nobody helps. Most of the time. Nobody notices. Nobody sees it, sometimes not even yourself.

He was scared of Barker. He hid that from himself, more effectively than he’s tried to hide . . . aye, that. Told himself it was dislike, contempt, when it was plain fear. Something in that boy was feral: untamed and unfeeling. Something in that boy wouldn’t care what you did to him, which was scary enough, but it was what he might be capable of doing in return that spooked Kirk deep down.

He had read somewhere that the average prison fight lasts less than ten seconds, and from his own experience he understood why. In that ten seconds, even the first two or three, that’s when you can know you’re already defeated. You realise almost instantly that you’re up against superior mental force and aggression, so something primal kicks in, a species memory that your tea’s out. He’s seen it himself: guys who were bigger and physically stronger than he was, offering precious little resistance beyond the first few blows. They know it’s over. With Barker, though, maybe it would have been Kirk whose strength folded. That’s what he was secretly afraid of.

Other times he’d tell himself that such a situation would be the making of him: overcome the fear, get in the moment, retreat into technique, feel the thrill running through his limbs as they delivered each punch, each kick. But in all of those imagined scenarios, the cunt never turned up with a knife. That was what really fucked him up about the whole thing. He wasn’t ready for that, but it was precisely that kind of ruthlessness, that kind of vastly heightened aggression that he feared Barker capable of.

The morning Dunnsy died, Kirk had a dental appointment: a fucking loose filling. He kept telling himself - and everybody else - that it would have been different if he’d been there: Dunnsy would not have died if he’d been there. But what he’s been running from ever since is the fear that it would have been different simply because
he
would have been the one who died.

He’d been ducking it, chasing it out of his head, diluting it in fantasies where he saved the day, wrested away the knife and punched the wee fucker’s cunt in. But when he saw that thing killing Dazza, he saw the truth. Taken by surprise, then ripped apart with merciless ferocity: that would have been his fate.

Maybe, in fact, it still is his fate. That thing was smaller than him, wiry and feral, just like Barker. What if it
is
Barker: some visitation of his inner self, the soul of a demon? Then he remembers whose knife killed Dazza, and wonders what if the demon is his
own
inner self: the thing he was about to become if he stabbed Matt Wilson?

This thought, to his surprise, jars and chills him more than the first. He observes himself as though from above, stalking though the woods with that blade in his hand, and he thinks: wanker. He sees with absolute clarity how pitifully shallow this whole hard-man act is, understands how easily Kane saw through it, and wonders how much more the teacher saw.

Kane was the only person to ever accuse him of being a shitebag: the only person to recognise he was scared of something. That was when he realised Kane had his number.

He had done better in his exams than anybody expected: did it to shut a few folk up, particularly some of the sarky fuckers among the staff. He thought it would buy him some slack, keep them off his case if they were content he had bagged a few qualifications. Then one day Kane asked him to stay behind after class. Kirk thought it was just the usual kind of bollocking about his attitude or not paying attention.

Wrong.

‘I learned something quite surprising about you when I saw your exam results,’ Kane said. So not a bollocking: a wee bit of humble pie maybe, washed down with a helping of congratulations.

Very wrong.

‘You’re a shitebag and a waster,’ Kane went on. ‘That’s what I learned. You’ve sat here in my class, in every class, doing the bare minimum, and I’m sure when it came to your exams, you did the bare minimum of studying for those too, if any.’

‘Aye, and yet despite that, I did okay,’ Kirk replied, trying to sound cocky.

Kane wasn’t impressed.

‘When you could, it turns out, have done brilliantly, which is what makes you a waster. But wasters can change their ways. It’s being a shitebag that’s a greater obstacle.’

‘And what am I meant to be shiting it from?’

‘Being who you really are.’

That got his attention. What came next was almost a relief.

‘Do you know how many bright Scottish boys from places like Gleniston end up making the least of themselves, just because they’re afraid getting the head down and scoring good grades would clash with their hard-man image? Too fucking many. And our unis end up full of overprivileged mediocrities from Fettes and fucking Hutchie Grammar and the like, who rise way above their abilities because they’re not afraid someone’s going to call them a poof for getting their sums right.’

Kirk looked up at that point, involuntarily telling Kane he’d scored a point, and hoping to fuck he didn’t realise which one.

‘In your year, there’s some bright kids: there’s Matt, there’s Adnan, there’s Caitlin, and it turns out that Kirk Burns could be the smartest of the lot. Even if you’re not, you’ve got other qualities that could take you further than any of them. You could have it all, son. You could do anything. But you’d rather pish it away in exchange for acting the big man for a few short years, in front of a bunch of folk who will never respect you for that; the most they’ll give you is fear. You
could
have people’s respect, though, if you wanted it. You’re a born leader. And if you start shining in the classroom, who’s going to dare give Kirk Burns any shite for it? But that’s not what you’re afraid of, is it?’

Kirk found it hard to look him in the eye, worried about what he’d give away, worried about what Kane already knew, and aware that everything he’d said so far was true.

‘It’s a scary prospect, taking on a new mantle. Owning up to what you really are, and admitting you’ve been deceiving everybody for so long. We both know the easy option would be to keep up the pretence, keep being Big Kirk. But this is your notice, Big Man: you can hide what you are from your pals and your classmates, but you can’t hide it from me any more. If I see you trying to, I’ll know it’s because you’re a shitebag. But worse than that:
you’ll
know it’s because you’re a shitebag.’

He
is
a shitebag. He’s fucking pathetic.

He’s not been hiding this as long as Kane thinks. He didn’t realise he was good at his subjects until late in third year. It didn’t seem important back then, though - not as important as being the big man, having a laugh, causing a bit of mayhem. By fourth year, he’d started to realise he was limiting his options if he didn’t screw the nut, but old habits died hard, and it felt like certain behaviour was expected of him. So not hiding from it, but definitely running from it. Kane got that right.

Wanker.

Shitebag.

Scared.

Scared of Barker. Scared of dying. Scared of what he is. Scared of living.

He’s about the only person here tonight who wasn’t tanning drink. He’ll do a bit of hash, but he has to watch the booze: it disinhibits. Threatens to reveal the aspect of him he prefers to keep hidden. He told Dazza that once, when he was nagging him to get jaked. Dazza thought he meant it brought out his violent side.

Quite the opposite, Daniel, dear boy.

Dazza. Poor fucking Dazza. Pals since they were nine. He wants to cry some more, wants to totally lose it in weeping, but he hears the slap-slap of footsteps nearby and he knows the crying is over for now.

The grief leaves him in an instant as he feels a quickening within. He’d say it’s a survival instinct, a reflex, but it feels like something greater.

He’s not the big man any more, and he’s not scared either.

‘
Come on. You want to do something for Dunnsy? Let’s party for Dunnsy
.’

Aye.

For Dunnsy. For Dazza. For Ewan, and for whoever else this Howson-looking fucker has killed.

Let’s fucking party.