Pandaemonium Part 19

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 succ.u.mb 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 G.o.d'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 s.e.x with everyone, it doesn't make us square.'

Caitlin can't hold off any longer.

'No,' she agrees. 'That doesn't make you square.' doesn't make you square.'

'In't that right, Rocks? Rocks? Roxburgh, this is Houston. Are ye f.u.c.kin' listenin' tae us?'

'Aye. Sorry. Whit?'

'Never mind. Who you staring at anyway?'

'I'm not staring at anyone.'

Rocks quickly checks Dazza's line of sight. Thank f.u.c.k: 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 s.h.i.tey 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 pa.s.sing curiosity from all but one observer, whose interest in the spectacle is far, far keener.

'Check that,' Kirk says. 'Opportunity knocks.'

Through the gla.s.s, they can see Matt and Ewan heading away from the building, into the dark.

'Would you f.u.c.kin' 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 s.h.i.te, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

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 gla.s.s 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 All that, in fact, as the Americans say. 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sure 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 rea.s.suring 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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 ambivalence 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d is this being who created the world in seven days. We prove that's rubbish, so they say "Well, G.o.d 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 G.o.d's way of helping us win the argument. We can move the goalposts while you're anch.o.r.ed 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 know you don't believe Jesus walked on water or fed the five thousand. Do you believe he raised Lazarus from the dead?' 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.

'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 pa.s.sed 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, 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 Mich.e.l.le 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 - G.o.d, 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 la.s.sies 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 b.i.t.c.h is occupied (though Cameron must be f.u.c.king 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.