Pandaemonium Part 7

'And every temptation of the enemy . . .' . . .'

But he couldn't give up, couldn't not not do it. He needed to know. do it. He needed to know.

He reached for the phial of acid . . .

Now, these weeks later, the screams still echo, still sc.r.a.pe his bones and gnaw at his soul. But the data they heralded reverberated even more disturbingly. Tullian had handed him back the phial at the end of the procedure, allowing him to retest the same holy water sample on dead skin. It still had no effect. The acid and the alkali had the same corrosive impact whether the subject was dead or alive: the only difference was that the effects on the dead sample weren't accompanied by screams of pain and an anguished wail from somewhere deep within Merrick's conscience.

Holy water on living tissue, however, had proven more damaging than any hazardous chemical.

The questions were only beginning. Did holy water burn other creatures, or only these ones? If so, why? He had checked the sample before and after the blessing, and at a molecular level it was unchanged. Did the incantation alter the properties of simple water at some level we could neither measure nor detect? Would the rite work if performed by anyone? Did it have to be a priest? Did it have to be a Catholic Catholic priest? priest?

It was exciting, but in the most nightmarish way. Either his observations denoted the threshold of a whole new frontier of science, or they marked the barrier where the scientific paradigm reached its limit. What was truly disquieting about this was that if science couldn't offer explanations, then nor could it offer solutions; while what did offer solutions was more worrying still. Our world was in danger of being overrun by these marauding demons, and it was only things he had shunned and scorned that might offer hope: that might offer, to use the now frighteningly appropriate word, salvation salvation.

With this thought returns the recurring fear, the one that stalks him every second he remains in this dark and d.a.m.ned place: Here beneath the world, held fast by adamantine rock, impenetrable. Here impaled with circling fire, yet unconsumed.

All his life, he he shunned, shunned, he he scorned. scorned.

He rejected, even ridiculed, the word of G.o.d, the very idea of religion. Now he's confronted with d.a.m.nation, torment and demons in a sweltering furnace beneath the earth. Wasn't that what the Bible said would happen? How's that for cause and effect?

A world overrun by demons. His His world. Perhaps only his. For what if this truly is h.e.l.l, world. Perhaps only his. For what if this truly is h.e.l.l, his his h.e.l.l? What if he had died but didn't know it? Wouldn't this be the journey that took him there: his unique, personal journey? He recalls some of his many possible deaths: a near-drowning at fifteen; on board a 757 tossed like a toy by an electrical storm above the Rockies. Then one more vivid than the rest: almost falling asleep at the wheel on a rain-lashed night nine months ago, on the drive north, on the road to here. He can still see the view from the windscreen. Lights everywhere, flickering and indistinct: white shapes stretched and pulled by random refractions in the rain and spray before being temporarily shrunk to points and discs by the wiper blades . . . h.e.l.l? What if he had died but didn't know it? Wouldn't this be the journey that took him there: his unique, personal journey? He recalls some of his many possible deaths: a near-drowning at fifteen; on board a 757 tossed like a toy by an electrical storm above the Rockies. Then one more vivid than the rest: almost falling asleep at the wheel on a rain-lashed night nine months ago, on the drive north, on the road to here. He can still see the view from the windscreen. Lights everywhere, flickering and indistinct: white shapes stretched and pulled by random refractions in the rain and spray before being temporarily shrunk to points and discs by the wiper blades . . .

What if he hadn't snapped awake before that bend?

Perhaps you didn't go from your world to h.e.l.l: perhaps you brought it to yourself, made your own world become become h.e.l.l. No moment of death, no judgment at the gate, no banishment with your fellow d.a.m.ned; but instead watching, close-up, helpless, as the decisions you had made, the things you had embraced not only proved powerless against, but in fact h.e.l.l. No moment of death, no judgment at the gate, no banishment with your fellow d.a.m.ned; but instead watching, close-up, helpless, as the decisions you had made, the things you had embraced not only proved powerless against, but in fact precipitated precipitated the advent of h.e.l.l on Earth. the advent of h.e.l.l on Earth.

Ma.s.s Effect

IV

'G.o.d our Father, renew the living spring of your life within us and protect us in spirit and body, that we may be free from sin and come into your presence to receive your gift of salvation. We ask this through Christ our Lord.'

'Amen,' they all respond.

The room is warming up by the second, condensation beginning to form on the inside of the gla.s.s and disappointingly clouding out Adnan's view through the windows, where he had previously been able to make out Orion.

A makeshift altar has been constructed at one end of the room, just a low-standing coffee table draped with ceremonial cloths and adorned with standard-issue holyware: a crucifix, a chalice, a bell, a bowl of corpse-subst.i.tute wafers and a copy of the Christianity User's Manual Christianity User's Manual. Father Blake is got up in white vestments, arms outstretched and chest proud, like he's waiting to hug a really fat relative who he secretly doesn't like. Making his posture more bizarre is the fact that he's kneeling, so that he's not towering four feet above the top of his Playmobil Happy Priest Altar Set.

Everyone else is sitting roughly in a circle with one flattened end around the focus of the proceedings. Some are on chairs and sofas, but most are cross-legged on the floor, leaning back into the s.p.a.ces between the paired legs of the ones who have bagged seats. For once, it's not the hard men and the cool kids who have secured the prime spots, as none of them wanted to turn up too early to this gig. It's mostly the G.o.d squad and the staff who have those privileges, though there is no sign of Mr Kane, which Adnan finds ideologically satisfying but at the same time slightly annoying. If he had to turn up for this s.h.i.t, why should Kane get a free pa.s.s?

'May almighty G.o.d cleanse us of our sins, and through the Eucharist we celebrate make us worthy to sit at his table in his heavenly kingdom.'

Maybe it's the growing warmth, maybe it's his fatigue, maybe it's the fact that where he's leaning back, his shoulder is in contact with Caitlin Black's leg and she hasn't recoiled it in a deliberately conspicuous show of disgust, and maybe it's a combination of all of the above, but Adnan would have to admit he's actually finding the ma.s.s quite pleasant. There is a very mellow vibe around the room: no tension, no aggro, n.o.body being a pain in the hoop, everybody quietly contemplative. There is something cosy and genuinely communal to it, like how he'd always been told religion was supposed to be. However, there is also something inescapably ridiculous about it, kind of the elephant in the room that's being steadfastly ignored by the faithful. Really. There's Blake in his superhero costume, striking crazy poses and talking in this elevated semi-singing register that so so isn't the guy's normal voice; like he's channelling or something. Meanwhile everyone else is nodding here, bowing there, all in unison, all on Pavlovian cue, and chanting like they're entranced, their own voices altered, their delivery uniform and unsettlingly identical. isn't the guy's normal voice; like he's channelling or something. Meanwhile everyone else is nodding here, bowing there, all in unison, all on Pavlovian cue, and chanting like they're entranced, their own voices altered, their delivery uniform and unsettlingly identical.

'I confess to almighty G.o.d,' they all chant, 'and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do . . .' . . .'

s.h.i.t, that doesn't leave much s.p.a.ce for plea-bargaining, does it? Sins of thought, sins of speech, sins of deed, sins of omission. Forgot sins of respiration and sins of spatial occupation, but otherwise we're all owning up to being a shower of spherical b.a.s.t.a.r.ds: b.a.s.t.a.r.ds any way you look at us. However, our d.a.m.nation is not a done deal, there is hope: 'And I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord, our G.o.d.'

Yeah. The blessed virgin, the angels and the saints got our backs.

It was at his dad's insistence that he and his two younger sisters went to Catholic school. Like many devout Muslims in Scotland, faced with the absence of their own faith schools, he decided he'd rather entrust the education of his kids to Crusader infidel Christian hardliners than to the scorched-earth G.o.dlessness of the non-denominational system. Besides, the Muslims and the Catholics might disagree on the divinity of Jesus and the veracity of Mohammed's secretarial skills in transcribing the word of G.o.d, but they had as much in common as divided them, mostly concerning who and what they disapproved of. This, according to Adnan's most recent calculations, was pretty much everything, especially if it could be described by the words 'enlightened', 'forward-looking' or 'fun'.

His dad would be less than delighted to hear that sending him to a faith school was what really accelerated his apostasy. Having been immersed so thoroughly in one religious culture, to be then plunged in close-up alongside another served to ill.u.s.trate how arbitrary your allocation of faith was. The stork drops you down one chimney in Gleniston and you're a Muslim, down another and you're a Catholic; each with their own silly outfits, bizarre rituals and absolute certainty that their way is right. The Christians who were vociferously railing against Islamic extremism were precisely the ones who would have turned out hard-core fundies themselves, railing against the Crusaders, had they been born in Jordan rather than Jordanhill.

Despite the gla.s.s steaming up, Adnan can tell it's going to be clear tonight. Being so excitingly removed from urban light pollution, he knows the seeing will be different cla.s.s, which is why he's already set up his telescope in the room he's sharing with Radar and Matt.

Most people had never known quite what to make of Matt, but he had gone from enigma to borderline pariah since the incident. n.o.body could possibly blame him for it - at least, n.o.body rational, which unfortunately ruled out the folk most likely to give him grief about it - but there was an inescapable sense that he was tainted by his involvement nonetheless. Adnan had seen something of the same phenomenon back in second year when Radar's mother died. Everyone steered clear of him for a long time, and while part of that was because they didn't know quite what to say, it was also as though they feared bereavement might be contagious.

Adnan had always got on okay with Matt. They were both geeks in their own different ways. Matt, however, was not one to pour forth his geekish enthusiasms, whereas Adnan didn't care who he bored or baffled. What a lot of the chuckleheads at school didn't appreciate was that you didn't have to be gibbering away incontinently with lame jokes and stolen patter to be good company. They always needed vocal affirmation of their own presence every thirty seconds or they got twitchy and self-conscious. Adnan felt relaxed in a room with Matt because he understood Matt felt relaxed in a room with him. He knew that just because Matt didn't say anything didn't mean he wasn't listening. That, in fact, was the big mistake people made about the guy. They a.s.sumed, because he was quiet, that he was withdrawn into a world of his own, when in fact he was probably the most attentive and keenly observant person among them. It was Adnan's bet that Matt had everybody's number, and they should all be grateful that he didn't say much, because if he did, he'd nail them to the walls.

This is about as much as Rocks has enjoyed being at ma.s.s in living memory. He's not paying any more attention than normal, but with everyone in a circle, the view is a lot better than the usual offering of the back of somebody's head, so he's able to reprise his a.s.sessments of the talent as practised on the coach journey. Informed by Dazza's experienced perspective, it's like seeing some of the la.s.sies for the first time, which prompts the less comfortable contemplation of what it might take for them to reciprocate.

Rocks envied the informed and dispa.s.sionately practical nature of Dazza's appraisal: the voice of experience, the words of a man who knows what he's talking about. Dazza's built like a boxer, and has always got girls interested in him: older girls, that is, students and the like. Consequently, he's seen a lot more action; more than enough to adjudge what level any given female is likely to be operating at.

Not that Rocks would be getting a.s.signed to a high weight-cla.s.s himself. If it turned out that the apparently demure Caitlin or Mich.e.l.le had had had their t.i.ts felt, then that would place them further up the s.e.xual experience ladder than he had notched so far. (Unless you counted the time he got off with Christine Higgins at Dazza's birthday party and managed a fleeting brush of her blouse before her hand shot up with the defensive ferocity of a karate block.) had their t.i.ts felt, then that would place them further up the s.e.xual experience ladder than he had notched so far. (Unless you counted the time he got off with Christine Higgins at Dazza's birthday party and managed a fleeting brush of her blouse before her hand shot up with the defensive ferocity of a karate block.) It's about lack of opportunity, he reckons, the absence of situations that would allow you to actually talk to la.s.sies properly. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink: there were girls all around you in every cla.s.s, every day, but when did you ever get the chance to be around them when you were both being yourselves, as opposed to just gender-regimented schoolkids? Plus, as he was latterly learning, there is a price to pay for being a mate of Big Kirk's, aside from the standard one of perennially getting jumped by the Gleniston Young Team. The problem is that the girls tend to a.s.sume he is a bampot, and consequently he places a premium on potential opportunities to explain otherwise. That's why he has high hopes for this retreat: it will take everybody out of the normal context. n.o.body has to behave the way they're a.s.sumed or expected to, which means the Mich.e.l.les and Caitlins of this world might well get their t.i.ts felt, and the Paul Roxburghs of this world might be the ones doing the feeling.

His big brother had said as much, based on the experience of his own senior school years. Joe told him about weekend retreats to some place in Ayrshire called Chapelstane Hall: school trips that are no longer on offer largely due to the sorts of abuses in which Joe and his peers had enthusiastically indulged.

'It was hilarious. The teachers thought they were really making a breakthrough because the likes of me and my pals seemed to have come over all happy-clappy, but we were only there for smuggled drink and the chance to meet la.s.sies from other schools who would all be sleeping under the same roof. Or not sleeping, and not under the roof much either. Some serious action went on under the stars around that place, let me tell you.

'This retreat should be a particularly valuable opportunity,' Joe had encouraged him. 's.e.x and death always go together. Part of the natural rhythm. Believe me: it does something to people, especially girls. If you cannae get a burd pumped after some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's just snuffed it, seriously: cut it off.'

Kane can hear the droning chants of the dutiful but disengaged from where he's standing in the reception area. He's got a folder open on the counter in front of him, but he's staring at the huge panes instead, which are functioning almost like giant mirrors due to the star-dotted blackness beyond. The light is soft and low indoors, but it's mostly reflecting back and making the sitting area seem twice the size. Observed from distance, the facility must look like one of those stars: a glowing light source isolated in an ocean of black, thus visible itself but not illuminating its surroundings.

There's little to see, but it's still a sufficient distraction when he doesn't particularly want to look at what's right in front of him. The folder is full of press clippings, mostly the tabloid stuff. At some point over the weekend, he's going to get them to talk about this. In the post-traumatic storm, with their recall confused and their minds censoring certain painful or horrifying details, there is a danger that the tabloid version of events has become the one that stays in their memories. Part of his job this weekend is to help them prevent second-hand, speculative or even outright made-up accounts supplanting the truth of their own experiences.

Normally, there would have been a grace period of several months before the papers were permitted to salivate over such sub judice sub judice details, but Robert Barker denied them that mercy by killing himself so soon after killing Andrew Dunn. That's when the tide of hearsay, distortion, simplistic psychobabble, revisionism and lies in Kane's folder was truly unleashed. They painted a portrait of a monster, some apprentice Dahmer so deranged, s.a.d.i.s.tic and terrifying, the papers almost sounded disappointed he wouldn't get the chance to fulfil his early promise. Every last piece of cla.s.sroom t.i.ttle-tattle was blown up, picked apart and spun as an 'insight' into the mind of a psychopath. There were stories going right back to primary school. Christ, the kid f.u.c.king killed himself a few days after murdering a cla.s.smate. Did we need to excoriate his childhood to underline how troubled he was? details, but Robert Barker denied them that mercy by killing himself so soon after killing Andrew Dunn. That's when the tide of hearsay, distortion, simplistic psychobabble, revisionism and lies in Kane's folder was truly unleashed. They painted a portrait of a monster, some apprentice Dahmer so deranged, s.a.d.i.s.tic and terrifying, the papers almost sounded disappointed he wouldn't get the chance to fulfil his early promise. Every last piece of cla.s.sroom t.i.ttle-tattle was blown up, picked apart and spun as an 'insight' into the mind of a psychopath. There were stories going right back to primary school. Christ, the kid f.u.c.king killed himself a few days after murdering a cla.s.smate. Did we need to excoriate his childhood to underline how troubled he was?

EVIL.

MONSTER.

How many times - or how few - did the kids of St Peter's need to read those words before they became synonymous with Robert Barker and they started believing the dumbed-down, cheesy horror-flick version of their own narrative? Did those reversed-out block capitals in the headlines make the words more true? Maybe the textual equivalent of screaming them like that helped the editors compensate for how meaningless they were. Calling Robert Barker 'evil' told us nothing about him and nothing about evil. It read like some hysterical maiden aunt who can't deal with this beastly, frightful notion. 'He's a monster, he's evil evil, that's all I need to know, so shut the book, don't tell me any more.'

Kane is buffeted from his reflections as something suddenly hits the gla.s.s with a bang that makes him physically recoil. He hears a scuttling sound, a sc.r.a.ping of little claws on wood, and through one of the windows, he can make out the shape of a bird as it scrabbles drunkenly on the decking. He feels his heart race, with Blake's m.u.f.fled mumblings the only other thing audible in the vicinity. It was the silence that did it: the sound of the bang amplified in his ears by virtue of there being so little else to hear. Like a pocket torch suddenly shone in the pitch dark: the fact that it is light at all can be enough to dazzle.

A different kind of dark, a different kind of silent. He's only a few hours from Glasgow, but it doesn't feel like this is the same country; maybe not even the same world.

He has just about recovered from the initial fright when a second sudden sound has him close to levitation again. This time it's a voice.

'Dumb birds. They do that all the time.'

Sendak is standing a few feet behind him, apparently having materialised or emerged from a trap door. Kane didn't hear one footfall, a swish of clothing or a solitary breath. Through the gla.s.s they both watch the bird take off with a slow and unsteady beat of wings.

'I've heard that if you put the silhouette of a hawk on the window, it makes them avoid it,' Kane says, figuring Sendak is the kind of man who will be able to confirm or debunk this theory.

'Yeah, but where's the fun in that?' he replies.

They share a grin.

Kane is suddenly conscious of the folder, still open at an A3 photocopy of a Sun Sun double-page spread. His instinct is to close it, but not only would this merely attract Sendak's attention, it's a cert he's already clocked it, particularly as Kane has no idea how long Sendak has been standing watching him. double-page spread. His instinct is to close it, but not only would this merely attract Sendak's attention, it's a cert he's already clocked it, particularly as Kane has no idea how long Sendak has been standing watching him.

'Something smells good,' he says, by way of diverting small talk. It does too, particularly as all he's had since leaving Gleniston is a Snickers bar.

'Mm,' Sendak agrees. He sounds noncommittal, like he's not buying the change of subject. There's a moment or two of that deep, enveloping silence, not even Blake's voice audible, then it's broken by a chant from the common-room congregation.

'Got some important work ahead of you,' Sendak says, eyeing the folder. 'Half the battle can be just remembering the truth. All that bulls.h.i.t sure don't help.'

'I'm guessing you speak from experience.'

Sendak nods sombrely.

'Though in my case, it's always been the "official" version that I had to purge. It's gonna hurt those kids, but it's a hurt they gotta endure, because it'll save them from worse.'

'Like what?'

'Like guilt.'

'That's not such a big threat in this instance. I don't think they're under any illusions about who's to blame.'

'Yeah, but I didn't say blame, I said guilt. When you've watched somebody die while fate chose to leave you standing . . . it does things to you. That's why it's vital that you hold on to a reliable picture of what really happened. Trust me on this. As you put it just now, I speak from experience.'

'Lord, we have sinned against you: Lord, have mercy.'

'Lord, have mercy.'

'Lord, show us your mercy and love.'

'And grant us your salvation.'

'May almighty G.o.d have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.'

'Amen.'

They respond dutifully but with a glazed-over, dopey compliance so wholly lacking in any feeling that Rosemary can barely conceive of it being any further from a true sense of spirituality. It's actually worse than when they were all younger and the usual numpties would amuse themselves by getting up to all sorts of childish carry-on throughout the proceedings. Now they're more grown-up, more polite, so everyone is quietly and patiently sitting through it: tolerating it; enduring it. They're not feeling anything, and what's truly eating at Rosemary is that neither is she.

Father Blake looks slightly embarra.s.sed, as though he's feeling self-conscious about celebrating ma.s.s in such a huddled and in-your-face environment. Exacerbating Rosemary's disappointment is that this last is precisely the aspect that ought to be making it special: that 'ma.s.s unplugged', as Father Blake had called it, would bring people together in contemplation and prayer, in the name of their shared faith, like nothing had since the tragedy. Instead, right now she's feeling very apart from everybody, even her friends.

They'd all been given counselling, and warned that they might suddenly feel naked and vulnerable, especially in the midst of a noisy crowd like there had been on that awful day. They'd been warned also that there would be times when certain of their emotions seemed unbearably amplified. What had happened to her on the coach ticked both boxes. When Radar s.n.a.t.c.hed her guitar, she was initially just annoyed and determined to get it back, but it was what followed that caused something to crumble. When the guitar started getting pa.s.sed around, and by people she never previously suspected had anything against her, she felt no longer determined, just isolated. She suddenly wished she could feel part of the stupidity, and wished even more that it wasn't her guitar that had provided the occasion, because that seemed more than anything to place her further on the outside of it all than where even the deputy head was standing.

She was feeling more composed by the time they arrived at Fort Trochart. The prospect of some heart-to-hearts after dark might offer the chance to resolve a few things. The rules here would be different, and maybe you could let your guard down without fear of it merely inviting attack.

Then she got her guitar out, just planning to test the tuning, in case it had suffered from its recent misadventures. That was when she saw the graffiti.

She used to have this Jesus fish sticker on the sounding board, but its colours faded quickly and it looked really scruffy, so she tried peeling it off. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the inking that proved cheap and nasty, as the glossy top level came away and left a rough paper layer stuck to the wood. Upon this blank off-white oval, someone had scribbled, in thick marker pen: 'This machine kills heretics'. Someone's idea of a joke. She didn't understand exactly what the phrase was getting at, but she did understand that it was getting at her.

She flipped the guitar over and laid it on the bed so that no one might notice the sticker. Then she hurried off to the toilets and locked herself in a cubicle where n.o.body would see her cry, particularly not her friends.

It wasn't just that they saw her as Miss Unflappable, the thick-skinned one who fought all their battles and whose faith was too strong to be concerned by what other people thought of it (especially when the other people were soph.o.m.oric mind-clones pathetically enslaved by the tyranny of cool). It was that, for quite a while now, she felt she couldn't talk to them about matters other than those pertaining to school or church. Lately she had increasingly come to feel that the people who knew her best were the last people she would want to be aware of what was really going on inside her head.

More happily, at least Caitlin had ended up in the same bedroom.

Caitlin always seems hostile towards her these days, and Rosemary has never been able to work out why. She hates the idea that she has done or said something to hurt anyone, even unknowingly, and has felt driven to somehow make amends. However, the more she's tried to seek her out, the more hostile Caitlin has become. It's like throwing petrol on a fire, in fact. But as fate would have it, the only room with three free beds had been one with Caitlin already in it. Maybe her hopes of everybody pulling together this weekend were too much to ask, and this was G.o.d's way of saying that it takes small steps. If this trip was the thing that pushed her and Caitlin closer together, then that would be something, wouldn't it? Perhaps it was a sign.

She steals a look across at Caitlin, seated on the other side of the room. She is one of the few who seems to be paying any attention, intently following the celebrant's words, unlike the majority of the small, zombified gathering. Yes. Maybe they were already closer in ways they didn't quite know.

Maybe this is evidence that there really is a G.o.d, Caitlin reflects: that He's punishing her for her blasphemous thoughts by appointing Rosemary her personal evangelical stalker, and parachuting the holy trinity of she, Bernie and Maria right into her bedroom.

She's sitting with Adnan at her feet, wondering what on earth he must make of this stuff. She can feel his shoulder against her leg. It's not unpleasant. Back at school, any such contact would have her squirming, if only just from fear of what someone might say if they noticed. Here, the atmosphere already feels different. You can tell: people are going to be able to talk more on this trip; get to know each other, get off get off with each other, and she wouldn't mind one of those people being her. Would Adnan fit the bill? He's interesting, different, though a bit geeky; a lot geeky, in fact, but that might improve her chances. The cool ones aren't going to be giving the she-geeks like her a second look. with each other, and she wouldn't mind one of those people being her. Would Adnan fit the bill? He's interesting, different, though a bit geeky; a lot geeky, in fact, but that might improve her chances. The cool ones aren't going to be giving the she-geeks like her a second look.

Caitlin glances around the room, amusing herself momentarily with the idea of a.s.sessing the possibilities. She sees Dazza, Rocks, Liam, all firmly in the 'wouldn't give her a second look' category. Then she spies Ewan and Cameron. They're definitely in the intriguing category, in that she wouldn't say no, but the question is, would they? Then her fun is cut short as the next male she claps eyes on is sternly returning her gaze. It's Mr Guthrie, popping up like the Jiminy Cricket of her Catholic conscience, as though he can read her mind and is browbeating her for such inappropriate thoughts here during ma.s.s.

Sir, if only you knew.

It was a stick-on that Miss Ross and Mr Kane would be the teachers asked to go on the retreat. They were the two teachers best able to talk to the kids and more importantly, to get the kids to talk to them. And just as certain, given the choice of those two doves, was that there would have to be the biggest hawk as well, Guthrie, coming along to play bad cop. His eyes are darting back and forth, divided between reverent partic.i.p.ation in the service and scanning the room in search of further signs of disrespect. She wonders which activity lights his fire more. Of the staff, the only one giving the altar undivided and devout attention is Miss Ross. Caitlin was unaware that she was particularly religious: the thing to look for among the staff was which teachers went up to receive communion during a school ma.s.s, because that was what separated the nominal Catholics from the genuinely practising ones. She doesn't recall Miss Ross being in the latter group, but right now she's got her hands clasped and her gaze locked on Father Blake with rapt attention.

Most of the time, Caitlin can just zone out during ma.s.s, let her mind drift so that the tedium pa.s.ses quicker, but occasionally she can't help but pay attention, and that's when the sheer inanity of it really grates on her cognitive faculties. They're conditioned to nod their head whenever they or the priest says 'Jesus', but it's taking Caitlin more and more willpower not to shake hers throughout.

'We believe in one G.o.d, the Father, the Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.'

AKA the Intelligent Designer. The Vatican had latterly decided it could accommodate evolution within its view of Creation (largely because it could no longer accommodate the embarra.s.sment it was feeling by continuing to do otherwise), but it was adamant that an acceptance of evolution didn't preclude G.o.d having started it. Yes, G.o.d set in motion this astronomically complex process but knew all along, despite the infinitely branching possibilities created by an incalculable multiplicity of random factors, that the end product would be mankind: begging the question, if that was always the plan, why did he take the long way around instead of creating mankind right off the bat?

'G.o.d from G.o.d, Light from Light, true G.o.d from true G.o.d, Through him all things were made.

For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven . . .'