hide were the first to be making accusations. Though even if Julie was a fat ugly lesbian, she still wasn’t getting a ride, not even off of another fat ugly lesbian.
‘It’s shite, but, innit?’ says Yvonne.
‘Aye,’ Gillian agrees, but she’s relieved that Deborah is gone. It was weird: she felt a bit guilty, but at the same time resented feeling that way, and wished Deborah would just fuck off and not stand there making everything awkward.
‘Is she really gaunny be stuck with Marianne?’ Yvonne asks.
‘Or is that a wind-up?’
‘Straight up,’ Julie replies, with a look that is about ninety per cent appalled and ten per cent delighted.
‘It was the only room left with any beds free,’ Gillian confirms.
‘No surprise, I suppose,’ says Theresa.
‘Need to watch Deborah doesn’t get, you know, infected with the Goth virus,’ Yvonne says.
‘If she comes out in the morning dressed in fishnets and her hair dyed jet black,’ adds Theresa, ‘we need to stage an intervention before she starts to self-harm.’
‘Aye,’ Gillian says, joining in. ‘Anybody hears her humming a My Chemical Romance song, that’s it, she doesnae get back in this room. We have to stop it spreading.’
They’re all pure gutting themselves now, and Gillian doesn’t feel guilty. None of them do. Every one of them knows it could have been them and is grateful it wasn’t, because every one of them also knows it’s devil-take-the-hindmost, no quarter asked or given. No fun being in unless somebody’s out.
Kirk is taking his time, ambling down the corridor in no hurry whatsoever, when through an open doorway he sees a sight that stops him in his tracks. He’s a dozen or so yards behind the scrambling and jostling morass. The squeaks of umpteen sets of trainers on the floor tiles is matched in pitch and volume by as many overexcited voices, making claims, shouting instructions. Daft fucking weans, so they are. Wasting their efforts too, some of them. Dazza’s near as bad. Kirk can tell he wanted a head start in finding their digs, and now his face is tripping him because Kirk delayed them and they ended up at the back of the crowd. Like that matters, fuck.
Kirk had a wee bit of business to attend to outside, and he wanted to make sure all potentially prying eyes were safely out the way, indoors in the reception area, while he got on with it. Dazza’s nose was further put out of joint because Kirk wouldn’t say what it was - just told him and Rocks to stay put and keep the edgy while he nipped round the side of the building and found a good spot to plank the wee zip-locked bag. And now he’s even more pissed off because Kirk’s stopped to smell the roses a wee bit. Well, he can just pull his knickers back out the crack of his arse. Kirk’s got a bit of business here as well, a bit of business with the fucker who’s standing inside this room with his back to the doorway: Matt weirdo cunt Wilson.
Aye. Well seeing he’s on his tod in there. Nobody wants anything to do with him, but what’s annoying is that that’s actually how the fucking oddity likes it.
Kirk drops his shoulder bag to the floor, so that Matt turns round and sees him. He looks away again immediately, which is how Kirk knows he’s been noticed. That’s as much eye contact as you’d ever get from the boy anyway: just wee glances to absorb the minimum amount of information about the social aspect of his environment. That’s what it said in the paper, anyway, in a piece he read about a guy that made him think of Matt. Asperger’s Syndrome, the guy’s condition was called. Kirk doesn’t know if that’s what Matt’s got, but he certainly recognised a few of the symptoms. Big fancy name for what used to just be called being an ignorant cunt. ‘Good with numbers, not with people,’ that’s what he overheard one of the teachers say about Matt. So, what, is he meant to be fucking Rain Man or something? Kirk’s not buying it. There’s
‘It’s shite, but, innit?’ says Yvonne.
‘Aye,’ Gillian agrees, but she’s relieved that Deborah is gone. It was weird: she felt a bit guilty, but at the same time resented feeling that way, and wished Deborah would just fuck off and not stand there making everything awkward.
‘Is she really gaunny be stuck with Marianne?’ Yvonne asks.
‘Or is that a wind-up?’
‘Straight up,’ Julie replies, with a look that is about ninety per cent appalled and ten per cent delighted.
‘It was the only room left with any beds free,’ Gillian confirms.
‘No surprise, I suppose,’ says Theresa.
‘Need to watch Deborah doesn’t get, you know, infected with the Goth virus,’ Yvonne says.
‘If she comes out in the morning dressed in fishnets and her hair dyed jet black,’ adds Theresa, ‘we need to stage an intervention before she starts to self-harm.’
‘Aye,’ Gillian says, joining in. ‘Anybody hears her humming a My Chemical Romance song, that’s it, she doesnae get back in this room. We have to stop it spreading.’
They’re all pure gutting themselves now, and Gillian doesn’t feel guilty. None of them do. Every one of them knows it could have been them and is grateful it wasn’t, because every one of them also knows it’s devil-take-the-hindmost, no quarter asked or given. No fun being in unless somebody’s out.
Kirk is taking his time, ambling down the corridor in no hurry whatsoever, when through an open doorway he sees a sight that stops him in his tracks. He’s a dozen or so yards behind the scrambling and jostling morass. The squeaks of umpteen sets of trainers on the floor tiles is matched in pitch and volume by as many overexcited voices, making claims, shouting instructions. Daft fucking weans, so they are. Wasting their efforts too, some of them. Dazza’s near as bad. Kirk can tell he wanted a head start in finding their digs, and now his face is tripping him because Kirk delayed them and they ended up at the back of the crowd. Like that matters, fuck.
Kirk had a wee bit of business to attend to outside, and he wanted to make sure all potentially prying eyes were safely out the way, indoors in the reception area, while he got on with it. Dazza’s nose was further put out of joint because Kirk wouldn’t say what it was - just told him and Rocks to stay put and keep the edgy while he nipped round the side of the building and found a good spot to plank the wee zip-locked bag. And now he’s even more pissed off because Kirk’s stopped to smell the roses a wee bit. Well, he can just pull his knickers back out the crack of his arse. Kirk’s got a bit of business here as well, a bit of business with the fucker who’s standing inside this room with his back to the doorway: Matt weirdo cunt Wilson.
Aye. Well seeing he’s on his tod in there. Nobody wants anything to do with him, but what’s annoying is that that’s actually how the fucking oddity likes it.
Kirk drops his shoulder bag to the floor, so that Matt turns round and sees him. He looks away again immediately, which is how Kirk knows he’s been noticed. That’s as much eye contact as you’d ever get from the boy anyway: just wee glances to absorb the minimum amount of information about the social aspect of his environment. That’s what it said in the paper, anyway, in a piece he read about a guy that made him think of Matt. Asperger’s Syndrome, the guy’s condition was called. Kirk doesn’t know if that’s what Matt’s got, but he certainly recognised a few of the symptoms. Big fancy name for what used to just be called being an ignorant cunt. ‘Good with numbers, not with people,’ that’s what he overheard one of the teachers say about Matt. So, what, is he meant to be fucking Rain Man or something? Kirk’s not buying it. There’s
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