something calculating and cold about the bastard. He’s not some harmless doo-lally numpty like Davie O’Hara: that boy’s soft in the head and soft in the heart. Everybody likes Davie, and Kirk had handed out a couple of panellings to folk that tried to rip the pish out of him. But Matt is a different story. Unlike Davie, he isn’t weird thon way that he looks like his mammy dresses him. There’s something precise about his clothing and appearance that’s worse than those preening fuds Liam and Jason.
Kirk had never really noticed him much until maybe a year or so back. He went to a different primary school from Kirk and he wasn’t in any of his classes until third year. You wouldn’t notice him, that’s the thing. More like you become gradually aware of him. It’s creepy, anyone being so quiet, blending into the walls. Kirk doesn’t like mouthy bastards either, but there’s a happy medium, and this freaky cock comes across like he’s above talking to anybody - which made it all the more galling who he did fucking talk to.
Naw. Matt’s a far different story to wee daft Davie. This yin knows what he’s all about. That’s why Kirk isnae buying all the shite about him being just caught in the middle of what happened to Dunnsy. He’s a sly bastard as well as a smart one, and Kirk’s fucking well on to him now.
He stands with his arms folded, just staring, watching to see what Matt will do. He’s got his back to the door still, looking down at his bed where his rucksack is parked, but he’s not taking anything out of it. His head is down but Kirk guesses he’s not looking at the bag or the bed. He’ll be staring at the floor, looking for a reflection or a shadow that will tell him whether Kirk has moved away. Shiting it. Good. Get used to the feeling, ya weirdo prick.
Then a voice intrudes into the moment.
‘You finding yourselves rooms all right there, boys?’
It’s Mr Kane, subtly making everybody aware that he knows the score.
‘Getting there, sir,’ says Dazza, giving Kirk a look that’s asking for a skelp in the dish, still fucking sour-faced that Kirk had held them back.
Kirk lifts his bag from the floor. ‘Cannae find the bellhop,’ he says. ‘I’ll be writing a strongly worded letter to the management.’
Mr Kane gives him back a thin smile, not letting him walk away thinking they can both kid on he never saw nothing there. Fuck, why did it have to be Mr Kane? Guthrie, bring it on - he’d mix it with that purple-heided wannabe sergeant-major bastard all day, and the more authority he tried to wield, the less seriously Kirk took him. But Mr Kane was different gravy, the one guy he genuinely didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.
Kirk walks away, resisting the temptation to have a look back; at Mr Kane or Matt Wilson. No need to incur unnecessary complications. Nothing’s changed: that fucker’s time is coming. All the better, in fact, if he knows it, and has a wee while to dwell on that. Aye, sleep well not knowing when or where you’re getting yours, ya weirdo cunt.
Beansy drops his guts again about two seconds after dropping his bag. It’s a quiet one, and he says nothing, just waits for them all to notice. Delayed response is always the funniest, and this one’s a stoater. Deso’s halfway through saying something about Rosemary’s guitar when it stops him in his tracks.
‘Fuck’s sake, Beansy, that’s out of fuckin’ order. You dae that once more and I’m gettin’ the fuckin’ fire extinguisher, all right?’
Marky’s next to get a warm noseful of the bouquet.
‘That smelly bastard’s like one of those animals that has to mark oot its territory.’
‘If it’s territory he wants, he can have a fuckin’ room tae himself if he keeps that up,’ says Fizzy, but he’s laughing as he says it. They all are, with a cumulative effect on Beansy, who can feel himself starting to lose the place. There’s tears coming out now and everything.
‘Oh fuck, this
Kirk had never really noticed him much until maybe a year or so back. He went to a different primary school from Kirk and he wasn’t in any of his classes until third year. You wouldn’t notice him, that’s the thing. More like you become gradually aware of him. It’s creepy, anyone being so quiet, blending into the walls. Kirk doesn’t like mouthy bastards either, but there’s a happy medium, and this freaky cock comes across like he’s above talking to anybody - which made it all the more galling who he did fucking talk to.
Naw. Matt’s a far different story to wee daft Davie. This yin knows what he’s all about. That’s why Kirk isnae buying all the shite about him being just caught in the middle of what happened to Dunnsy. He’s a sly bastard as well as a smart one, and Kirk’s fucking well on to him now.
He stands with his arms folded, just staring, watching to see what Matt will do. He’s got his back to the door still, looking down at his bed where his rucksack is parked, but he’s not taking anything out of it. His head is down but Kirk guesses he’s not looking at the bag or the bed. He’ll be staring at the floor, looking for a reflection or a shadow that will tell him whether Kirk has moved away. Shiting it. Good. Get used to the feeling, ya weirdo prick.
Then a voice intrudes into the moment.
‘You finding yourselves rooms all right there, boys?’
It’s Mr Kane, subtly making everybody aware that he knows the score.
‘Getting there, sir,’ says Dazza, giving Kirk a look that’s asking for a skelp in the dish, still fucking sour-faced that Kirk had held them back.
Kirk lifts his bag from the floor. ‘Cannae find the bellhop,’ he says. ‘I’ll be writing a strongly worded letter to the management.’
Mr Kane gives him back a thin smile, not letting him walk away thinking they can both kid on he never saw nothing there. Fuck, why did it have to be Mr Kane? Guthrie, bring it on - he’d mix it with that purple-heided wannabe sergeant-major bastard all day, and the more authority he tried to wield, the less seriously Kirk took him. But Mr Kane was different gravy, the one guy he genuinely didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.
Kirk walks away, resisting the temptation to have a look back; at Mr Kane or Matt Wilson. No need to incur unnecessary complications. Nothing’s changed: that fucker’s time is coming. All the better, in fact, if he knows it, and has a wee while to dwell on that. Aye, sleep well not knowing when or where you’re getting yours, ya weirdo cunt.
Beansy drops his guts again about two seconds after dropping his bag. It’s a quiet one, and he says nothing, just waits for them all to notice. Delayed response is always the funniest, and this one’s a stoater. Deso’s halfway through saying something about Rosemary’s guitar when it stops him in his tracks.
‘Fuck’s sake, Beansy, that’s out of fuckin’ order. You dae that once more and I’m gettin’ the fuckin’ fire extinguisher, all right?’
Marky’s next to get a warm noseful of the bouquet.
‘That smelly bastard’s like one of those animals that has to mark oot its territory.’
‘If it’s territory he wants, he can have a fuckin’ room tae himself if he keeps that up,’ says Fizzy, but he’s laughing as he says it. They all are, with a cumulative effect on Beansy, who can feel himself starting to lose the place. There’s tears coming out now and everything.
‘Oh fuck, this
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