LOADING POWER-UPS: CAFFEINE.

LOADING POWER-UPS: LATENT SIMMERING.

MISANTHROPY.

LOADING OPPONENTS: PETER TED' BROWN.

AWAITING SNAPSHOT .. .

Ray thought he had dodged a bullet when he spotted an empty desk where Jason Murphy should have been seated. The class wasn't short of headbangers, but that particular one had proven the most adept at playing to the gallery, and was high on the list of suspects for originating last week's 'big wullie' conspiracy, whereby half the class submitted crudely drawn dicks instead of essays. Thinking back to his undergraduate career, there had been a few times when Ray might as well have done the same, given the marks he got from certain of the more curmudgeonly professors.

The hardest part had been stopping himself from laughing, exacerbated by the almost critical need for something 168.

to put a smile back on his face. It seemed a waste to have to suppress it, especially with the weans all having gone to so much trouble in pretending to look busy while they worked on their individual contributions. The sketches themselves couldn't have taken more than a few seconds, each being the classic line-drawn cartoon knob with the mandatory spunk-blobs firing out of the top. It was unlikely to be the last time he'd set a composition assignment and get a pile of wank in return.

With the Laughing Gnome AWOL, he thought he might have a better chance of exerting some kind of control, via the recommended expedient of allocating them each a named role and letting them do horrible things to Shakespeare. That way, they tended to concentrate on when their own next line was coming up rather than how they might next disrupt the lesson, though he was kidding himself if he thought it aided their absorption of the text by somehow animating the drama. What was it Olivier used to say? You've never truly experienced the Bard until you've heard Renfrewshire teenage sub-literates monotonally stumbling over their stanzas in between scratching their sprouting pubes and flicking rolled-up snorters at each other.

It was going well for a while too, until Ray discovered that there was something worse than a classful of thirteen- year-old ignorami-with-attitude; and that was one thirteen- year-old with attitude and half a brain. Usually the 'brainy wans' tended towards the reserved, either through actually having some central-nervous-system activity to process incoming information, or through the ostracism that stemmed from placing some value upon your own education. According to Ray's colleagues, there were a few others whose fear of the latter made them play dumb when they 169.

were far from it, but nobody had warned him about the unstable cocktail of contradictions that was Fed Brown, recently returned from the school football team's trip to Gothenburg. He was one of those man-boys that seem to tower above their classmates during that randomly unfair staggered-start phase of pubescent growth, and as such could apparently flaunt his intelligence without fear of anybody giving him lip. As captain of the Under-14s, he was also about as likely a candidate for ostracism as an umbrella salesman on the day it rained shite. Unfortunately, this developing body and mind were nonetheless thirteen years old, same as the others, and Fed found it just as rewarding as his classmates to rip the pish out of his teacher. The difference his having half a brain made was that he was extremely good at it.

'Sorry, sir, I meant to say "ass".'

'Of course you did, Peter. Which means you've read on a bit further than the scene we're at just now.'

'Saw the film. Her oot Ally McBeal was in it, supposed to be in the buff but you never saw nothin'.'

'I know,' Ray agreed regretfully, before remembering where he was. 'Ehm, Calista Flockhart was in it, yes.'

'He is an arse though, is that no' the point?'

More laughter from the chorus. The comedic magic of the word 'arse' would never die as long as there were authority figures there to frown upon it.

'I thought we'd agreed on ass,' Ray said, trying the disingenuous-clarification tactic to avoid acknowledging a moral ruling on the word either way.

'Naw, I mean he's a balloon, an eejit. He gets on everybody's tits.'

Christ. Further hilarity. The king of comedy, Arse, is dead. Long live Tits.

170.

'Calista Flockhart hasnae got any tits,' observed one of the girls, who going by her own build was basing her scorn entirely upon optimism for the near future. Maybe she'd a big sister and knew what she was looking forward to.

'You're absolutely right.'

'Who? Me or Carol?'

'Both, but Peter's observation was more pertinent. Bottom is an eejit. He's over-full of enthusiasm but has absolutely no awareness of his own limitations.'

'Like Robbie Williams/ offered someone in the second row. Ray couldn't remember all their names, but Gary sounded about right.

'Shut it you, Robbie Williams is brulliant,' came an impassioned retort from the distaff side, sounding like she was prepared to back up her opinion with weapons if necessary.

Ray had to close this one down before it degenerated, which would have to be at the price of not congratulating Gary for an inadvertently superb casting suggestion. Robbie Williams could have been born to play Nick the Weaver; just as long as he didn't bloody sing.

'Bottom acts like an ass, and that's why he is later turned into one, as we'll find out if we read on. Kylie, I think it was your line.'

'Who am I again?'

Jesus.

'Hermia.'

'Sir, was he not turned intae an ass because of Nob and Tit?'

Right. Now it was as bad as it could get, and not just because he was going to have to perform CPR on those members of the class currently approaching asphyxia. The precocious bastard had obviously caught a documentary 171.

called Within a Dream, Within a Play, which went out on Channel Four about a month back. Ray had been marching up and down the living room with Martin at the time, but from the subtitles he had gathered that the programme was exploring the psychological and mythical aspects of the play in the context of various noted productions. Nob and Tit had been nicknames for Oberon and Titania, dating from an allegedly more innocent theatrical age, though it was difficult to accept that anything to do with those characters was ever less than charged with sexual significance. That, in fact, was the aspect Fed was now unavoidably going to bring up. The odds of him having watched the documentary all the way through were long, but if he had, it was evens he'd remember one particular fact.

"Cause, you know the expression "hung like a donkey"? Is it no' that Oberon wanted him changed intae an ass so that Titania would, you know . . .'

God in Govan, was Buffy not on that night or something?

LOADING POWER-UP: SUDDEN NIHILISTIC.

RECKLESSNESS.

'What, Peter?' Ray asked brightly. 'Shag him? Are you insinuating, perhaps, that Shakespeare was aware of the ass having supposedly the stiffest phallus of the animal kingdom and that it was a kinky prank on the part of Oberon to have his mischievous minion Puck bewitch Titania into taking this creature as her lover?'

There was complete silence throughout the room, but for the sound of pages turning as some of the weans tried to find the bit he was talking about. Ped thought about it, calculating how best to handle the situation now that his adversary was effectively cheating.

'Eh, aye.'

'Well you are one hundred per cent correct. This entire 172.

play is, yes, about sex. Look at the setting: it's the night before a wedding celebration, for God's sake, so humping is high on the agenda, but it's not just any night, it's Midsummer's night, the numero uno pagan fertility rites shagfest on the calendar. As well as Theseus and Hippolyta, you've got the four horny and confused young lovers who get drawn deep into the dark forest, which is itself frequently a metaphor for what, Peter?'

'Eh . . .'

'Come on, it's a bit late for getting coy on me, and I know you know the answer, 'cause I saw the programme too.'

Ped swallowed.

'A fanny?'

'Very good. And once inside they become the playthings of Puck, also known as Robin Goodfellow, also known in myth as the Green Man of the forest, the Green Man being a pagan symbol of fertility, fertility being, in other words, Peter?'

'Shagging.'

'That word again. And the lord and lady of this arboreal realm are, as you informed us, Nob and Tit, who are having a bit of a tiff because Titania has been concentrating her devotions on an adopted child, with what frustrating consequence for Oberon?'

Ped was beaten to it by Gary.

'He's no' gettin' his hole, sir.'

'Exactly, Gary.'

'It's Charlie, sir.'

'Charlie. Whatever. He's not getting any. And you better believe Titania, being the queen of the fairies, is one hell of a shag to be doing without.'

Ray looked around the class, where the expressions of 173.

confusion and amused disbelief told him they had been collectively outflanked and he was, for once, in control. Whether he'd still have a job by the time they'd told their parents and were next due on his timetable remained to be seen.

He walked to the blackboard, seizing the moment.

'So let's recap before we recommence our reading. A few keywords to write down. First one: shagging.'

The board was still covered in text from a previous lesson, a colleague inflicting one of Ted Hughes's animal cruelty collection on his unfortunate charges. Ray reached for the duster, but it was missing from its rest. Instead he grabbed one of the section dividers and hauled down the next panel with a squeak of the rollers. There was a four- foot cartoon knob staring back, the spunk blobs spurting towards him at head height.

The laughter was like a wall of water, crashing against him and making it impossible to turn around.

What to do next, he told himself, was the kind of test that distinguished the experienced pro from the floundering newbie. The former would, perhaps, simply roll the board on to another panel and pretend nothing untoward had happened; maybe crack a joke about what the last class had been learning, dispel any sense of confrontation. The more authoritarian might freak out and go into full intimidatory investigative mode, threatening every cliched repercussion and turning the uproarious atmosphere into one of fear and regret. Ray, of course, didn't have a fucking clue, but was sure that it augured poorly for his future in this career that he found the incident funnier than anyone else in the room. He knew also that if he let himself start laughing, he'd end up on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, with the catastrophic side effect of sanctioning 174.

the knob motif in the eyes of the weans. It would be common knowledge by the end of playtime, and thereafter follow him around forever: jotters, essays, blackboards, folders, you name it. He might as well change his name to Mr Knob.

However, even a newbie can get jammy; pick up a railgun and nail someone point-blank out of sheer instinct or sheer luck. He can also, of course, pick up a rocket- launcher and fire it fatally into the nearest wall. Ray wasn't aware of any thought process directing his actions, but found himself writing on the board, as though unfazed, only his handwriting betraying a slight tremble as he fought to suppress his own laughter. He wrote 'shagging' above the tip of the knob, and for a flourish, enclosed it in a bead shape so that it appeared to be part of the ejaculation. The guffaws continued, but the edge of onslaught had been blunted; they were well on their way to laughing with.

'What else did we say?' he asked, hoping no-one was observant enough to spot the tears welling up. 'Come on?'

'Nob and Tit,' someone responded.

'Nob and Tit.' He wrote that too, encircling it in another bead, arcing along the same trajectory. 'Any more?'

'Oberon not gettin' his hole, sir.'

'"Not getting any", very good.'

'Fanny, sir.'

'That's right, the dark forest.'

'Big donkey's wullie, sir.'

'Of course, how could we forget the importance of the phallus, as has been so beautifully illustrated here by someone with a deep understanding of the play. Now, have you all written this down?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And have you all drawn a knob?'

175.

Head-shakes and unsteady giggling all round.

'Come on, then. Get on with it.'

Ray folded his arms impatiently and waited. Eventually they realised he wasn't kidding, and set pen to paper.

'All done now? Hold them up where I can see them.'

Twenty-eight jotters were held aloft, all having faithfully and diligently completed the exercise.

'Good. Now, I think we're ready to resume reading. Kylie, I believe it was your line.'

Kylie, unfortunate spawn of the late Eighties, fumbled for the book, then recommenced the group assault on the undefended verse. Ray walked to the door, causing the next reader to stop.

'Keep it up. I'm just nipping outside for a second, but I'll still be listening. Go on.'

Ray closed the door quietly, the sound of a lisping Lysander muffled behind him, then unleashed a lung- crumpling sigh. He waited for his own laughter to begin, but it didn't come. It might yet ambush him later on, but for now it seemed he had succeeded in stemming the flow. Pity, really. Maybe he'd get the benefit later when he told Kate, or maybe it had just seemed all the funnier because he knew he couldn't laugh at the time. He remembered a truly fearsome Maths teacher with an intimidating resemblance to Oliver Reed, in whose class the most infantile whispered remark could seem eye-streamingly hilarious through the terror of incurring his volcanic wrath and his unrivalled belt-technique.

After a few minutes, Ray reckoned he was ready to go back into the class, where, miraculously, the play was still being read aloud. Best to be sure, though. He tried visualising the giant chalk knob, remembering the impact of that moment when it suddenly appeared. A smile crept 176.

over his face, letting him know the giggles were still too close to the surface. Another few moments, then.

There were footsteps approaching along the corridor, quick and deliberate. Adult, male, plural, he guessed. Bugger. He didn't fancy explaining his unscheduled break to another member of staff, so he decided he'd just have to take a deep breath and plunge back in.

The breath, as it turned out, was too deep. They were round the corner and in sight as he gripped the handle.

'Mr Ash?'

It was indeed two men, but not members of staff. He didn't know all the teachers by face or name yet, but he knew how they dressed, and this pair were far too smartly suited and booted. Polis would have been his guess, even if they weren't holding up warrant cards, which were in themselves less confirmatory than the standard-issue moustaches.

'I'm Sergeant Boyle, this is DC Thorpe, Special Branch.' The accent was English, maybe Lancashire. Ray felt his insides tighten. This was it: they were going to charge him with wasting police time, and they'd sent the heavy squad in to make it as intimidating as possible. 'We need to speak to you about the incident last night.'

'I'm in the middle of a class at the moment. I'll be free in about ten minutes.'

'We need you to come with us right now, Mr Ash. It's a very serious matter.'

'I didn't make it up.'

'We know. That's why we're here.'

Ray didn't know how to react. Vindication would have felt good last night, especially with that smug cop sitting across the table, but now their confirmation just brought the reality of the danger back down like an anvil.

177.

Boyle put a leading hand on his shoulder.