"Heh, Stevie," Robbie greets him. "Jamesy's new name is Noodsy."

"Noodsy?"

"Aye. Richie came up wi it. His name backwards is Nood Semaj. Noodsy Magic."

"Good yin."

"Aye, it's a pure classic," Robbie adds.

Jamesy looks across at Martin. Jamesy came up with 'Noodsy Magic', and the whole backwards-name thing was Martin's idea, but they both know how the revisionism works, the hierarchy that's taking an increasingly rigid shape. No point trying to correct them. Richie came up with it, that's now official.

The class is changing. It used to be only a couple of folk you'd have trouble with, and everybody else got on, more or less. Now Martin senses they are all jostling for position on the verge of a divide. On one side of it there will be the folk it is cool to be pals with, and on the other those it will be mandatory to slag off. No neutral ground. People aren't quite there yet, but Martin sees it coming. He knows where he's likely to end up, and that's something he can live with, as he doesn't particularly want to be 'in' with many of the guys who will secure places on the other side of the line. But what is more saddening is that he can see people he thought of as friends starting to align themselves away from him because they can see what is up ahead, too.

In this respect, the change to the big school is less to be feared than welcomed, as it will offer the chance of a clean slate. There are two other primaries forming the intake, meaning he'll be split up from many of his old classmates and thrown in with a majority of new ones, who will be able to judge him only on what they find rather than deciding they already know all they need to know about him.

Karen watches the anaesthetist through a window in the corridor outside the intensive therapy unit. The anaesthetist and a nurse are standing by Robbie's bed, the nurse nodding as the doctor talks, occasionally gesturing to indicate one of the many monitors sited around the station. Also sited around the station are two Dibbles on guard duty. Robbie isn't going anywhere, but there remains the possibility that someone might wish to finish what they started in case he survives to give his version of events. The Dibbles try to keep out of the way, but as is often the case with handless wee shavers, the harder they try, the less they succeed.

Karen just waits. The anaesthetist will come out in her own good time, and will be more amenable to discussion if she doesn't feel anyone breathing down her neck.

Poor Robbie. He was never the most likeable of individuals, but she can't help feeling pity for anyone so helpless as to be linked up to all that kit. She remembers feeling sorry for him once before, also because he was unconscious in another ITU. She didn't see him that time, but just hearing about it seemed very sad. School was a battleground, but the prospect of one of them actually dying had been too truly enormous to comprehend.

"Some state," says Tom Fisher, the DI from Braeside nick she's roped in for up-to-date local knowledge.

"Aye," she agrees.

"You knew him, from school, somebody said?" he asks.

"Yeah. Both suspects and one of the victims. But best we file what I know under 'Inadmissible'."

"I think there's a statute of limitations on having your pigtails pulled anyway."

"I never had pigtails. That's a slur."

"But if you did, which one of them would have pulled your pigtails?"

"I said 'Inadmissible'."

"Humour me."

"I don't have to. I outrank you. But for what it's worth...Hmm, a boy called Kevin Duffy would have pulled my pigtails. Colin Temple would have been trying to see up my skirt as I ran away. Robbie would have sneered at me for crying about it. And Noodsy..." She laughs quietly, sadly, and shakes her head.

"What about him?"

"He's the one who would have ended up getting the blame from the teacher."

"A recurring theme?"

"Don't go there. Like I said, Inadmissible. He's learnt to be a lot cuter since."

"Aye. Not quite learnt how to avoid the blame for his own shite, though. I've huckled him umpteen times myself. Penny-ante stuff, mainly, but we're not talkin miscarriages of justice here, either."

"And what about Robbie?"

"Him too, yeah. But the weird thing is, oot the two ay them, I'd have said Robbie was the wan that tried occasionally tae go straight. My impression is that when they've done stuff together, it's Noodsy who's been the driving force. Though obviously I couldnae say either was the brains of the outfit."

Karen laughs but has to recompose her game face as the anaesthetist finally exits the unit. She knows why they're there and comes across to the chairs to greet them. Sometimes they're so scunnered with the polis hanging around that they act like you're invisible and make out they're, off to attend to something else. This is to make it incumbent upon the cops to get their attention and thus underline how much you're interrupting their jobs, and there's usually a large sigh-to-information ratio in the subsequent conversations. This one shouldn't be too bad, however.

"I'm Detective Superintendent Gillespie. This is Detective Inspector Fisher."

"Kate Lanimer. I'm the ITU consultant on duty."

Karen specifically doesn't ask, "How is he?" They hate that, like they weren't going to get on to the subject if you didn't ask.

"Critical but stable?" Karen says instead, eliciting a knowing nod from the doctor. That's what they always tell the press. It's utterly meaningless.

"He survived the surgery," Dr Lanimer says. "That's as much as we could have hoped for at this stage, to be honest. He'd lost a lot of blood from the abdominal wound, but obviously it was the head that was the biggest issue. The knife went through his eye and got deflected downwards when it hit the rear of the socket. If it had gone upwards, you'd be talking to a pathologist just now."

"But the surgeons got it out all right?"

"They got it out, but it's too early to tell regarding the all-right part. Your people took the knife away, though I doubt you'll get any fingerprints off it now, apart from Angus Cooper's."

"Who's he?" asks Tom.

"Surgeon," Karen informs him. "Okay. Thank you, Doctor. Oh, one other thing, has he had any visitors?"

"What, with your boys babysitting him?"

"Sure, I just mean, anyone try to visit, anyone asking at reception, that kind of thing."

"I wouldn't know. But I'll ask around, okay?"

"I'd very much appreciate it."

"Anybody specific you've got in mind?" Tom asks as the anaesthetist walks briskly away down the corridor.

"No, just interested in case it throws anything up. You know, who cares, who doesn't."

"Relatives, you mean?"

"For instance, yeah. It would give us an insight into the Turner family dynamic."

Tom glances briefly to the heavens, suggesting it wasn't exactly the Little House on the Prairie.

"Not many left," he says. "The mother's deid, Joe's inside and the sister lives in...Canada, I'm sure, though she's liable to be back, under the circumstances."

"I was thinking more about Boma," Karen says. "But if he did come calling, would it be out of concern that his wee brother might die, or concern that he might live?"

"Fair question. He was away fishing up in Sutherland, according to his bidey-in partner, when we came round to break the news about his dad and Robbie."

"I'll bet he's been away fishing a few times when other folk were receiving bad news."

"And landed nothing but an alibi, sure."

"Worth having somebody keep an eye on him until we know some more."

"You got it. Are we done here?"

"Yeah. They've got my number if anything changes."

They give the Dibbles a wave goodbye and head for the exit.

Making a Stand "Noodsy Magic. I cannae get over that. That's a pure classic, Richie."

Aye, gaun yersel Robbie, thinks Scot.

Fud.

Scot has to laugh. The wee shite that was never done calling people sooks has now found his true purpose: he's Chief Bum-Licker to big Richie Ryan, the undisputed title-holder of Best Fighter in Primary Seven (and therefore Best Fighter at St Lizzie's). It's the next-best thing to having mates.

No, maybe shouldn't be so harsh on him. At least Robbie's been making the effort of late to find a more sociable role for himself instead of just skulking about looking for new ways to upset people.

Jamesy looks pleased, at least. The only other nickname Jamesy has ever had is Faw, due to his surname and chronic tendency to injure himself. The sharper observer will have also noted its appropriateness in reflecting Jamesy's unfailing ability to be the one guy who gets caught if he ever steps out of line.

He's done well to append the Magic bit on to Noodsy, even if he's getting no credit for coming up with it, but mainly he'll be pleased with the thumbs-up it confers to be given a handle by one of the big men. Arise, Sir Noodsy.

Poor Martin, though. He's going to get fuckin eaten alive at St Grace's if he's not careful. He's quiet, he's trusting, he's good-natured and, worst of all, he's clever, which will unavoidably single him out. At least he doesn't talk as politely as he once did-that would really paint a target on him, like that poor bastard Timothy Halleran in Heather's year.

Scot will be all right, he reckons. He already knows a lot of the real bampots who are coming from St Gregory's, Braeside's other Catholic primary, due to the catchment areas blurring somewhere around Muirlaw Avenue. This puts him on nodding terms with some, which is an obvious advantage, but not as much as the knowledge to steer clear of certain others. The kids from the bought houses up on the Carnock Brae or across in the even newer Sunnylea estate will mostly be walking in blind. He'll try to give Martin some tips, but information can only go so far. Once the wolves start circling, they have an instinct for who is vulnerable. You can see it already, the way some of them are acting towards him. Colin's getting it too, though he'll probably be in with a better chance up the hill. Colin's fairly quiet and he lives in a bought house as well, so he'll get the snob bit, but he won't draw attention to himself as much as Martin.

Scot looks across at the lassies, wonders if it's going to be easier for them. Probably not. Less chance of a doing, obviously, but they're just as feral and merciless in other ways. Certainly doesn't sound like all peace and harmony when Heather's talking about it. They're all a bit quiet and subdued just now, the lassies. That's because they got their rubella jag first thing this morning. It's just the lassies that get it, because it's something to do with getting German measles when they're pregnant. A few of them came back weeping a wee bit, but Fat Joanne was howling and Geraldine was near screaming. Scot felt sorry for Geraldine, seeing they must have needed the hypodermic equivalent of a pneumatic drill to get anything into her veins, but lapped up every tear and moan of Joanne's distress. The lassies always went first to Nitty Nora the Heid Explorer and that stupid cow always came back rubbing her arm and telling the boys it was a jag. Well, guess what? This time it really was, Chubby-Cheeks! And the boys aren't getting it!

The bell rings and soon enough Harris is back at the blackboard; sooner than usual, in fact, because there are no lines to bring in. Scot doesn't mind so much because it's always maths in the morning, and though it's not the kind of thing you let on in company, he quite enjoys it, and not like folk enjoy art because it's easy. He enjoys it because it's hard, or rather enjoys it most when it's hard. He's a 'Late Developer', it said on his Primary Six report card, which is probably why the others haven't noticed; that and the fact that Helen Dunn always comes top in tests, and that's what they tend to pick up on. Plus, it's all right to be good at something. It's being good at bloody everything that makes folk think you're a sook.

Karen is sent round to dish out plastic set squares to everybody, which is good news because Scot likes geometry, especially all the stuff about angles. It's also good news that it's Karen, because he knows she'll make sure he gets a decent one and not one of the half-chewed efforts. It's teetering on slagging territory on both sides for the boys and girls to be caught talking to each other, so nobody really does, but you still know which ones like you.

Karen has barely sat down again after doing her rounds when there is a knock at the door, and, without awaiting an answer, in walks Father Wolfe.

Shite.

"Good morning, Mrs Harris, and good morning, children," he says.

Harris's permascowl gets wiped in an instant and her coupon plays host to this ridiculous, overdone grin, which she turns to the class by way of encouragement. "Good morning, Father Wolfe," she says, gesturing with her arms to everybody to raise the volume on their half-hearted greeting. She then clasps her hands like a wee lassie and gazes adoringly as he walks across the room. She fucking worships him. Seriously-she's so far up his arse she can probably, see O'Connor's feet.

Scot sighs, knowing the ball's burst. He'd be as well using the set square to flick snorters, because that's the only use he'll get out of it now.

Harris celebrates the visitation by striking up (like she needs an excuse) Soul of My Saviour, one of Wolfe's particular favourites. Then she gives him the floor and has a seat behind her desk while the Northern Irish Holy Bigot slabbers his shite.

He must realise that their primary school days are in their twilight and so is offering nuggets of advice for the new journey ahead, all of them variations upon the common theme of staying clear of Protestants. Given that most of the weans will be going home tonight to a Protestant parent and then maybe nicking round to play with their Protestant pals, the gangly Irish fud is farting against thunder, but it's never diminished his gusto. Either he's daft enough to believe this isn't so or he thinks it's all he can do to give them fair warning, after which it's up to them if they want to burn in hell for ever along with the teeming ranks of Proddiedom.

He's taking the long-term view, as well. He's done education and moves on to marriage guidance. "If it comes to the worst and you end up murrying a Pradistant, just remember at least that you must get murried in the arms of the Catholic Church. Nat a rugistry affice or, even worse, the Pradistant Church."

Well, buggeration. Must tell Lindsay Wagner the game's a bogey. It's the piney-apple or nothing, doll.

And it gets worse, Lindsay, hen. Turns out we're doomed anyway.

"But the sad thing you must bear in mind is that muxed murriages don't work. They're recipes for tension and unhap-piness, and as a result the couples always, always, end up suparated."

Harris is shaking her head sadly at this, a look of pained regret on her vinegar-socking fizzog.

"Miss," says a girl's voice.

Scot looks over and sees that Karen has her hand up.

"Not just now, Karen," says Harris quietly.

Wolfe is thus able to continue slabbering shite unabated. Karen, however, doesn't put down her hand.

"That is unless the Pradistant converts to Catholicism, and it's actually a fact that ninety per cent of Pradistant ministers ask for conversion on their deathbeds because, deep down, they know..."

"But, miss," Karen repeats, sounding frustrated.

"Put your hand down, Karen."

This sharpening in tone causes Wolfe to pause, concerned some of his priceless words may be obscured.

Karen jumps into the gap. "But miss, it's not true," she says.

"What's not true?" Harris demands, sounding aghast that Karen has had the cheek just to pile in. It's a classic Harris tactic, too: she's not asking because she's interested; she's asking so Karen can dig herself in deeper.

"What he said, miss. Mixed marriages don't always end up getting separated and they're not a recipe for unhappiness. My mum's a Prodisant and her and my dad are fine."

"Silence!" Harris shouts. "How dare you be so insolent. Get out here. Get out here at once."

"But I'm telling the truth, miss."

"At once, " Harris repeats. She noisily yanks open a drawer and pulls out her belt, clattering it angrily on to the desk. "You will not contradict Father Wolfe and you will not speak out of turn in his presence."

Karen has got to her feet. Scot has a look at her face. Normally at this point, folk are either shiting it or at least deflated, robbed of whatever energy drove their offence. Karen looks utterly fucking raging.

"Quicker, girl, or woe betide you. And take that insolent look off your face." She turns to Wolfe, who is now looking like a spare tool. "I'm very sorry, Father Wolfe, very sorry indeed. And this girl will be apologising as soon as I've finished with her."

There's the usual silent buzz as Karen reaches the front and the class gets ready for the show. This time, though, it is punctured by another voice, this time a boy's.

"Miss."

Scot turns, and, to his astonishment, it's Martin. He looks nervous as fuck, but he's got his lips tight together like Scot has seen him when he's going in for a tackle on the pitch.

"Not just now, Martin. Right, Karen, get your hands up and we'll teach you-"