Free Pandaemonium by Christopher Brookmyre

ecstatic enthusiasm, by everyone to the rear of the bus. Everyone except Rosemary, obviously.
    ‘I want my hole-i-days.
To see the cunt,
To see the cunt . . .’
    Guthrie comes lolloping up the aisle desperately, trampling poor Radar in his panicked urgency to stem this sudden onslaught of musically accompanied damp disgrace.
    ‘To see the cunt-a-ree.
Fuck you!
Fuck you . . .’
    Rosemary all but falls on top of an appalled Liam Donnelly as she leans back to let Guthrie charge past. Liam loses his normally unflappable studied poise as he flattens himself against the window away from Rosemary, looking like he’s afraid uncool is contagious.
    ‘For curiositee,
I want my hole,
I want my hole . . .’
    Guthrie has always looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, and Adnan strongly suspects the day could be upon them. Deputy Dan has forever been inclined to take daft weanish behaviour too seriously, but he’s outdoing himself today by way of disproportionate response. They’re singing a stupid song that’s been a teacher-baiting staple of bus trips since primary school, one that most staff have always had the good sense to ignore. Who knows what’s going through that increasingly ruddy head of his; must be something about underlining his authority ahead of reaching what he suspects will constitute an uncomfortably informal environment. And talk about closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. They’ve already belted out the ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck you’ lines - what more is he hoping to prevent? A shaming rendition of ‘The front of the bus, they cannae sing’, perhaps?
    He’s got Deso in his sights now, though. Adnan images it: danger level in the red, a proximity detector pulsing concentrically, ETA running down in milliseconds. It’s reading around 0.657 when Marky suddenly leaps up from his seat, having made a slightly disquieting discovery.
    ‘Fuck, my arm’s on fire.’
    Fizzy has to duck as Marky starts flailing his burning sleeve in an attempt to beat out the flames.
    ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Guthrie says with a gasp, spinning on his heel and grabbing hold of Marky in one unbroken motion. He takes him down like it’s a wrestling move, getting him on to the floor and smothering the flames by lying with his chest across Marky’s arm. There’s a huddle around them, everybody leaning in to see. A little smoke emerges from somewhere around Guthrie’s neck as he lifts himself up to check that the fire has died.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he asks Marky.
    Marky just lies there looking a little stunned, and it’s anybody’s guess whether this is more down to the shock of the conflagration or the force and rapidity with which Guthrie resolved the situation.
    ‘Markus, are you all right?’
    Marky nods, holding up his jacket sleeve. It’s all black and melty, the outer layer collapsed and shrivelled. He stares at it in an entranced daze, then his eyes widen as his features suddenly become sharply alert.
    ‘Fuck!’ he yells.
    ‘It’s okay, stay calm,’ Guthrie says. ‘Just take a moment.’
    ‘Naw, look, for fuck’s sake, the fire,’ Marky insists, a panic across his face as he extends his arm.
    ‘It’s okay, it’s out now,’ Guthrie tells him, taking hold of his wrist and restraining him from his attempts to get up. ‘We’ll get this off and make sure you’re not injured.’
    ‘I’m not talking about my arm. The fuckin’ bus is on fire!’
    At which point everyone looks along the line of where Marky’s outstretched arm was actually pointing , and sees that the curtains next to Fizzy are indeed now well ablaze.
    ‘Where’s the fire extinguisher?’ Guthrie shouts.
    Father Blake has reached it even as Guthrie speaks. He wrenches the canister from its strapping on the wall and bounds down the aisle, already spraying water towards the curtains before he reaches the fire.
    It’s the sudden leap into action from Blake that belatedly alerts the coach driver to precisely what is