Free Pandaemonium by Christopher Brookmyre Page A

being wrought upon his vehicle. A glance in his aisle-view mirror presents a sight he cannot quite believe, which is why neither can he help but physically turn to confirm with the naked eye that, yes, the St Peter’s kids have indeed set his bus on fire.
    His eyes are only off the road for a second, but it’s long enough for the vehicle to start drifting just as it is coming into a bend. He overcompensates on the wheel as he returns to facing the road, causing the bus to fishtail as the sideways momentum is instantly brought into conflict with the forward drive.
    Back in the rear section, the lurch has a whiplash effect, pulling everyone first one way then the opposite. It tosses them all towards the right-hand side, a section of which is now wet and smouldering.
    Marianne, having been leaning into the aisle, is sent sprawling back across her double seat, giving her an extreme close-up view out of the window. Due to the sudden uncontrolled change in direction, the coach’s forward momentum is pulling against the efforts of the engine and the traction of the tyres to drag it sideways towards the grey metal crash barrier. This previously substantial-looking steel restraint suddenly appears to consist of two flimsy-looking waist-high rails, about to face off against the mass and energy of a three-metre-high coach, and beyond this barrier she can see a five-hundred-foot, high-gradient slope down to the shores of a loch.
    There’s a percussive hiss of brakes and a scream from the engine as the driver drops the gears and ups the revs. The side of the bus scrapes the barrier with a foil-meets-fillings shriek and a shower of sparks, then from close to the front on the other side there sounds the most hideously dull and solid bang, the sound of the bus colliding very hard with something that did not give.
    The bus comes to a sudden halt a fraction of a second later, the resultant jolt banging a few heads on seat backs and thus partially obscuring the sound and vibration of a second exterior impact. Sounds like it came from above.
    There’s a moment of complete silence, not even the sound of the engine, which has either stalled in the final stop or been killed by the driver. Nobody says a thing. It’s like they all need a second or two before they can re-engage with anything or anyone.
    Then an adult voice asks if everyone is okay. It sounds to Deso like it’s somewhere in the distance; can’t tell if it’s Guthrie or Blake or even Kane. He hears a few responses, each gradually getting closer, like they’re being faded up as his surroundings come back into focus. He puts a hand to his forehead. It took a bang but it doesn’t feel sore. He looks up, sees everyone slowly reanimating: those sent sprawling picking themselves up, others just doing the same as him: a quick once-over to confirm nothing’s amiss.
    Then Deso sees Radar, still prostrate in the aisle, covered in tiny pieces of glass. He’s lifting himself up from the floor, glass tinkling to the ground around him with every movement, and as he raises his head he becomes aware of blood running down his face. He puts a hand to it then looks dazed and uncompre hendingly at his darkly smeared fingers.
    He pats his hair, dislodging further fragments of glass, and finds more blood pooled up there.
    ‘Jesus . . . Radar,’ Beansy says, frightened.
    Radar kneels on the aisle floor and continues to pat his scalp. ‘Not mine,’ he says, with a very gentle shake of his head.
    That’s when he glances up, as does Julie, who screams.
    The overhead skylight panel has been shattered by the impact of a deer’s head, which is now jutting through the aperture, staring into the coach with its dead-black sewn-button eyes.
    ‘Euh, that’s bowfin’,’ suggests Cameron.
    The deer’s head is lolling at an awkward angle, still connected by an evidently broken neck to the rest of the animal. Father Blake takes a step underneath it, helping Radar get to his feet. It’s still a