Free Pandaemonium by Christopher Brookmyre Page B

hypnotic sight in its staggering incongruity, something of a bad Photoshop job about it. Deso is trying to imagine the caption when the head suddenly jerks and he just about shites himself, in common with probably everyone else. Another rivulet of blood is disgorged from somewhere down the beast’s throat and runs out of its mouth on to Father Blake’s head, after which the deer is still once again.
    ‘Just a death rattle,’ Blake says, a tremble of laughter in his voice indicating his fright and relief.
    There’s silence again, another frozen moment in which, this time, it feels like everybody’s too scared to re-engage in case they precipitate some new shock. Then Beansy comes to the rescue.
    ‘Venison tonight, folks?’

II
    The light is beginning to fade as Sendak takes a walk through the main building, running off his mental checklist item by item. The bedrooms are clean and prepared, folded linen and fresh towels piled up on each bunk in a neat and compact stack next to the pillows. In every corridor, the floor tiles are freshly waxed and have been polished until they are partially reflective, giving a satisfying squeak as they come into contact with the rubber tread of his boots. The shower cubicles are all operational: no leaks, no drips, no busted safety thermostats on the twist-grip controls. Hot water is issuing on demand from every faucet. The heads are spotless, spare paper rolls in every stall. The tampon and sanitary-towel vending machines are fully supplied, and those new high-speed hand-driers working just as the rep said they would, which is convenient, as it saves him tracking the guy down and killing him in his sleep like Sendak said he would.
    He makes a second circuit of the dormitory blocks, ensuring all of the fire doors in the link corridors are closed but swinging freely, and that none of the fluorescent tubes are blown or flickering. He replaced all of the batteries in the smoke detectors last month, and tested the fire alarm two days ago.
    He checks the conference rooms and the library, his route then taking him through the reception area, where he makes sure all redundant notices have been removed from the pinboard and the water fountains are running free. Dollars to doughnuts they’ll be clogged with chewing gum within twenty-four hours, but the best you can do is deal with the shit you can control. Sendak then proceeds to the games hall, where he goes into the store cupboard and tests the circuit-breakers, then into the main dining room, finishing up at the kitchen, where Mrs McKenzie is slicing mushrooms on an island worktop. Sendak looks at the containers full of chopped onions, peppers and tomatoes, ranged in front of her chopping board, and allows himself a hidden smile of satisfaction at her unfailing work-rate. Her husband dropped her off but twenty minutes ago. She is the human Cuisinart. She’d have dinner for forty prepared before Mr McKenzie made it back to their home in the village of Tornabriech, just twenty miles away.
    ‘I don’t know how that man of yours survives without you when you come here for three days at a time,’ Sendak tells her.
    Mrs McKenzie’s chopping action doesn’t slow or skip a stroke as she replies.
    ‘Donnie?’ she says with a chuckle. ‘I’m only worried he gets done for speeding in his haste to get home. Three nights of take aways and seventy-two hours’ uncontested possession of the TV remote. It’s when I’m around that he struggles.’
    ‘Now, I know that ain’t true. Man cannot live on Sky Sports and Indian takeout alone.’
    ‘Has anyone done a controlled trial? I’m sure Donnie would sign up. When are our guests due to arrive, incidentally?’
    ‘Any time soon. What you got planned for them?’
    ‘I thought we’d dice them and make them into pies, as usual. If you handle the slaughter, I’ll do the actual boning and preparing the meat.’
    ‘Okay, but I think you should have a back-up plan. The authorities are gonna start