A cruel sneer rises from some unseen children in nearby seats. A few begin to crane their necks, as if Lauren is a strange animal. She sees Jenny, near the front, gawking at the commotion. Lauren feels her cheeks grow hot and pulls her knees up to her chin. She is angry and starts to explain, but her words are drowned out by chatter. Lauren looks for Billy, in his familiar red woolly hat. He is turned away, on purpose she thinks. Maisie prods her shoulder. ‘You’re disgusting … Here—’ She grabs hold of the hair on the back of Lauren’s head and tries to force her face down into the damp, scratchy seat edge. Lauren headbutts Maisie’s shoulder, hard. A gloating cheer rises again, from a couple of boys in front. Lauren feels like a cow locked in a feeding fence and thinks of her pocketknife, hidden in her bedroom. She jerks back and her foot stamps against the bonfire collage, crumpling the card and cellophane. Maisie jams Lauren’s head low, her hands scratching either side of Lauren’s ears, pulling her towards the puddle of leaking water. Grey drops trickle down her neck, smelling of stale rain mixed with rotting food.

The bus jolts over a pothole and Lauren feels a surge of nausea. Then Maisie tugs out a little clump of her hair as someone else drags her away.

‘Hey. Hey.’ A throaty voice. Lauren peers up at the lanky figure of Diane, her black hair falling over one side of her face. Her clothes always look like they have been worn for two days running. Diane slams Maisie back in her seat, with a hand firm against her shoulder. ‘Here, Maisie’ – she speaks low and close and smoky – ‘stop being such a lesbian.’

‘Get off me,’ Maisie says, snatching her shoulder back and squirming in her seat. Diane turns around to the back of the bus, without looking at Lauren. Maisie is silent for the rest of the bumpy journey, staring across the aisle at the fields rushing by.

13

On Saturday afternoon, Sandy passes by Niall’s house to pick up a cement mixer. Niall hasn’t been over to Sandy’s for weeks, even months. He lives in a detached cottage closer to the town and has told Niall he is building an extension.

Lauren seems mesmerized by Sandy, the way someone might watch flames dance or snowflakes fall.

‘Hiya,’ he says. ‘Look. You’ve got something—’ He reaches behind Lauren’s ear and a five-pound note materializes between his fingers.

Niall shakes his head, stammering, ‘Look – Sandy …’ He remembers their conversation at the ceilidh and wants to ram the fiver down his throat. Lauren is giving her best polite smile. He can’t take it away from her. ‘What d’you say, Lauren?’

‘Thank you, Sandy.’

‘No bother, champ. How’s that fiddle coming along?’