6
The night air in Aberdeen was sharp with the promise of autumn, a crisp, salty tang blowing in from the harbour, but it was utterly lost on the five girls striding down Union Street. They were a moving island of heat, perfume, and intent, a phalanx of short skirts, towering heels, and glittering eyes. At their centre, a step ahead as if leading a charge, was Pamela.
Pamela, at eighteen, carried her five-foot-eight frame with a queenly confidence that made space seem to part for her. She was a UK size 16, her body soft and generous in all the right places, poured into a tight, black bandage dress that stopped mid-thigh. The dress clung to every curve, the sweetheart neckline showcasing a deep, freckled cleavage that seemed to dare anyone not to look. Her legs, sheathed in sheer black tights with a subtle sparkle, ended in perilous, six-inch stiletto ankle boots. Her dark hair was a voluminous cascade of curls, her makeup dramatic—smoky eyes and a bold, red lip that was a statement in itself. She felt powerful, invincible, a goddess in a city of mortals. Her friends orbited her: Chloe (size 8, a wisp in a silver sequinned mini-dress), Mia (size 10, in leather-look leggings and a crop top), Sophie (size 12, rocking a plunging jumpsuit), and Leah (size 14, in a bodycon skirt and off-the-shoulder top). They were all variations on a theme—hot, sexy, and on the hunt. For them, a good night was a precise algorithm: enough vodka-cranberries to fuel bravery, enough male attention to validate their effort, and, if the stars aligned, a proper scrap. Not with each other, obviously. With other girls. The right kind of other girls. The kind who looked at them wrong, or whose boyfriends looked at them right.
Their first port of call was a bustling bar off Belmont Street, all neon lights and thumping bass. They claimed a high table by the dance floor, a strategic vantage point. Drinks appeared, condensation dripping onto manicured nails. The game began almost immediately. A group of lads in smart shirts huddled by the bar, their eyes flicking over like radar pings. Pamela met the gaze of the tallest one, a blond with a cocky smile. She didn’t look away. She took a slow sip, her red lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the straw. He was at their table in minutes.
“Alright? You and your mates look like you’re planning a takeover,” he said, his voice raised over the music.
Pamela leaned forward, letting him enjoy the view. “Maybe we are. You volunteering for conscription?”
It was easy, this dance. The flirtation was a sport she excelled at. She let him buy a round. She let his hand rest on the small of her back as they squeezed through to the smoking area. Under the harsh fluorescent light, surrounded by the chatter and laughter of strangers, he pushed her against a brick wall, his mouth tasting of lager and cigarettes. She kissed him back, hard and demanding, her hands tangling in his hair. It was a transaction—a bit of heat, a boost to the ego, a story for later. She broke away, leaving him dazed, and sauntered back to her friends without a backward glance. “Boring,” she declared, and they cackled, a unified sound of supreme judgement.
But the male attention was just the warm-up. The real hunt was for opposition. As they migrated to a louder, darker club on Chapel Street, their eyes scanned not for boys, but for packs of girls. They were predators seeking worthy prey. Pamela deliberately swayed her hips with an exaggerated swing, bumping solidly into a girl in a pink dress at the crowded bar. The girl’s drink sloshed.
“Watch it, you clumsy cow!” the girl snapped, turning.
Pamela looked her up and down, a slow, dismissive sweep. “Maybe if you took up less space, love, collisions could be avoided.” Her voice was syrup and venom. The girl’s friends closed ranks, eyes flashing. The air crackled. Insults hovered on lips—*fat slag, skinny bitch*—but a bouncer’s bulk materialised between them, a silent, mountainous veto. The moment deflated. They moved on, the thrill of the near-miss buzzing in their veins.
Later, by the DJ booth, Sophie zeroed in on a couple. The boy was handsome, his arm around a girl in a pretty green top. Sophie slithered up, ignoring the girlfriend entirely, and whispered something in the boy’s ear, her hand resting on his arm. The girlfriend’s face turned to stone. Pamela watched, a proud general observing a skilled lieutenant. The girlfriend shoved Sophie, a sharp, two-handed push. Sophie stumbled back, laughing, a hollow, taunting sound. Mia and Leah immediately flanked her. It was a perfect spark. But the boy, panicking, grabbed his girlfriend and pulled her away into the crowd, throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder. Another fight evaporated before it could ignite.
Frustration began to simmer beneath the alcohol. They had the drinks. They had the snogs. But the night felt incomplete, like a song without its crescendo.
***
Unbeknownst to Pamela’s crew, another group was tracing a parallel path through Aberdeen’s nightlife, their desires mirroring their own. Jodie, also eighteen and a solid, formidable size 16, led her own quartet. She was shorter than Pamela but built like a rugby player—broad shoulders, strong legs, a presence that was more about density than height. Tonight, she wore a blood-red, sleeveless bodysuit tucked into a faux leather skirt that strained across her hips. Her boots were chunky-heeled and practical for combat. Her blonde hair was pulled into a severe, high ponytail that sharpened her features. Her friends—Beth (size 10), Tasha (size 12), Gemma (size 12), and Kayla (size 10)—were similarly dressed for a night that might turn physical: tight jeans, sturdy boots, tops that could be grabbed without ripping.
They too had worked their way through bars, from the student union to a pub on George Street. Jodie had snogged a lad in a football shirt against a pool table, biting his lip until he yelped, then lost interest. They too had sought confrontation, deliberately spilling a drink near a group of girls in the toilets, calling a girl’s dress “tacky” just loud enough to hear. But each time, something intervened—a timely friend, a disinterested bouncer, a boyfriend ushering his girl away. The aggression, with no outlet, was curdling inside them, making them snappy and restless. They wanted a release, a physical testament to their dominance. They needed a fight that would stick.
Fate, it seemed, was a meticulous choreographer. As the clubs ejected their final patrons into the cold, damp night, both groups began the weary, footsore trek homewards, both opting for the route up King Street towards the university area. Pamela’s group was ahead, their laughter and shrieks echoing off the closed shop fronts. The high of the night was fading, replaced by the ache of heels and the dull throb of cheap vodka. They were ten minutes into their journey when disaster struck.
With a sickening *crack*, the slender heel of Pamela’s right boot snapped clean off on an uneven paving slab. She lurched sideways with a yelp, grabbing onto Leah for support. “Bollocks! My favourite boots!”
The delay was monumental. Cursing, Pamela had to hobble, one foot tall, one foot flat, slowing their progress to a farcical limp. They debated carrying her, taking the boots off, but pride prevented it. They inched forward, the night growing quieter around them.
It was as they drew level with the expansive, dark expanse of King’s Lawn, the grassy quadrangle at the heart of the university, that the other group caught up. Jodie and her friends were on the opposite side of the wide street, walking with the grim determination of soldiers on a forced march. The two groups saw each other simultaneously. A current of instant, mutual recognition passed between them. Here was the other. The worthy opposition. The night’s missing piece.
The insults began not as a shout, but as a projectile launched across the empty road. It was Beth, Jodie’s size 10 friend, her voice sharp and carrying in the stillness.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, look at that. The lame, fat cow’s lost a shoe. Bet she ate the other one.”
The words landed with the force of a slap. Pamela stopped dead. All fatigue vanished, burned away by white-hot fury. She turned her head slowly, her eyes finding Beth’s in the gloom. The streetlight painted everything in stark, orange-tinted relief.
“You talking to me, you anaemic little skeleton?” Pamela’s voice was low, dangerous. “Wind must’ve caught you, you’re so bloody light. Wouldn’t want you to blow away before we’ve had our fun.”
Jodie stepped to the front of her pack, hands on her hips. “Fun? You call that pathetic hobbling fun? You and your discount bridesmaids look like you’ve been dragged through a charity shop backwards.”
Leah fired back. “Says the one dressed as a Tesco value dominatrix! That red’s not your colour, love. Makes you look like a burst tomato.”
“At least I can walk in my shoes, you waddling heifer!” Tasha shouted.
“Waddle? I’m carrying more woman in my left tit than you have in your entire body, you boring little sparrow!” Sophie screamed, her voice cracking with rage.
The vulgarity escalated, brutal and creative. They traded insults about weight, clothes, makeup, presumed sexual histories, family backgrounds—nothing was off limits. It was a symphony of spite. The nearly-fights of earlier in the night were nothing compared to this pure, undiluted hatred crackling across King Street.
“Enough!” Jodie roared, silencing her own friends. She pointed a finger, stabbing it towards the centre of the dark lawn. “You think you’re hard? You think you’re sexy? Let’s see what you’re made of. Middle of the grass. Now. Unless you’re gonna limp home to your mummies.”
Pamela didn’t hesitate. She bent down, wrenched off both broken boots, and stood barefoot on the cold pavement. “You’re on. Let’s see if there’s anything under all that lip besides chip fat and jealousy.”
Without another word, both groups streamed off the pavements, crossing the street and converging on the wide, open space of King’s Lawn. The dew-wet grass soaked into Pamela’s tights instantly. They formed two lines, about ten feet apart, under the watchful, indifferent windows of the university buildings. The scene was surreal: ten girls in their ruined night-out finery, breath pluming in the cold air, faces twisted with animosity.
Pamela stood barefoot, her black dress straining, her chest heaving. Opposite her, Jodie looked solid as a tree trunk in her red bodysuit, her fists already clenched. Chloe, the smallest, looked like a nervous bird beside Pamela’s grandeur. Beth cracked her knuckles. For a long, suspended moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing.
Then, with a wordless scream from Mia, it erupted.
It was not a series of neat, one-on-one duels. It was a chaotic, brutal melee. Mia launched herself at Tasha, and they went down in a tangle of limbs, scratching and shrieking. Gemma and Leah collided with a thud, grabbing handfuls of each other’s hair, spinning in a vicious circle. But the core of the storm was always Pamela and Jodie.
They closed the distance like rival stags. Jodie threw the first punch, a wild, swinging right hook. Pamela ducked, the air whistling where her head had been, and came up inside Jodie’s guard, driving her own fist into Jodie’s stomach. It was like hitting a sack of sand. *Oof!* Jodie grunted but didn’t buckle. She wrapped her thick arms around Pamela’s torso and drove forward, using her lower centre of gravity to lift Pamela off her feet. They crashed to the sodden grass, Jodie on top.
The world became a blur of damp earth, grunts, and the coppery smell of blood already in the air. Jodie was heavy, a crushing weight. Pamela could feel the hard muscle of Jodie’s thighs pinning her down, the scratch of the faux leather skirt against her legs. She bucked and writhed, getting a hand free to claw at Jodie’s face. Her nails raked down Jodie’s cheek, drawing immediate, bright red lines. Jodie snarled and headbutted her, not hard, but a jarring, stunning knock of skulls.
Pamela saw stars. In her daze, she became aware of the other battles. Sophie was on her back, Kayla sitting on her chest, slapping her face left and right with methodical cruelty. Chloe was screaming, trying to pull Beth off a sobbing Mia, whose sequinned dress was ripped at the shoulder. It was bloody and desperate.
Pamela managed to twist her hips, unseating Jodie slightly. She rolled, and now she was on top, straddling Jodie’s waist. She rained down punches, aiming for the face. Jodie brought her arms up, blocking most, but one got through, splitting Jodie’s lip against her teeth. Blood welled, dark in the low light. But Jodie was far from done. She grabbed the neckline of Pamela’s bandage dress. With a savage, two-handed wrench, she pulled. The material, stretched to its limit, gave way with a loud *rrriiiip*.
Cool night air washed over Pamela’s skin. Her dress was torn open from the neckline down past her sternum, exposing her black lace bra and the full, pale swell of her breasts. The shock of it, the vulnerability, made her freeze for a fatal second. Jodie took advantage, heaving her off and scrambling on top of her again.
But the fight was swirling, dynamic. Seeing Pamela in trouble, Leah, who had just kneed Gemma in the thigh, broke away and launched herself onto Jodie’s back, wrapping an arm around her neck. “Get off her, you bitch!”
Jodie released Pamela to grapple with the new attacker. Pamela gasped, scrambling to her knees, clutching the torn fabric of her dress to her chest. The fight had become a series of shifting alliances. Tasha, having finally pinned Mia, saw Leah attacking Jodie and jumped to her leader’s aid, pulling Leah off by her hair. Leah screamed in pain, kicking backwards.
Pamela, her vision blurred with tears of rage and pain, saw Sophie finally throw Kayla off, only for Beth to jump on her. It was two-on-one. Sophie was losing, her jumpsuit torn, nose bleeding. Chloe was curled in a foetal position, crying, having been shoved hard onto the grass. Mia was trying to crawl away, her face a mess.
Jodie, having shaken off Leah, turned her attention back to Pamela. But Pamela was already moving, not towards Jodie, but towards Sophie. She couldn’t let her friend take that beating. She grabbed Beth’s ponytail and yanked her head back with such force Beth shrieked and let go of Sophie. In that instant, Tasha turned from Leah and slammed into Pamela’s side, knocking her back down.
Now it was Pamela and Sophie, both on the ground, being kicked and stomped by Beth and Tasha. Jodie stood over them, panting, blood dripping from her lip and cheek. She looked at Pamela, exposed and struggling on the ground, and a grim, triumphant smile touched her ruined mouth.
“Had enough?” Jodie spat, a gob of blood and saliva landing on the grass by Pamela’s head.
The fight left Pamela then, not in a surrender, but in a draining flood of utter defeat. Every part of her body shrieked in pain. Her face was bruised, her ribs ached from the kicks, her scalp burned where hair had been torn out. She could hear Leah sobbing, Mia retching, Chloe’s quiet whimpers. Sophie had stopped trying to fight, just covering her head with her arms.
It was over.
Pamela let her head fall back onto the wet grass. She didn’t answer Jodie. She just stared up at the few cold stars visible between the scudding clouds, the torn dress gaping open, her chest rising and falling in ragged, shuddering breaths. The humiliation was a physical coldness deeper than the dew.
Jodie’s group, breathing heavily, bleeding from various scratches and cuts, but ultimately victorious, gathered themselves. They didn’t gloat further. The fight had been the language, and everything had been said. With final, contemptuous looks, they helped each other up and stumbled off the lawn, leaving a trail of broken hair clips and smeared blood on the path.
Silence descended, broken only by the sounds of pain and grief. The five girls were sprawled across the churned-up grass like casualties of a tiny, vicious war. The night out had found its brutal, bloody crescendo. The cold began to seep into their bones, a bitter counterpoint to the fading heat of their rage and the deep, throbbing ache of their defeat. King’s Lawn, witness to a thousand student dramas, held them in its dark, indifferent embrace.
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