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1 ‘The-The Queen, sir.’ Brian Fairhurst yanked the door of his office open to reveal the cowering boy waiting just outside. As headmaster of Milton Secondary School, Taunton, with eight years’ experience, he could tell at a glance that the urchin before him would almost certainly be reduced to a tear-suppressing bundle of nerves within the next five minutes. And what a pleasure to see and make that happen, he thought; especially when the delinquent little brat had turned up for classes minus his school tie. ‘Right, you, come in!’ the Head bellowed, delighted at the way the child practically ran into the room in his eagerness to be obedient. ‘Stand before my desk!’ The boy did so, his eyes nervously scanning the immediate environment, half-expecting to see there tools of corporal punishment. Mercifully locating nothing of that nature, his gaze settled on the wall ahead of him where a proudly displayed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II eyed him with monarchic indifference. He attempted to swallow an uncomfortable lump in his throat but, despite his efforts, the lump stubbornly remained where it was. ‘Tell me, what do you see before you?!’ Fairhurst roared from just behind the pupil, who gave a very high-pitched shriek whilst jumping in surprise. ‘The Queen, boy. Elizabeth II. Queen of England, of Britain, of the United Kingdom and of the British Commonwealth. A source of great national pride. Now tell me,…Collins?’ ‘Coleman, sir.’ ‘Now tell me, Coleman, what does The Queen do?’ There was what to an impartial onlooker would have been a brief pause, but to the quizzed pupil, Anthony Coleman, it was a period in which he felt he could have correctly calculated a dozen long division sums in his head before his dizzying mind arrived at what he believed was a halfway to appeasing answer. ‘She…is…the ruling monarch, sir.’ ‘And what, pray tell, does a ruling monarch do?’ The thirteen-year-old desperately explored the nooks and crannies of his mind in vain for a pacifying response. ‘I’m not quite sure, sir,’ he uttered, breathlessly. ‘I’m…not…quite…sure.’ The Headmaster appeared to taste the words reluctantly. ‘I can see the way your mind works, Coleman. I can tell just how far you are prepared to think. Your response would be no less impressive were you to have replied: “Nothing. The Queen does nothing.”.’ Fairhurst walked to behind his desk and leaned forward with his white-knuckled hands gripping its edge. With their faces a handspan apart, Coleman cast his eyes down for fear of being glared at to death. ‘Would you like me to give you an informal lesson on Her Majesty The Queen’s role in society? I don’t suppose you would, you disrespectful, ignorant, impudent little mummy’s boy brat? But I’m going to tell you, all the same. I’m going to tell you exactly what our sovereign provides for this shamefully downhill-sliding but essentially noble nation of ours. ‘The Queen is an example. Her social etiquette is revered the world over as symbolic of the British spirit. When The Queen speaks, she echoes the thoughts and feelings of those who have created our national heritage. No wonder her behaviour is so scrutinised by the media, for she is the figurehead of what is arguably history’s most successful and civilised world power. Can you imagine what might happen were The Queen to forego her respectable adornments and regalia, choosing instead to wear leather jackets emblazoned with the logos of pop musicians? To turn up at social engagements in ripped jeans? To pin rabble-rousing badges upon her dresses? Perhaps her most symbolic possession, the royal crown, should be replaced by a Che Guevara-style red beret. Would that be to your liking, Coleman?’ The boy stood in solemn silence, unsure of how to respond tactfully. ‘Aha, I see you’ve lost your tongue. Well, let me tell you what effects on society such behaviour would cause. Our justly celebrated academics, writers and musicians; those who have lived for their work and art would be cast aside in favour of exploitive, unruly, crudely-marketed con-artists; to be seen to be vulgar would become the accepted norm; dissidents, delinquents and chaos merchants would take it as their green light to indoctrinate to the full and create a country steeped in anarchic and slovenly behaviour. You see, Coleman, the point I am making that you have so arrogantly overlooked is that image is everything. Just as The Queen has a duty to uphold our state’s image, so we in turn have a duty to uphold our school’s image and thus reputation. Do you understand what I am saying, boy?’ Coleman shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, timidly. ‘I do so hope you do. Just in cast the message hasn’t quite sunk in well enough, I’ll illustrate for you another example of why a dress code is so imperative to our individual and collective success in life. Stand up straight, boy!…That’s more like it. Now, I want to talk to you about my time in the war when I was fighting in…’ 2 …the trenches,’ Fairhurst bellowed before the school assembly the following morning. The often complacent Coleman had exited his office the previous day in as apologetic and humble a manner as he had ever seen him, therefore the Headmaster felt confident enough in his speech to orate it before all of Milton’s scholars. ‘Each of us troops were subjected to living conditions more barbaric and unhygienic than most of you infants of the permissive age could possibly imagine. Cholera, tuberculosis, pneumonia, gangrene, trenchfoot: all these conditions were rife; absolutely rife, I say. Medical supplies, trained physicians, places to treat the sick and dying, were in very short supply. The Third Reich was, of course, the common enemy, but we had far, far more to contend with than that. For a start, there was the weather. Bleak, harsh winters in Central and Eastern Europe were the worst. Food was often scarce and of poor quality, let alone difficult to prepare. Communications were unreliable, visibility could become practically non-existent, confusion and panic abounded. Can you imagine what it feels like to have an ally - a friend - slain by a Nazi sniper whilst you lie in crudely dug man-holding ditches unable to cease your own gunfire long enough to attempt to save his life? Can you imagine what it’s like when you are forced to shoot a fellow soldier because he has witnessed so much horror and degradation that he has lost his mind and become a danger to his own side? Can you imagine the tension during a gas attack when a panic-stricken fellow server of his country tears off your mask, suddenly convinced his own doesn’t work??’ There was a pause for several long seconds during which the room seemed to be chockfull of static. Fairhurst loosened his British Legion tie and cleared his throat. Somewhere a child snickered, but most kept their faces as straight as they could for fear of a harsh reprisal from their strict and stiff headmaster. Fairhurst continued: ‘Whilst we were living, or, in many cases, dying, in such conditions, whilst we fought quite literally for all we were worth amidst the mud and the gore, the stench of death, the screams of pain and the threat of madness, hundreds and hundreds of miles from our loved ones, crawling on our bellies in pits dug in the uninviting soil of alien lands, we still had an objective to keep firmly in our focus - a goal which it was imperative for us to win, for had we not done so, the spoils of life you take so for granted would be very much absent from our modern-day culture. We had to win that war, and no cost would be higher than the one we would have to pay were we to lose it. That is why so many of our commanding officers made an insistence on a daily basis of the utmost importance. Respect for one’s uniform and appearance. “Polish your buttons! Clean your boots! Stitch up those tears! Comb your hair!” “Why?” some would utter. “We’re in the middle of a filthy trench, not on parade.” ‘Why? In a word, pride. Pride going hand in hand with decorum and spirit and identity. A positive self-image is a tremendous boost to confidence and morale. Those commanding officers who served each and every one of you so well understand the necessity of smart appearance perfectly. I would like Milton’s pupils to embrace the notion as well. ‘Why do I consider it so crucial for Milton to hear this? The reason is clear for us all to see here in the assembly hall. Take a moment to look around you at your fellow pupils.’ The children did so and a brief wave of amused exclamations was spawned. Fairhurst pointed at individuals in turn as he went on: ‘Look! There a boy has no blazer on. There a girl is chewing gum.’ The girl in question immediately ceased doing so. ‘There a boy has an earring. That girl is wearing the wrong shade of sweater.’ This girl looked perplexed. ‘And…what on Earth?…that girl has a nosestud! You, young lady, can see me afterward.’ The Headmaster raised his hands to halt the hubbub that was erupting. In a few seconds, all was nearly quiet again. ‘This school is like an army too. All that lies before you once you leave this place is a battle, and to win you have to be the best. Now, you can give yourselves a head start by making people think you come from a school with a good reputation. And one of-‘ BBRRRIIIIINNNGG!!!! The school’s alarm bells drowned out the impassioned man’s preaching. Pupils gladly marched out of the assembly hall and made their way towards the sports field as they had been drilled to on many an occasion. Whether a real emergency or not on this particular occasion, this was the fifth time the alarm bells had sounded in a fortnight due to a string of bomb alert hoaxes. To Brian Fairhurst, the sound and its timing epitomised the way his school seemed to be sliding down a slippery slope towards ill repute. ‘Oh bugger!’ he cursed, a little louder than he had intended, and a chorus of girls passing by shrieked with surprised laughter. 3 The day before Anthony Coleman had visited his headmaster’s office for neglecting to wear his school tie, he had returned to school after a three-week absence. His absenteeism had been due to a flu-like illness that had likely been fuelled by his nervous disposition. He would have been well enough to return to his classes a week earlier were he to have bitten the bullet and pulled himself together, but had plenty of reason not to adopt such an attitude. For a thirteen-year-old, Anthony was chockfull of ideas that his elders deemed as being somewhat above his station. He was a vegetarian, pacifist and anarchist. He felt himself at war with most western traditions and values, and at peace with existence on a spiritual level. He felt there were great injustices in the way children were forcibly ‘educated’, belittled, frightened and conditioned by the ‘grown up’ world. But he was never outwardly rebellious, never aggressive - hardly ever disobedient even, for that matter. One of Anthony’s main problems was that many of the adults in his life could not really understand his behaviour type. Some seem to be of the impression that not to see eye-to-eye with an adult when you are a child automatically displays impudence, recklessness and irresponsibility on your part. One such person was Anthony’s headmaster whom also doubled as his geography teacher - the grey-suited, temperamental and very righteous Mr Brian Fairhurst BA. Needless to say, Mr Fairhurst kept a very judgmental eye on Anthony. Trying to make an example of him, to make him a scapegoat, to ‘entertain’ his classmates by making him the subject of a carefully engineered joke - these were all ploys Fairhurst regularly tried in an attempt to make Anthony more like the Headmaster’s version of a model student, and which, naturally, had quite the opposite effect. Today, though - the day after Anthony’s aforementioned reprimand - the teacher’s despotic attitude and lack of reason would cause him to trip up and thus fall victim to ridicule himself in a failed attempt to ridicule the boy. ‘Aha! We have a near stranger in our midst!’ Fairhurst mockingly implied before his geography class, referring to Anthony’s return to school after three weeks of blessed illness. ‘Now, let me see…Mr…uh…Coleman. Yes, almost forgot, what with there being such a lapse in time. Now then, let’s have you taking part in a little experiment, shall we? Up to the front of the class, boy!’ Inwardly groaning, Anthony staggered up to where his teacher loomed before the occupied chairs and tables, knowing full well the idea behind this game was for him to wind up the humiliated victim of this bitter man’s thinly-disguised sadism. ‘Hold out your hand,’ the boy was instructed. A Ping-Pong ball-sized lump of coal was placed in it. ‘Do you know what that is?’ The boy answered correctly and was sarcastically praised. ‘Now, I want you to handle that for a few minutes and then I’m going to ask you a question.’ Turning back to the rest of his class, Fairhurst continued addressing them on subject matter that would never be of use to any one of them once they had left school. What the man had forgotten was that the initial lectures on coalmining, and the rather pointless seeming demonstration Anthony was now party to, had been gone over just before, not during, the child’s absenteeism. The boy knew that the lump of coal had been washed with soap and water, which meant that it was supposed to leave your hands clean after being handled. Fairhurst was obviously going to stop him in a minute or so’s time and play on the surprise expressed by the boy upon finding his hands soot free. But, of course, Anthony would not be in the slightest surprised by this, so planned to state his hands were clean in as flat a tone as if responding to the question: ‘What day of the week is today?’ So, eventually, Mr F took the lump of coal back. Predictably, he told Anthony to inspect his hands and tell the class what he noticed about them. The pupil’s hands were rather sweaty due to the nature of what was taking place, and he was surprised upon observing them due to the odd black smudge on fingers and palms. Filthy they were not, but Anthony did not feel ‘clean’ would be an accurate description either. Believing firmly that ‘honesty is the best policy’ (incidentally, a saying he had learnt at school), he decided that any statement falling short of the truth would dishonour everybody. Thus it was with measured dispassion that he announced: ‘They’re dirty.’ The class immediately burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. ‘Well, they’re not supposed to be!’ the teacher squawked, and, maybe with measured contempt, maybe as a gut reaction, maybe as a defence mechanism (the truth is he did not know himself), gave the boy a firm clout on the side of the head with the textbook he was holding. The laughter did not immediately cease but the onlookers were noticeably aghast at such an outburst. Clearly stunned, Anthony returned to his seat and spent the rest of the by now rather stinted lesson staring into space, unhassled by anyone. 4 ‘The whole place seems to be going downhill at breakneck speed at the moment. We’ve really got to start clamping down hard.’ Fairhurst often spoke as if perched on a podium even when in informal gatherings such as this lunchtime break in the school staffroom. ‘I think it’s a sign of the times, Brian,’ David Scourfield, head of mathematics, remarked. ‘The kids we’re getting now were born in the sixties. Look at the example they were set.’ ‘Not to mention their modern-day heroes,’ Steven Pickard, PE instructor, chipped in. ‘Look at the music - punk rock and anti-establishment sloganeers. Look at popular fiction - Stephen King, James Herbert, Dean R Koontz - all peddlers of depravity and sick fantasies. Look at films - Star Wars, The Exorcist, Close Encounters, The Omen - we’re bartering our excellence for producing tasteful and informative pictures for throwaway science fiction and horror. It really does seem to be a losing battle at the moment.’ ‘What did the police have to say on the hoax bomb alert calls?’ Scourfield asked the beleaguered headmaster. ‘They just feed me the same line again. The old “we’re looking into it and doing all we can” cracker. Apparently every secondary school in Taunton has received at least one such call this week.’ ‘If they catch whoever’s doing it, they’ll probably get off with just a caution,’ said Pickard. ‘Sometimes I despair,’ Fairhurst confided. ‘We try our best and what do we get? Blatant disrespect, violent behaviour, brainwashed blatherings, thoughtless prejudice, herd instinct. I know what my answer would be. Bring back conscription. If that doesn’t force the little bastards to amend their behaviour, then nothing will!’ 5 ‘Mustard, you bastard!’ the boy yelled from across the street. Anthony froze at the sound of the all too familiar voice. He span around to see the school bully he knew only as Crewcut and one of his accomplices whom he did not recognise sauntering across the road towards him. Nausea and fear competed with embarrassment as a stream of pupils exiting the school grounds rubbernecked the action. ‘Give me 50p!’ Crewcut demanded, Thug #2 eyeing Anthony in as cold a manner as he could manage. Anthony mentally weighed up what would cost him the most - giving Crewcut the money in the hope that he would then depart, or risking being beaten before his schoolmates for standing up to these extortionists. He decided on the former option and was quick about it. He fumbled about in his school trousers pocket and, as luck would have it, happened upon the familiar shape of a 50p piece. ‘There you go,’ he said, as he held it out to the bedwetting bonehead. It was rudely snatched from his hand. ‘And what about mine?!’ Thug 2, who had never been able to sleep with the light off, snarled. Crewcut had been about to move on to another in his long line of victims, but now an eerie light seemed to dance in his malevolent eyes. ‘Yeah! What about him??’ Anthony tried to swallow, then pulled the remainder of his change out of his pocket. It totalled 32p. ‘He asked you for 50p, cunt!’ ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got.’ ‘Yeah, I bet it is!’ the bedwetter’s mate snapped. ‘Let’s check your pockets!’ As the two boys started exploring his clothing, Anthony made an unplanned move to push them away. ‘Oh no you fuckin’ don’t, you tosser!’ yelled Crewcut, and held the wriggling victim in an excruciating armlock. His partner in crime turned out the pockets of Anthony’s trousers and blazer in a rough enough manner to tear pieces away from each. When they were completely satisfied there was no more cash to be stolen from their target, they left him winded and writhing on the ground from a carefully aimed blow to the abdomen. Anthony watched his predators attempt macho strides as they finally left him, viewing the proceedings through a film of tears. He was crying not because of his injuries and not because of his financial loss, but due to his perplexity and despair at the seemingly completely unnecessary and unjustifiable cruelty mankind is capable of. 6 Brian Fairhurst kept the door of his office locked all afternoon and refused to take any messages. The room’s solitary window had its blind completely closed, rendering the normally busy and impeccably presented place almost as gloomy as the headmaster’s mood as he sat slumped forward over his desk within its walls. If it was just the steadily lowering grades in Milton’s exams that he had to contend with, then maybe he could cope. If it was just the recent difficulties with getting pupils to wear the school uniform, or the truancy that seemed to be getting out of hand, or the fact that three of the school’s teachers had resigned in as many months, that government spending on education was being ruthlessly reduced, that colleagues and parents seemed to be losing faith in his ability to manage a moderately-sized secondary school, then maybe he could mend things. If it was just the school he had on his mind, then maybe he could see light at the end of the tunnel. But the school was not the be all and end all of his problems. In fact, it could be argued it was just the tip of the iceberg. Brian had felt like he was on a rollercoaster lately with the incredible burden of stress his career seemed to have put him under. His wife, Maureen, understood this better than anyone else, for their domestic upsets and confrontations had become increasingly commonplace and difficult to live with. Eventually, Brian’s inability to cope had started to show itself in their bedroom activities as well. And thus it was that impotence of one kind led to impotence of another. All of which led to Brian discovering the phone number his wife had not quite managed to conceal from him. Which had led to Brian calling the number. Which had led to him discovering that it was the number of a gigolo. Which had led to him feeling tenfold as angry, depressed, confused and frustrated as he had before. Mr Brian Fairhurst BA finished the bottle of Grouse that he had kept concealed in one of his desk drawers and threw the empty bottle at the wall. The almost inevitable smash of glass made him feel even more bitter. From now onwards, whatever happened between Maureen and him, he needed God’s help to give him strength and guidance. And if anyone - anyone - stepped out of line in Milton, God help them. 7 The geography lesson was going so well that Fairhurst was almost disappointed he had no one upon whom to vent his anger. But sometimes an alcoholic haze can inspire in one a false sense of confidence, and what the teacher mistook for studious concentration amongst his pupils during this - what was to become Milton’s most ill-fated lesson in its history - was actually disbelief and trepidation regarding the man’s slurred speech, flushed face and clearly unstable footing. It was about halfway through the period when tragedy struck. ‘Now, who can tell me what Jethro Tull invented? Let’sh shee.’ Fairhurst’s slowly sobering bloodshot eyes happened upon a section of the room that had hitherto practically escaped attention this lesson. Settling his gaze upon Anthony, it quickly metamorphosed into a glare as the boy’s attire was fully observed. The white shirt, black and blue striped tie, beige jumper and black shoes were all perfectly in keeping with the school uniform. What definitely was not were the denim jacket and jeans accompanying them. The reason Anthony had been called to the head’s office just days before was now common knowledge among his classmates, and suddenly it seemed as if everyone was holding their breath as they all realised simultaneously what was causing the ‘responsible adult’ before them to look so appalled. Slowly and very deliberately, Fairhurst raised an accusing finger and pointed it at the poker-faced denim sporter. ‘You,’ the man breathed rather than said. ‘You.’ He was momentarily incapable of speaking another word. ‘Come here,’ he eventually managed to gasp. As if watching himself in a slow-motion scene from a surreal movie, the singled-out youth slid off his seat and nonchalantly paced toward the inebriated authority figure. When he finally stood just before the man, he found himself flinching from the teacher’s practically inflammable breath. ‘Are you trying to take the piss out of me?’ Fairhurst said through gritted teeth. A few brave pupils sniggered aloud at this, but he did not seem to care or notice. For now, all his attention was focussed on Anthony Coleman, whom he now perceived as epitomising all he felt antipathy toward. ‘No, sir, I’m not,’ came the bland and truthful reply. Several seconds of heavy breathing and electric anticipation followed. ‘Then what is the meaning of this?’ Fairhurst snapped the last word and grabbed the collar of Anthony’s jacket at the same time. This was met with a chorus of gasps from the rest of the class. ‘My school clothes got damaged, sir.’ The disgust on Fairhurst’s face intensified. ‘And how, I wonder, did that happen?’ ‘Some other boys tore them, sir.’ ‘What other boysh?’ Now Anthony knew that were he to blow the whistle on Crewcut, then word would get through to the bully as to who had grassed him up. The consequences of this, if the bonehead’s track record was anything to go by, were likely to spell the name ANTHONY COLEMAN being written on a hospital chart. Once again, with ‘honesty is the best policy’ emblazoned upon his mind, instead of the more commonly pleaded ’I don’t know’ being the answer, he said: ‘I can’t tell you, sir.’ Fairhurst’s jaw dropped open. A twitch developed at the corner of an eye. ‘You…can’t…tell…me?? You can’t tell me??’ ‘That’s right, sir.’ The boy’s demeanour remained calm throughout, fuelling the teacher’s wrath. ‘WHAT DO YOU BLOODY WELL TAKE ME FOR??’ More gasps from around the class. ‘COME HERE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!!’ This time Anthony’s shirt was grasped by two sweaty fists. ‘GET OFF ME!’ came the instant response. The boy pushed the headmaster with all his strength, and the already unsteady man went sprawling across his desk, noisily spilling pens, books and chalks hither and thither. This time the class made no attempt to disguise their laughter. Brian Fairhurst straightened up and brushed himself off. ‘Oh, so you think that’s funny, do you? Well, I’ll give you something to laugh at! I’m going to use Master Coleman here as an example to show you all what happens when you do not wear your uniforms and toe the bloody line!’ With that, he hastily removed his own suit jacket and tie and, in a flash, had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Realising he could well be just about to undergo a spectated thrashing, Anthony made a dash for freedom. Too late! The back of his denim jacket was grabbed by the headmaster, who yanked him closer in order that they could have another of their fateful meetings. The raging man pulled his fist back ready to strike, but was halted by the utterance of another schoolboy in the room who suddenly became the new focus of attention. ‘Hey!! Leave him alone!’ the child cried in solidarity with his classmate. ‘You’re pissed up and bang out of order, Fairhurst! If that’s your attitude to our stupid uniform, you can stuff it!’ Within seconds, most of the protestor’s clothing was lying on the floor of the classroom. ‘Yeah! We’re gonna have your job for this!’ another classmate shouted, and his own attire was dealt the same treatment. Then another followed suit. Then another. Thirty seconds later, not a pupil in the room was wearing their full uniform. ‘STOP IT! STOP IT!’ the head bellowed in vain, feeling all sense of power rapidly deserting him. In his mind’s eye, a three-syllable eight-letter word came mercilessly into view; beginning with I, ending in T, and followed by a string of exclamation marks. ‘Hey, look, Mr Fairhurst isn’t wearing his jacket or tie!’ a girl whom the man had regularly victimised piped up. ‘We ought to punish him!’ ‘Yeah, strip the bastard naked!’ another of his much criticised students suggested. And, like hyenas closing on their prey, they moved in to do just that. Moments later, a by now all too familiar sound echoed throughout the buildings of Milton Secondary School. BBRRRIIIIINNNGG!!!! 8 The sports ground harboured considerably more hubbub than was usual amongst the assembled school evacuees. Talk was not centred on the lessons being interrupted or whether or not a real emergency was underway as was the norm. Today it was intrigue and confusion concerning why thirty or so pupils were somewhat scantily clad, particularly considering a cold November wind was blowing. Registers were checked as was the by now well-rehearsed drill. All, it seemed, were present and correct. Except one. ‘Where are my clothes?’ the teary-eyed man moaned. ‘What have they done with my clothes??’ He curled his hands into tightly balled fists, cords in his neck standing out in perfect profile. Chest heaving, he glared at the ceiling above as if in defiance of the heavens. ‘Right, that’s it! That’s it!! THAT’S IT!!!’ ‘Mel, gis some chewing gum!’ fourteen-year-old Annabel Hart called to her friend. Having her maths lesson with Mr Scourfield interrupted was cause for celebration, no matter how small. Her friend, Melanie, did not seem to register. In fact, she seemed to be in some kind of trance. ‘Mel!’ Mel’s mouth dropped wide open. ‘MEL!’ And her eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. At last Annabel realised that Mel was not choking or having a seizure, and turned to see what her friend was staring at. Her own face went through the same contortions, and hardly were the two girls alone in their disbelief. Brian Fairhurst was staggering along the path that led from the school’s main building, as naked as on his original birthday. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were deranged and bloodshot. His lips were curled back in a snarl and he was emitting a breathy snarling sound. But what shocked the many onlookers even more than his nakedness and crazed expression was his repulsive and hitherto fairly disguised obesity. His breasts were drooping bags of fat, his midsection a loose pile of tyres. Doughy flesh hung from his arms, and his thighs were toneless jelly. He was, in the mind of almost every gaping observer, physically disgusting. He lurched and stumbled toward the unbelieving throng, his progress slow and cumbersome. So fixated was he on the crowd before him, he did not appear to notice the explosion when it came. A fireball engulfed the façade to his rear. Bricks, tiles and furniture became instantly airborne. Windows shattered and scattered their cruel rain to within feet of the flinching pupils. Walls collapsed, a swarm of embers invaded the atmosphere, and thick smoke engulfed the Headmaster. The air cleared a little, but only to make visible a smaller second explosion. The shockwave of this forced a large section of metal roof panelling to tear free of its fixtures. It flew into the blackening sky and seemed to be held in suspension for an age. It finally descended in an unpredictable arc, its size menacing, its velocity terrifying. Fairhurst did not see it. He was mercifully unaware right up to the point when it neatly sliced him in two, separating the front half of his body from the back. The two halves did not immediately fall to the ground, and when they did, they bore a partial resemblance to the school’s chemistry lab’s anatomical models. Amidst the panic, amidst the trauma, amidst the tears and emptying bladders, a few individuals remained relatively calm. These belonged to Anthony’s geography class and included Anthony himself. They, like virtually every human being, were afraid to view the gore but could not resist the temptation to look. Undeniably they were horrified, but mixed with this was a bizarre sense of surprise and, of all things, satisfaction. For beneath his skin, the composition of Brian Fairhurst’s body conformed to a strict uniformity and was made of universal base ingredients. Flesh and blood and bone. BACK |