Tuesday Morning 1

The rain battered against the windowpane with such ferocity the din was sufficient to almost overpower the growl of the bus’ engine. He blinked out at the dimly lit streets as they passed by, not really seeing anything, only vaguely aware of the shadowy, hunched figures that squatted beneath umbrellas, briefcases, newspapers, anything that provided shelter, however inadequate.
“’Scuse, mate.”
Attention now drawn to the passenger beside him, he struggled to his feet, exhaustion his master this morning, as most, moving out into the aisle so that his traveling companion could make his way to the exit in time for the next stop. Slumping back down onto the poorly cushioned seat, he returned his attention to the rain-washed world beyond the vehicle, dreading the moment, just ten minutes hence, when he too would be obliged to leave the relative sanctuary of the number 12.
Christ, he felt bleak.

The air brakes hissed noisily as the driver brought the vehicle to a standstill, the automatic doors that made onto the outside world drawing apart like plastic curtains, he a struggling actor about to make his way onto that most testing stage of all: the real world.
“Thanks, driver.”
Just because he was sour as lime pickle didn’t mean politeness was beyond him.
He dropped heavily from the platform onto the sodden pavement, turning right, beginning the slow walk uphill that would lead him to that dreaded place. Almost instantly, he felt the rain begin to soak through, the battered soles of his shoes insufficient to withstand the current downpour, thin socks providing little relief for the skin of his feet.
He sighed wearily.
A glance at his watch confirmed that he was still in good time so, despite the conditions and the state of his footwear, he chose to slow his pace some more, to delay the inevitable, preferring to take a good soaking than spend any longer than was necessary at his place of work. On the road, cars cruised by, some close enough to the kerb to threaten unsuspecting pedestrians as they drove through the puddles, but he knew the danger spots, and took the necessary avoiding action. Beside him on both sides, other denizens of the educational establishment dashed past on foot, either eager to get out of the rain or keen to flip open their laptops; whichever, it made no fucking sense to him.
With a creeping sense of dread, the entrance drew nearer, his pace certainly slow, though not slow enough that the world would actually move backwards so it was, with much reluctance, that he swung left and entered the college premises. The quad, usually a bustle of students and staff alike, was all but deserted, only Dave the caretaker in sight, striding around with his customary black bin liner, raking up leaves into a pile before scooping them into the bag with nothing but his hands, his annual battle against the autumnal fall seemingly sufficient to keep him satisfied.
“Dave, how I envy you,” he thought, with not a trace of irony.
Instinctively, he looked up at the windows on his left, the classrooms that encircled the quad illuminated as usual, and almost came to a standstill. In each window, a face peered out.
Six windows to his left.
Six faces.
He looked to his right, at the windows some distance away on the other end of the college approach and, here too, the same sight.
“Are they looking at me?” he thought, feeling suddenly self-conscious, his legs seeming heavier, somehow, actually having to devote mental processing power to the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other.
“They can’t be. They are just watching the rain.”
It didn’t sound convincing even to himself.
“Weird.”
With some relief, he reached the main entrance, for once happy to be swallowed into the belly of that most despicable of beasts.

There was chatter as he walked into the classroom, the students who had arrived early all eager to share their exploits of the previous evening with classmates. Even in the age of Facebook and Twitter, it seemed there was something to be said for genuine human contact and, briefly, the sodden feet and feeling of disquiet which had accompanied him from the quad did not seem quite so bad.
“Morning, Sir.”
“Morning, Nazeem,” he replied, placing his folder onto the desk just to the right of the whiteboard at the front of the room, flipping it open, leafing through a couple of pages to find his lesson plan. More students arrived and, as the hands on the wall-mounted clock crawled to 9am, all seemed present.
“How we all doing?” he began, pitching it at amiable and approachable.
“OK,” “Good,” “Alright,” he heard mumbled variously around the room.
“Pleased to see you all here on time, despite the awful weather. Let’s get started. Who can tell me what the acronym GIGO stands for……?”

He walked the room, pleased with how the lesson had gone so far. Though not a particularly tough group, still there were personalities that needed to be managed. Nothing malicious, merely the silliness of adolescents; easily bored, bodies coursing with hormones, video games and music filling their heads with the concepts of ‘respect’ and Omertà, particularly the boys, such that it was often difficult to predict how they would respond. The simplest issue could be blown out of logical proportion; the most mundane of disagreements escalate to a physical altercation. He’d learnt the trick early: keep them engaged and avoid some of the issues that other teachers complained about, even if that meant occasionally sacrificing a little professional pride. For him, it was ok to have a laugh and a joke with the students, to get them on your side, whereas other members of staff found his approach far too casual. Indeed, he had once been accused of trying to be ‘mates’ with the students, something he denied, both at the time and to himself, though it was certainly a fine line to tread.
He headed to the front of the room, satisfied that the students were all engaged on their set activity, a quick glance around confirming that all eyes were on the screens in front of them. Flicking back to the front of his folder, he retrieved the paper register, filling it in from memory.
Baker. Tick.
Daud. Tick.
Elam. Absent.
Gregory. Tick.
“He’s fucking useless.”
He span on his heels, staring at the backs of the heads, looking for some clue as to who might have spoken. Nobody seemed to have moved.
He turned back to the register.
Ibrahim. Tick.
Jones. Absent.
Lemar. Tick.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
Louder this time.
He kept looking at the register, hoping to lure the culprit into bolder action, to catch them in the act.
“He likes to fuck children.”
On his right, halfway down the row.
“Shall we take him?”
The left this time.
“Stab him.”
Right.
“Stab him.”
Left.
“Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.”
The last repetition was loud, too loud to ignore, so he swung back round.
“Alright, what the hell is going on?” he demanded to the room in general.
No-one moved.
All eyes remained locked on the screens before them, almost as if he had not spoken at all. He looked around, baffled, not quite sure how to respond. Then it struck him: no-one moved. Quite literally. Where, moments ago, it seemed the students were concentrating on their study, now they were utterly motionless. He took a pace towards the nearest, on the right.
“Daniel?” he asked, approaching, noting that the boy was unnervingly still, head utterly immobile, hands hovering over the keyboard, almost as if he were deep in thought, merely composing his ideas before setting them down permanently.
“Daniel?”
Though against all the rules, he touched the lad on the shoulder, shaking him gently, attempting to elicit some form of response.
Nothing.
“Alice?”
He moved to the next computer, repeated his actions, again with the same result.
Panic gripped him.
What the hell was going on?
Quickly now, he headed back to the front of the room, making for the telephone, intending to call reception for assistance, but activity in the room stopped him. A clatter of keyboards sounded simultaneously as each and every student struck their hands down onto the keys, as if a command had been issued that only they could hear.
He swivelled on the spot, staring once more at the back of their heads.
The hands lifted.
Dropped back down with an almighty rattle, thirty six separate hands striking keyboards at precisely the same moment, following some silent rhythm.
“What on Earth do you think you are doing?”
He roared it, surprising himself with his venom, the volume dictated by adrenaline rather than genuine anger.
Then the words began. At first indecipherable, as eighteen teenagers muttered in unison, slowly the meaning manifested as the voices lifted, a slow-slow crescendo that froze his blood, the hands still banging out their rhythm in sympathy to the words that were being spoken.
“Fuck you. Kill you Fuck you. Kill you.”
Over and over and over.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Stop it,” he demanded, his voice sounding feeble and insignificant to his ears against the rising din within the room.
“Stop it,” he said again, his voice cracking, such was the force, but still it went on.
“Fuck you. Kill you. Fuck you. Kill you.”
He fled the room.

He reached the door of his Curriculum Manager in less than one minute, breathless, mind still racing, unable to truly comprehend what had just happened. Six years in front line education had exposed him to all manner of aberrant behaviour, but this latest incident was beyond his scope of experience. In the fifty seconds or so since he left the room, he had already begun the process of rationalisation: maybe it was the weather, the dour, dismal nature of the brooding elements beyond the walls of the building lending the students an air of defiance, as if they were striking out against the elements themselves, and he just happened to be the focus of their ire Perhaps that wasn’t it at all. Maybe a new drug was doing the rounds, one that sent people into waking trances, any behaviour exhibited from that point on purely a symptom of the narcotic coursing through the system.
Maybe.
But all of them?
And how did that explain the synchronised nature of their actions, timing so precise it seemed surely they had been practicing it for hours in advance.
He knocked on the door loudly, not bothering to wait for an answer, just bursting straight in.
“Sorry to interrupt….” he began, before being silenced by a stiff finger to the lips.
He held his tongue, but not for long, irritated by being made to wait when it seemed all she was doing was studying a spreadsheet open on her computer screen.
“I’m sorry, but this just can’t wait,” he insisted, only for her to gesture once more that he cease speaking.
“Would you look at this?” she asked casually, pointing now at a section of the spreadsheet, drawing his eyes despite himself, though he was too far away to take in the details.
“Will you listen to me?”
“Just a minute.”
“Sweet Jesus, listen to me, you dried up old bitch.”
He thought the last, though was on the brink of uttering something similar when at last she turned his way, but not for the reason he hoped. In her right hand she held a folder, and she flipped it open.
“Could you sign here, please?” she asked.
“Wha-.“
“Just sign here.”
She tapped at a signature strip on the form on top with the tip of a black biro, proffering the writing implement in his direction, indicating he should take it. Acting automatically, he took the pen and stooped, on the verge of signing his name, but something stopped him.
“What am I signing?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Just sign it.”
He tried to read the words on the form, but she seemed to be deliberately moving the folder about just enough to make the words difficult to discern.
“Well, I don’t think I should.”
She frowned, then.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“A liar?”
“Are you accusing me of fraud?” she demanded.
“Well, no, but…..”
“Then sign the fucking form.”
He blinked at her myopically, shock etched across his face. He stood, dropping the pen down, an act of defiance that simultaneously pleased and unnerved him.
“Just a second,” she said, reaching for a walkie-talkie to the right of her monitor.
“What are you doing?” he asked, her actions making him anxious all of a sudden. Ignoring him, she spoke into the device.
“Could you come in?”
The door opened instantly, the person on the other end of the walkie-talkie clearly standing right outside and, before he even knew what was happening, rough hands had hold of him, pushing him backwards, his attempts at a struggle utterly futile in the face of the two hulking security guards who forced him into an office chair, moving behind him without breaking their hold for a second.
“Here,” she sad, indicating where she wanted him. Dutifully, the brutes rolled him forward so that he was seated right in front of her, the open door behind him, one of the security guards positioned so that no-one outside the room could possibly see what was happening within. He considered crying out but, in a world gone mad, what purpose logical action?
“Hold his hand.”
One of the man mountains took hold of his right hand and, with a casualness that defied all reason, she pushed the pen into place between thumb and forefinger.
“Sign the fucking form,” she repeated, though more quietly this time and, strangely, the hushed tone brought an extra edge of malevolence.
“What is this about?” he cried, his voice laced with fear.
She span on her chair, finger jabbing at the spreadsheet still visible on the screen.
“This needs to turn green,” she screamed. “Why can’t you understand that?”
He resisted the efforts of the security guard to position his hand, pushing back as best he could, but this Titan was possessed of incredible strength. The tip of the biro was put in place, and the hand around his wrist squeezed mightily, the pain intended as a signal to adorn the page with his moniker though, in order for him to comply, the hulk was required to slacken his grip and, startling himself, he seized the moment, yanking his hand from the guard’s grip and turning the pen straight downwards, gripping it and plunging the wet end into the exposed skin of the upturned hand as hard as he could, eliciting a groan somewhat akin to the sound the brontosaurs make in Jurassic Park, the pain rocking Bronto back on his heels, stumbling into his companion and, suddenly, the way out of the room was clear He leapt from the chair, in full sprint instantly, ignoring the sudden, searing pain from the back of his left thigh as his hamstring tore, fear and anger and terror and rage overriding the agony that lanced up and down his entire left hand side, at least for now. Into the corridor, a heartbeat’s consideration, and the path was selected, a quick glance over his shoulder confirming that no-one appeared to be in pursuit, but he wasn’t letting that fool him. Through the double doors at the end of the corridor and down the twin flight of stairs, ignoring the startled looks of those he barged past on the stairwell, not bothering to demand they get out of the way, simply making sure it happened by the application of brute force. One student tumbled as she was jostled to one side and, normally, he would have been the first on the scene to render assistance.
But not today.
Another set of double doors greeted him at the bottom of the stairs, then lay the refectory which possessed an exit straight out onto the quad. He burst through the doors, into the eatery, the smell of bacon and coffee heavy in the air and his heart sank as he spied two different security guards in position on the exit, the distinctive black bomber jackets, shaven heads and cretinous expressions marking them out from a hundred paces. He didn’t miss a step, veering to the right instead of left to the exit, the thugs realising his intent a moment too late, then he was gone, through the next set of double doors which led him back into the bowels of the building. Another door, another collision, this time a member of staff sent sprawling, but he didn’t pause, heading for the next nearest exit and, as he approached, now he saw his students encircled around the door, along with the Curriculum Manager and the two original Brontosaurs.
He stopped dead.