The Exam

[Published in Roadworks]

"Write down three things that excite you," said Mr Jenkins, "and then elaborate." He consulted his watch. "You have two hours."
Expressions of terror were evident upon the students' faces as they nervously listened to their task. Mr Jenkins himself attempted to cast his mind back to his teenage days, to place himself in their position, but the sands of time formed a dune so large he was unable to penetrate it. Three things that excite you. He reflected on those words. Nothing excited him much any more -- nothing at all.
Young heads before him were bowed in concentration, some scribbling in earnest, others still contemplating, pens in mouths, or eyes cast outside gazing at the trees that appeared so still they could have been cardboard cut-outs. Some doodled, and some bore masks of horror, a trepidation inside them, with failure holding a dagger to their hearts, all of them threatened by the stigma of non-performance.
Except Sean. He was immobile, staring directly in front of him, staring into nothingness. Mr Jenkins always considered him an oddball, for reasons he could never quite fathom. There was a certain darkness about him, he was so weird and unpredictable. His eyes were vacant, like two globules of ice, cold and featureless.
Like a stranger to this world.

Blood seeped right through to the mattress, a horrid sanguineous percolation. It was hot and sticky in the room, almost tropical, the only respite being the chill of death. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the thin summer curtains. The drone of a milk float could be heard outside, followed by the clinking of bottles, then silence. An ugly stench pervaded the air, the stench of her final defecation. Her departing soul drifted away, dancing death's macabre tango as it joined its millions of companions in the ethereal cosmos.
Sean observed from the doorway, watching the slow striptease of death, a peaceful stillness before him. Her arms were held upwards in a defensive position at either side of her bludgeoned head, those welcoming arms which had embraced him at birth. Folds of unsightly flesh hung beneath her hirsute armpits. Her cold eyes were open, transfixed upon the ceiling as though something vastly disturbing were taking place up there. Her tangled hair was the colour of middle age, and resembled steel wool shot through with tomato juice. Her neck was freckled with blood spots, the thin bootlace straps of her white nightdress almost matching the unearthly pallor of her skin.
The lump hammer lay further down the bed, stained with congealing blood, as if it had been dipped in strawberry jam. Guilty fingerprints dotted the handle. Her cranial area was unrecognisable, like a huge dumpling smeared in scarlet gravy. The pillow beneath was saturated in a crimson slush. The material of her nightdress clung to her body, suffocating her flesh, drenched in acrid perspiration. Her pale dry lips were about half an inch ajar, as though she had been desperately pleading for mercy. Her dying breath was the only thing to break free, the only escapee from the jaws of death.
Sean imagined mundane thoughts, such as deciding what colour shirt he ought to wear to the exams, as if he were going on a date or something. The one he had on wouldn't do, as the bloodstained look wasn't yet in vogue. He encountered the further pungent smell of human decay as he descended the stairs. It seemed like ages before he reached the bottom, as if he were running in a dream, his legs as heavy as wet washing. His boots appeared to make no sound, like someone had pressed the mute button inside his head, his ears seemingly bunged up with cotton wool.
In some homes that morning there were housewives yawning lazily as they emerged from slumber, rubbing crusts of sleep from the corners of their eyes, before embarking on another day of domestic hell. In some homes there were children preparing for school, the best days of their lives, squabbling brothers and sisters tossing toast across the breakfast table and putting too much sugar on their corn flakes. In some homes the breadwinner opened his tiresome eyes to the world, hoping it wasn't still there, praying for the miracle of a migraine or some other excuse not to venture into that gruesome four letter word everyone detests so much.
In Sean's home there was the quietness of afterdeath.
He considered leaving a glass of Glenmorangie and a chunk of home-made parkin, rather like children leaving a mince pie and a tot of sherry for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Then he thought, fuck it. He couldn't even see a scythe.
The soft covering of the armchair was smeared with clotted claret. Fingernails gripped the arms, tearing tiny holes in the upholstery, the strength and sharpness of a tiger's claws summoned from the shores of hell. The flesh of his arms was as cold as wet fish. His hair had been jet black at one time, much like his student son's, but now it was turning white in parts. It looked as if someone had drilled a dark red hole in his forehead, and isobars of blood paved a trail down on to his cheeks. His eyes were pleading, begging for forgiveness, lost in death, glazed as though the tears had refused to come out. He was half-smiling, an uncanny smile which couldn't decide whether to form or not.
Sean checked the steel in his jacket pocket before leaving the house. He was looking forward to the exam.

"Put your pens down, please," said Mr Jenkins. "Time's up."
An ocean of relief ebbed and flowed before him. Weary, worried faces flushed with youth. Students living on the knife edge of success or failure. Perspiration being mopped from clammy brows, adding more oily texture to their palms. Aching hearts tantalized by grades and percentages that didn't even exist yet. Anxious eyes peered his way, eyes belonging to lost souls tormented by the pressure of something they didn't realize was relatively unimportant, immaterial in a material world.
The classroom emptied silently, sullen figures escaping, like zombies emerging from a crypt. Mr Jenkins nodded to each fleeing soul. There were bladders to empty and sweating hands to be cleansed. The sunshine blazed into the room, casting film noir shadows in dark corners. Mr Jenkins was puzzled, because Sean chose not to move, remaining seated like a statue sculpted from flesh and bone.
Mr Jenkins approached him tentatively. "Come on, Sean, it's all over. Time to go."
The youth's eyes locked on to his. They were lost and unfeeling, lubricious and opaque. They looked hard enough to penetrate a block of ice. He reached into his pocket and produced a handgun. Mr Jenkins froze, his legs turning to blancmange, becoming as weak as a lame pigeon's.
"Now then, Sean, control yourself."
He wasn't aware of uttering those words, they just spilled from his lips in panic. Sean's ice-cold eyes were filled with a frightful menace, and Mr Jenkins perceived an unnatural threat from the boy's terrifying countenance. He was horror-stricken, convinced that this was to be the final untimely moment of his existence. He was annoyed that his life had led up to this instance, the sequence of events resulting in his forthcoming demise at the hands of a neurotic student with the personality of a rotting vegetable. Then Sean cocked the weapon, and Mr Jenkins felt his bladder burst.
"Calm down, Sean, for God's sake!"
He didn't realise gunshots were so loud. Blood splattered across his shirt and face, tainting his skin, showering his glasses. He sank to his knees with shock. His heart was thumping inside like rapid echoes in a vacant tomb. Sean had acquired a hole in his temple, and he slumped forwards, his head clunking on to the desk, the gun clattering to the floor.
As he attempted to regain his composure, Mr Jenkins glanced at the boy's exam sheet, just before an alarmed throng dashed into the classroom. Three words scratched in pencil. Death. Death. Death.