Chapter 4

Chapter four

Richard saw himself running for his life. He wanted nothing more than peace, and all he got was more war. The wind whipped his hair as he ran, but he couldn’t hear anything. He was wearing some kind of armour, lightweight but life-saving. At his side was a scabbard, containing his most prized item- his sword. A sword so powerful, nothing could stop it. Richard knew that, when in battle, he was invincible. Nobody questioned his capability.

Yet, here he was. Running like a coward through grassy fields, the air stinging his lungs with every breath he took and his muscles screaming from the running he had been doing. He came to an abrupt halt, standing at the edge of a cliff. The tattered silk ribbons told him he where he was, and he was just about to turn back when a shadow engulfed him. He counted to three, held a hand at his sword and pulled it out as he looked up. A gaping mouth rushed to meet him.

Richard opened his eyes and found himself in his bedroom, lying topless beneath his quilt. He patted his arms, pinched his shoulder, to make sure that he was alive. He closed his eyes and breathed a few times to calm himself down, although he was still shaking from the nightmare. He found himself thinking; At least it’s not trolls.

He heard an urgent banging on his door. As he sat up, he called groggily; “What?”

            “Dad!” it was Ron. “Dad! I need to show you something!”

            “Can’t it wait?” Richard was tired and shaken. He was in no mood to be pestered by a child.

            “No!” Ron cried. “Please, Dad? You’re the only one who can help me!”

Before Richard could answer, Ron ran in, holding what looked like a piece of purple paper. He jumped on the bed next to Richard and thrust in front of his face.

            “Read it!” Ron demanded.

Richard looked at it, tried to read, but whatever was on the paper melted into itself and he couldn’t read it. He looked at Ron.

            “Is this some kind of joke?” Richard asked, annoyed. “Maybe Matthew or Kevin will get your little joke, but I won’t.” He lay back down and turned away from Ron, but then he noticed something. He turned and looked back at Ron. Right there, in his middle child’s bright green eyes, circling around the iris was a thin band of gold. On Ron’s face was a look of utter terror.

            “Read it to me.” Richard said, sitting up and handing the paper back to Ron.

Ron took it, and read aloud. Richard had a hard time listening, or even hearing for that matter. He remembered Ron in a school play when he was younger. He had spoken then so clearly that he was often mistaken for a boy much older, but here, Ron’s words were merging into each other. Richard found himself straining to separate the words from each other, and he couldn’t answer when Ron asked him; “What do you think it means?”

It hurt him to see his son look so pained and scared.

            “I really don’t know, son,” Richard admitted. “The words just didn’t make sense to me.”

Ron’s eyebrows knotted together and he began to hyperventilate.

            “Whoa son, just breathe!”

Richard did his best to calm his son down, but in the end he turned to the only method that seemed to work; “Just look into my eyes, son.” When he wouldn’t, Richard grabbed his son’s shoulders and made him look. “Everything with be okay.” Ron’s face was wet and streaked with tear-tracks. Richard felt sorry for the boy. Something was happening that only Ron could understand. Richard had enough experience to know that this was something beyond the mortal world. He would need Loki, or Odin. Either of the brothers would do, although neither seemed particularly interested in mortals.

            “Now just breathe,” Richard ordered. He felt Ron calm down as he took over his son’s actions. Ha wave of guilt crashed over him as he watched his son lie down on his back. Richard got out of the bed and pulled on a white t-shirt. He looked over at his son, who had his eyes closed and was lying still. Richard hated this part. He hated what he was, and he hated what he was fast becoming, but there was no denying it- he had a power, a power that could change lives, save people. The scary thing was that he liked it. To know that he could save a life, rescue someone from that silver ribbon that represented the border between life and death. A second chance or judgement. It gave him a strange sense of authority. It scared him.

            “Forgive me for this,” he whispered. He looked up at the ceiling and prayed silently. Odin, god of Wisdom. I know you died in the Great Battle, but your spirit remains within all of us, in the trees, the rivers and the skies. I ask this morning for guidance as I use this cursed gift you bestowed on me to treat my son, to cure him of this strange affliction that has left him delirious and panicked. I promise, in exchange for your guidance now and if ever I need do this again, to give you a first taste of my evening mead for every day of Yule.

He looked back at his son, lying still with his arms crossed over his chest. Fifteen years old and possibly chosen. How great would that look? He had a hard enough time coping with his own abilities, but what if more than one of his children had them? If Ron was in any way magical, Loki and Odin would snap him up like a fish.

He walked over and took of his son’s hands. He felt a connection form, and soon he was sharing his son’s thoughts. More importantly, he was sharing Ron’s dream. When he saw who the dream was about, Richard let go of Ron’s hand and jumped back.

            “Okay dude, bathroom’s all-” Matt stopped talking when he noticed that his brother wasn’t in the room. “And so I dry alone,” Matt commented. He closed the door and stood in his room, wondering what to do. He was naked, with the exception of the towel around his waist. He dried himself off and threw on his underwear and a pair of jeans. He stopped for a moment to consider his arms- pale, thin and covered with scars. Some of the scars were purple and fading from months ago, while others were fresh and red. Matt contemplated just wearing his jacket and a t-shirt and not bothering with his usual layers of long-sleeve shirts. Maybe it was time the others knew what they were doing to him. Before he could decide, the door opened, Matt looked up and Richard entered. He saw Matt, standing in the middle of his room in his jeans, his arms at chest height. Matt knew that he saw the scars because Richard gave him a shocked look, but Matt knew that it was fake. In Richard’s eyes, Matt could see memories coming back. Sad memories.

Neither of them knew what to say. They stood there, staring at each other. Matt staring in fear and panic, Richard staring in reminiscence.

Finally, Richard said; “Anything you want to talk about?”

            “No.” Matt said sharply. “Go!”

At that moment, Matt felt powerful. He glared at Richard, who refused to move from the doorway, and said; “Old man, why do you question me?” The feeling was stirring in his stomach again, and he felt he knew what it was for, “I would kindly stop for you, if you cared enough to stop for me.”

            “What?” Richard seemed bewildered.

Matt stepped forward to his dresser, pulled out a drawer and grabbed a black shirt. He pulled the shirt on and buttoned it up before turning back to Richard.

            “Just to say, Richard,” Matt said coolly, “I saw with my own eyes what happened to Marissa. I know you loved her, would have loved my sister.”

            “You don’t know what you’re saying!” Richard said, his voice shaking, his eyes wide and his knees quivering. “Just try to calm-”

            “NO!” Matt barked. He returned to the drawer and pulled out his red sweatshirt and yanked that on. “I don’t think I want to be calm anymore, Richard.” Matt put his hands on the face of the drawer and slid it back in. The whole time, he was looking at Richard. “Do you think it’s easy to watch life evaporate? To watch as everyone you thought would understand what was going on with you suddenly turn against you? Life has been unfair to you, to me, to Ron, to Kevin. None of us deserve what’s going to happen to us. I go to college every day and sit in a classroom with people who refuse to understand that I have problems. They think I can’t joke; they call me an attention-seeker. They don’t understand, but I do. And you understand, too.”

Richard eyed his eldest son cautiously. “What do I understand?” he asked.

            “You understand why Marissa died,” Matt said with a tremor in his voice. “You understand why I have nightmares. It’s the reason you brought Odin in to check me over. I’m not stupid, Dad. The only course I’m passing is Philosophy, and the first thing my teacher taught me was an acronym: WYSIWYG. ‘What you see is what you get’. That’s not the case. I saw a bicycle disappear. I saw Ron’s chair and books disappear. I could take it at face value and say they vanished into thin air, but I’m not like that.”

Richard was silent.

            “Richard,” Matt said quietly, “what happened to the bicycle? What happened to Ron’s chair and his books? Why did you tell me that I’d asked for you to leave the door open, but I can’t remember telling you to do that?”

Richard swallowed.

            “Let me tell you what I think,” Matt said. “I think that you and Odin have powers, and that you are on ‘grief leave’ because Marissa happened to go into labour at around the same time as an equally magical enemy showed up for business. When Odin came over, it was to test me for powers, or some kind of magical potential. I think that because you’re magical, I’m magical. I have some power that is stimulated by my emotions, and I remember last night when you looked at me. You tried to remain stoic, but I felt your emotions the moment I saw your eyes. I was attacked by guilt, your guilt. You didn’t want it to happen, but you let it nonetheless. Then Odin did something to me, and I slept. I had a dream that I was hanging from a tree, and I know enough from my Lit Studies classes to know that trees are concordant with life and are a source of some kind of nature magic. That probably means I’m magical in some way, but what the hell do I know? What do you think?”

Richard didn’t know what to think. Matthew had guessed correctly, but in other ways he had gotten so many things wrong. Matt was busying himself, grabbing a pair of socks from the middle drawer of his dresser and pulling on his black, steel-toe boots.

            “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Your bike’s in the living room, the books are in the kitchen, and the chair’s by your bed.”

Matt paused from searching under his bed to look behind him. He saw the chair and said; “Oh, yeah. Didn’t see it.” He turned back to the underside of his bed and pulled something out- a green book with ‘French- A1’ written on it. Matt then returned to his dresser and grabbed the rucksack that inhabited it, then stuff the book in and pulled out his college planner. One-handed, he flipped it open and scanned the first page before stuffing it back in, muttering to himself about the lessons he had. He turned to Richard and said; “Are you still here?”

Richard stood up straight and leant against the doorframe. “Listen, son,” he said, “just be careful what you think. You don’t know who’s out there, or what they’re capable of.”

            “Fine,” Matt said. “Now leave!”

Richard left and went to the living room. He could hear Matt bustling along the corridor to the kitchen where the sounds of breakfast being made could be heard. Five minutes later, the door opened and Matt left, slamming the door shut. A few minutes later, Ron stuck his head in. His eyelids were drooping and his skin was pale. His black hair stuck up in rough spikes.

            “Stay home from school, son.” Richard said. He had taken a seat in his arm chair and was watching the news. Jeremy had been replaced temporarily by a middle-aged man, and he was talking about tuition fees, but after Ron entered, the topic switched to the Old Bailey.

            “No new evidence has been revealed,” the man said. “Unfortunately, it seems that the case may have to be closed, unless the investigators can find a lead within the next forty-eight hours. Remains of the ‘thought-powered bomb’ have been recovered and the technology is being evaluated-”

            “Turn it off,” Ron said, his voice raspy. Richard obeyed and turned the television off altogether. He didn’t want to hear anymore about the bombing- it was too depressing for early morning television.

Richard turned to his son and said; “As I was saying, you should stay home today. I’m not having you faint halfway through the day.”

            “I’m going in,” Ron said. “I have a deadline today- my teacher said it’s going to count for twenty-five percent of my grade and I don’t want to miss it.”

            “What subject is it in?” Richard asked.

            “History.”

            “What’s the deadline for?”

            “Coursework. Then I have my Mathematics mock, and my teacher doesn’t seem to think I can do it properly. Damn Pythagoras!”

            “How many exams are they entering you for?”

            “All.”

Ron turned around and left. Richard knew that Ron was going to go to school, no matter what. Richard had a feeling in his gut that he would be getting a call within the next couple of hours, the person on the other end of the line telling him his son was ill with something. He rested his head on the back of the armchair and sighed. His phone was on the end table next to him. It vibrated. He looked and saw that he had a message.

It vibrated again. Two messages.

Again. Three messages.

He leant forward with interest as the phone vibrated until he had nine text messages. He picked up the phone and scrolled through them. They were from various colleagues whom he had heard of, but didn’t recall speaking to. He opened the messages one by one.

The first message read:

Congratulations, Richard!

The second:

Knew you could do it, man!

The third:

Agents all the way! Whoop for the Agents!

They all seemed congratulatory, until he got to the last message:

The team has been decided. Election was brought forward and the first meeting will be this evening. Your grief leave has been suspended due to the importance of the matter at hand. Richard Amsterdam, I am appointing you in charge of the Agent field of this project. The excellence of your missions in Paris, Rome and Helsinki has proven most useful to our cause, and it is this excellence I need for the project.

We will discuss more tonight. Bring Matthew. Be by the entrance at your usual start-time.

Prepare yourself- Terrance will be there tonight. I do need you two to co-operate, and I hope you comply with this requirement.

You must also keep everything we discuss confined to the meeting hall. Please also attempt to keep it out of your thoughts while not in the meeting hall.

Delete this message and any other message related to this.

Richard felt like somebody had just told him that resurrection was now possible. His jaw went slack and his eyes were wide with delight, although he had no idea what the team would actually be doing. Thom had told him that it was something Loki had been working on, and Richard had a feeling that it was something direly important. He wondered why he needed to take Matthew, although it didn’t take too much time to reach a conclusion: whatever the team would be doing, Matthew was somehow connected to it. Richard’s gut knotted with guilt. Still, he felt a flame of honour rise in his chest and a smile tug at his lips. Whatever he had to do, he was glad he was chosen to do it.

He turned on the television and switched to the film channel. He was halfway through a fantasy action movie when his phone rang. He groaned and muted the sound, picked up the phone and checked the ID.

Thom.

            “Hey Thom,” he said.

            “I heard, Richard,” Thom said. “Loki gave me the cable phone to tell everyone this. We’re going by alphabetical order. You will be the first to arrive, since you’re the first on the list. You know where the entrance is, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. And do you know where your personal entrance is?”

            “Personal entrance?”

            “I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Go to your local entrance. Take twelve paces south and you should see an arbour. There will be one unusual tree there, and this will be your entrance. Good luck and may the gods honour you.”

The phone went dead.

He checked the time- it was ten-thirty. How had time gone by so fast? He hadn’t even heard Ron leave! On impulse, he checked all of the rooms in the flat. He didn’t find anything, so he concluded that Ron must have left earlier. It was the only rational explanation that Richard could think of.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and leant against a wall.

***

Matt followed the sound of an acoustic guitar and saw Ryan sitting on the bottom step of the college entrance. He was playing a slow song; one Matt didn’t think he had heard before. It made his heart skip a beat just hearing it, and seeing Ryan made his stomach feel light. He stopped a few feet in front of Ryan’s guitar case and watched. Eventually, Ryan realised he was being watched and looked up at Matt.

            “Well, if it isn’t you,” Ryan said evenly. “I assume you’re interested in the guitar? If so, I have many models and am available to teach you.”

Matt smiled at Ryan.

            “Of course I’m interested in guitar,” Matt told him. “I’ve been going over the tablature and lyrics you gave me and it’s pretty intense stuff.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ryan said. He stood up and tucked his guitar into its case. He picked up his instrument, looked at his watch and turned to Matt. “Shall we go in? We have thirty minutes until Literature. We could sit in our spot and go over our notes from last lesson.”

            “That sounds good to me.” Matt agreed, shrugging. Together, they set off up the steps and into the college building. Matt liked the college- the architecture was admirable. Standing five storeys tall, it looked like a Gothic church had merged with a warehouse. The college motto- “for the world”- was underneath the logo of three intersecting triangles. Matt smiled as he entered through the oak double-doors and walked through the foyer through to the stairs. Ryan and Matt climbed up three flights and walked through the corridor. The air was filled with teachers’ voices, laughter from some of the classrooms, and music coming from behind the boys as they walked. The wall-spaces between the classrooms were painted one of grey, black or white and had examples of the material studied in the departments. In this case, the material was Film Studies and Literature. They passed a display dedicated to The Hollow Men before they passed into the second corridor. There was a niche where a wall ran along a metre before meeting with the stairs. The boys headed towards it and took a seat. Ryan delved into his bag- a black leather messenger bag- and pulled out a blue ring binder. Matt followed suit and pulled his notebook from his rucksack. Ryan flicked to the last page in the binder and began to read what was written. Matt looked over Ryan’s shoulder and quickly scanned the page. He then opened his own notebook and began to read what he’d written.

            “Do you think the idea of ‘half a loaf’ connotes poverty?” Ryan asked. “The ‘empty mug’ suggests this and goes a long way to suggest one having nothing.”

Matt turned to Ryan. “I don’t know.”

            “Right, right,” Ryan muttered, not looking up from his position. He had an annotated copy of the poem in front of him. “Well, what do you think of the stanza at any rate? It goes well with the theme of the poem. What did you suggest for the theme? I thought it was wealth, or friendship. One or both, they’re the same.”

            “Um...”

            “Too early to many homes I came. Too late, it seemed, to some: The ale was finished or else un-brewed. The unpopular cannot please.” Ryan recited. He smiled and turned his gaze to Matt. “I supposed that surmises our predicament.”

            “Yeah, I guess.” Matt leant against the wall and sighed. “I might drop out,” he said absently.

            “What?” Ryan snapped around to face Matt. “You cannot! I will not allow for that to happen!” Ryan said, clearly angry.

            “I’m sorry,” Matt said apologetically, “but I don’t think college is right for me.”

            “What nonsense!” Ryan huffed. “How many subjects are you taking? Of course you’re going to feel pressured to succeed!”

            “It’s not that! It’s just I don’t think that my future lies in academics.”

            “So? You’ll need some form of academia in your day-to-day routine! What do you think Finance is for?”

            “I see what you’re trying to do, Ry, but I don’t think I should be here.” Matt’s eyes drifted to the floor.

They sat in silence. Ryan returned to his notes. He was breathing heavily. Matt put his notebook back into his bag and pulled out a hardcover book. He pulled the pen out of the built-on holder and opened the book to a page. The page bore his cursive script. A story he hoped would inspire. It wasn’t a completed story- he had had some ideas over the past few weeks and had recorded them, but he didn’t feel like he should start writing it properly just yet. He looked over at Ryan, who was still breathing heavily and had narrowed his eyes while reading. His fringe was hanging like a curtain between his face and the notebook.

            “I’m sorry if I annoyed you.” Matt said.

            “Okay,” Ryan mumbled.

They sat in silence. Ryan going over his notes and Matt working on his story.

The bell rang, signalling the start of the next lesson. The boys stood up, gathered their belongings and followed the stairs downwards to the second floor, where they weaved their way through their fellow students. This corridor was painted white, but lines from poems and quotes from stories stuck out like shadows. The front door to Matt and Ryan’s classroom appeared on first sight to be an homage to Blake than a door.

Ryan stepped in front of Matt and pushed it open, storming into the room and taking his seat at the side of the class, one seat away from the window. Matt took the seat next to him and took out his notebook, pencil case and the book of poetry they were studying.

The teacher, Mr Henshaw, sat behind his desk at the front of the classroom. He was a middle-aged man with dark hair, dark eyes and glasses. He wore a yellow shirt with a blue silk tie and a silver necklace that had no charms or lockets, but appeared to be a chain connected at its ends with a piece of silver ribbon. He was staring at a piece of light blue paper.

Ryan was busying himself with his notes while Matt stared out of the window. The sky was overcast, and yesterday’s snow was either slush or ice. He could see people- some were his fellow students- walking through it, turning it even more to slush or slipping on the icy patches. Matt hoped that there would be more snow later.

The other students in Mr Henshaw’s class poured in and took their seats. The teacher seemed to activate himself and registered the class: all but three were in. He stood up and walked in front of his desk. He sat on his, crossed one leg in front of the other and rested his arms on his belly.

            “Right,” he said, “were I to go against my own advice, I’d say from the looks of some of you that the homework I set was a little too… dramatic.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the room. Some students shook their heads violently, as though to say “No, not in the slightest!” while others were shying away, covering their notebooks.

            “Nevertheless, I hope you managed to complete the work I set,” he said with a sigh. “I would expect the best from you, but your parents don’t expect that much. If it were up to me, I would pass you all without assessment, but that would do no good and would be no help to any of you.” He eyed the class when his eyes rested on Matt. Matt began to feel like he had when Professor Mafuro had come into his room with Richard last night. Something in the back of his mind was worrying that he was going to be sold; another part of his mind was worrying that something horrific would happen. His stomach tied itself into knots and his heart began to race. Mr Henshaw looked away quickly and called a student from the back of the class- a girl Matt knew as Naomi- to read out her work.

            “If tomorrow never came,” Naomi read, “it would be a just desire to watch a death. The night sky would guide me in my quest; I would seek revenge for my stolen days.”

            “Very good, Ms Hayden,” Mr Henshaw said with an amused smile. He turned to Ryan. “Mafuro- what do you have for us today?”

Ryan locked eyes with Mr Henshaw. For a long minute, it was like they were trying to outdo each other in a staring competition, but Ryan broke away and read his homework:

            “Came the day of reckoning, I sighed. In years to come I would sing for the doves, the fish, and the worms. Yet I know that if tomorrow would not exist, the world would again be new and vibrant. I might not be there to enjoy it.”

            “Excellent use of emotion,” Mr Henshaw noted. “I hope you’ve included some symbolism?”

            “Yes, sir.” Ryan said quietly.

            “Would you care to explain, young man?”

            “The doves, the fish and the worms,” Ryan said, “What do you think they represent?”

The atmosphere in the classroom tensed. Matt edged closer to the window, and he could feel the others behind him doing the same as Ryan and Mr Henshaw returned to their staring-match.

            “I think,” Mr Henshaw said without breaking eye contact, “that you were talking about the world. The doves are the sky, the fish are the ocean, and the worms are the earth.”

            “Wrong,” Ryan said happily. “The doves are Thor, the fish are Aegir and the worms are Odin.” He leant back and crossed his arms, smiling widely with narrowed eyes and not breaking eye contact with Mr Henshaw.

            “I was right on one account,” the teacher said coolly. “Aegir is the god of the ocean, and so he governs the fish.”

            “He is king of the fish,” Ryan corrected, “and that is not to say he governs them. You may have been right in that Aegir is the ocean, but you were wrong, too, because I was being specific to the god of the oceans. The worms, you may have been right because they do dig their way through the soil, but Odin is also god of death, and I was making a play on the saying ‘worm food’ which refers to a decaying corpse. The doves? I just wanted to be ironic, since Thor is the god of war and thunder.”

Mr Henshaw’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He said; “Very well, Mafuro. An excellent piece. Amsterdam!”

Matt looked up, suddenly realising that he’d been called on to read his homework.

            “Um…” he mumbled.

Mr Henshaw sneered; “You don’t have it, Amsterdam?”

            “I do, I do!” Matt said quickly. He could hear the class holding back laughter, and doing a poor job of it to say the least.

            “We’re waiting.” Mr Henshaw said.

Matt looked at Ryan, whose eyes were focused on the open book of poetry in front of him, and Matt realised that he was on his own with this. He would have to wing it, so he pulled out his hardback book and opened to a random page with text and read aloud:

            “The tree bore a fruit that was greater than life- it bore several worlds; I hung from its branch, from me to me. It became apparent that another night was doable, but as it is my final night, a tenth will not exist. A night per Virtue, a night per Charge. This is all I hung to do.”

Mr Henshaw eyed Matt suspiciously.

            “Very creative, Matthew,” he said, “very creative indeed. What, would you say, is the focal feature of your verse?”

            “The tree,” Matt said without thinking, “the World Tree.”

Mr Henshaw smiled.

“Please,” he said, “carry on.”

“I noticed that, in the poem, there’s a stanza describing self-sacrifice,” Matt explained, “and I thought that, maybe, it was important because the World Tree must have been important enough for the Chief God to sacrifice himself to himself. I did some research-”       

“‘Did some research’?” Mr Henshaw challenged. “So, you ‘did some research’? Or did you ask your father what the World Tree is?”

Matt felt embarrassed.

            “I asked him,” he said politely, “but he didn’t respond, so I looked it up. There’s an interesting history behind it.”

            “Indeed,” Mr Henshaw muttered, “continue.”

            “As I was saying, if the Chief God made himself a sacrifice for the sake of magic stones, there must have been something important about the tree. He must have had some friends, though” he added, “because the Thunder God kept the lightening at bay while he was hanging there.”

            “A good explanation,” Mr Henshaw commented, “but the last part it merely an observation. An unreliable observation at that. You cannot know that the god of thunder kept lightening at bay. It is part of a story, that may be history or fiction, and it is impossible to tell what actually inspired the events it tells of. Corinne- you’re next.”

They spent the lesson listening to each other’s homework and their explanations behind the imagery, symbolism, action, drama and towards the end Mr Henshaw graded the pieces based on oral delivery. Ryan was not pleased with his mark, but Matt shrugged his off and stared out the window at the trees waving in the breeze.

            “Why must I be subject to your idiotic teaching methods?” Ryan sounded insulted. “You have no comprehension of how any of us in here learn, you hand us marks like they have no matter and you frequently challenge those you do not like!”

            “Idiotic?” Mr Henshaw bellowed. “Why, Mafuro, if your father wasn’t Maestro I would have your head as a mantelpiece!”

            “That makes two of us!” Ryan shot back.

The class ‘ooh’-ed and laughed, some supporting Ryan while others watched on with interest or disinterest. Matt carried on staring outside the window, catching a few words here and there.

The bell rang and the class was dismissed. Ryan ran out of the classroom before anyone else. Matt looked up and saw that he was sitting on his own, Ryan’s lesson materials still in place on the desk.

Mr Henshaw was sitting on his desk, his head in his hands and his face red with anger.

            “Tell that boy,” he said with vitriol, “that he is no longer permitted to speak in my class.”

            “Will do,” Matt said absently, gathering up his and Ryan’s belongings for the next lesson.