It was the day of the maths final. The hall was filled with the silence of ten and eleven-year-old boys bent over white sheets of paper being filled up with all sorts of scrawls, each in their own speed. Some were doing small calculations furiously on their fingers; some of their lips were moving in rapt concentration.
About fifty minutes into the examination, a gangly ebony haired boy with disobedient curls put down his pen and stood up slowly. The young class teacher looked at her wristwatch and a corner of her mouth curled in slight discontent, maybe a little frustration even. But she did her best to hide it with a kind smile and said,
"You know you can't leave until the first hour is over," her head tilted to one side with a nod.
"Yes, ma'am," said the boy quietly and sat back down.
The boy breathed in deeply, leaning back into his desk chair and joining his palms in a prayer posture just below his chin. The contents of a newspaper article that he had sneaked a peek at just the previous evening, floated into his mind – Tragic Death of Young Swimmer. Tragic, yes, most certainly; but that was not why it occupied his mind. There was something else. Something amiss. 11-year-old … Brighton … champion swimmer … paralytic fit … pool … locker … clothes … shoes …
His eyes shot open. There was a buzzing. He tried to shake it off, but he could still hear it inside his head. Buzz…buzz…buzz… He couldn't take it any more.
"Oh, shut up, all of you!" If the room was in pin-drop silence until now, this unexpected outburst made it as silent as outer space.
The class teacher rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. This one special boy in her class was like a whole extra job. Although it took a toll on her patience, as it always did, she spoke calmly and clearly,
"Nobody is speaking, Sherlock."
"But they're thinking. It's annoying," came the shyly muttered reply.
