On this particular Monday in January, the room had been equipped with forty-nine desks and chairs, in two rows of sixteen and one of seventeen, to seat the whole of 11D for the examination that lasted ninety minutes. Although the exam was of utmost importance, there were inevitable absences. The test began at half past one, and several minutes later, the redundant test papers were removed from the vacant desks. Mr Sharpe, the young teacher from the canteen, leafed through the papers, and counted thirteen absentees. He felt obliged to tell his colleague, Mr Davey who was going to be relieving his invigilation later in an hour's time, about who was present and who wasn't. The scribbling of pens and pencils, coupled with the punching of buttons on calculators, was a form of torture, in his view. Sharpe hated children. He only entered the teaching profession that September, and was already ready to leave. White Hill School had been his first posting, and would probably be his last. His only drive was money, and the financial benefits given to new teachers were all that was needed to lure him onto a teacher training course.
He sat back down near a colleague whom he only knew by sight; another new teacher who apparently worked in the ICT department, and muttered conversation to him. At the back of the room stood a third teacher, a plump biology teacher with a friendly face, who scanned the back of the thirty-six students' heads. She smiled at her colleagues, neither of whom changed their facial expressions at all. Making no signs of hurt, she looked down at the two seats before her, one off to either side that should have been occupied.
Dominic Thomas was on the seat in front of the female teacher. He was blissfully unaware of hre presence as he wrote an answer down, then reconsodering his answer, re-read the question. His trip to London city centre had proved fruitless. He had met with his friends, but nothing of worth came of it. They had planned to go to the cinema, but there had been nothing worthwhile on, and by the time they had found something to do, none of them had the slightest intention of doing work. He felt tired and exhausted then, and more so now. He had remembered to fetch a newspaper for Joshua, but the elder sibling was not there when Dominic returned home.
He looked down at the question before him again. Realising he had made a simple sign error, he rectified his mistake. The exam was going well, he felt, and if the questions stayed like this, he would have no difficulty in getting a good mark. After completing the question, he inhaled and looked at his classmates. Being positioned at the back (the class had been seated alphabetically, with the line snaking across the rows in turn), he could not see most of their faces, and could not turn too far to either side, lest the teachers believe he was communicating with the either Harry Smith or Natasha Timbershire, who were sitting either side of him. His eyes wandered over to the left, where Kavinder Khanum was sitting in the row ahead, her head tilted to one side, her sleek hair flowing down the back of her school jumper. The two of them were an item, albeit a recent event. For various reasons they wanted to keep their relationship secret; even their closest friends didn't know there was anything between the two other than friendship. In truth, Harry thought, there probably was no future for the pair of them. It was just a gut feeling and, although he loved her and was going out with her, felt instinctively that their relationship wouldn't last.
Half an hour into the test, and Lisa Jones was struggling. She hated maths with a passion, and the fact she forgot her calculator that morning didn't help matters. The numbers swam before her on the page, useless figures with no significance other than to make he life a misery. She decided she would guess the answers. After all, she could retake the exam again in the summer, so she could fail it in better weather. She was also tired from the previous evening. She had been out with Kavinder and Dominic and the others, but had got home later than the rest, due to having to catch the last bus home, getting off at a later stop to Lucy Shale, and then having to walk for fifteen minutes. Only her elder brother, Jeff, was awake when she returned; at that, he was comatose in front of the television, rotting his brain with a bad film. He grunted a hello to his siter, who took it to mean that her mother and little sister Olivia were in bed. Her mother wasn't much good. A broken-willed woman with a tendency to drink too much, it was usually Jeff or Lisa herself that did the parenting, especially since their bastard father-
She blotted the thoughts from her mind. This was not the time to daydream, especially on issues like him. The clock seemed to have stopped moving at the front of the room, in the way only a really tedious situation seems to make it manifest so. William Hutchinson, seated to her left, coughed dryly. He furrowed his brow apologetically, and Lisa went back to fighting the statistics. Will himself was feeling quite low. He had had a lousy weekend, though knew that once this test was completed, he'd be able to relax slightly. He felt bad about leaving Mr Davey's French class. He didn't like to cause a scene, and he left the room mainly to stop his teacher from scowling at him. Admittedly he had enjoyed the adrenaline rush at the time, but now he feared the consequences. His eyes ventured down the line of backs in front of him until he was looking at Tom Clarke. After the two of them had made a stand against their teacher, they had headed out to roam the school for a while. There was little of interest (except for a pair of paramedics tending to a handful of eleven-year-olds whose friends looked on anxiously), and deciding not to bother going to afternoon registration or the subsequent lessons, the two boys returned to Tom's house to whittle the afternoon away. Will liked Tom; he was one of the few people whom he trusted totally, and to whom he had no trouble opening up. He saw as Tom readjusted his spectacles and stretched in his seat, his head rolling to the right. As the two seats to his right were empty (supposedly occupied by Alice Daniels and David Drake), he saw that William was looking at him from afar, and returned an encouraging smile to his friend.
Time passes. It is twenty past two, and fifty minutes of the exam have elapsed. The room had long fallen silent, short of an occasional fidget from a student, or a pace from an invigilator, or the constant sound of answers being scribbled down. Suddenly there was a flurry of feet and voices outside the room, which signalled the end of that lesson. Children ignoring the signs indicating there was an examination still going on in the room; if anything they were being noiser out of spite. As the female biology teacher invigilating the students of 11D said there were thirty minutes remaining, some more people entered the room from the door at the rear. One was Mr Davey, one was an Irish man called Mr Halligan who taught history, and the other two were men whom the students looking did not recognise. The new batch of teachers murmured to their colleagues about the invigilation; Mr Sharpe handed Mr Davey a list of absentees, only to be greeted with a look of disinterest. Though Mr Davey had offered the chance of a trip to France as an incentive to turn up, he was surprised that so many students had bothered to turn up in one day. The only other time in his memory when everyone was together at once was for a class photograph the previous year (he had been in charge of their class then as well), and the then 10M were incorporated into their class again, due to a different long absence by Mrs Murphy, who had supposedly had been injured in a skiing accident. The fact there were only thirteen students not in attendance was better than he had anticipated. There was something about the formality of exams that still caused children to try their hardest, even in such austere times.
"You have thirty minutes remaining"
The voice of the female teacher cut over the room, as Mr Sharpe tried to give his colleague, Neil, the register of absentees. He was slightly disgusted at the way in which the man showed a lack of interest in his students. He much preferred the reaction of one of the other members of staff, one of the men whom he dimly recalled seeing elsewhere earlier that day, who had been listening to their conversation. The man had asked if he could take the list and hand it in to the reception. He exited the room, as did Sharpe and the female teacher; the ICT man indicated that he may as well stay until the end. The other relief teacher carried a bag on his shoulder and positioned himself quietly in the back corner of the room, behind David Vales and Melissa Williams, put his bag down, then proceeded to pace the back of the room. Mr Davey and the ICT teacher sat at the front, catching up on some marking they had to do for various classes. Phillip Robertson was hurrying. He was immersed in the exam, relaying formulae with expert precision. He could finish this examination with ten minutes to spare, he felt. Everything was working very well for him, he felt. Phil was good at maths; Phil was good at most things: languages, sciences, humanities... everything except for conversation. Emotionally withdrawn, he often felt like a spare part in the class. Even though he turned up regularly, got good grades and did not cause chaos, people rarely seemed to speak to him, and had a reputation as a loner even though it was the fault of others that nobody spoke to him. Sure, he wasn't the keenest person to speak to people, and there was the issue that he tended to hide in the library or computer rooms at break and lunchtimes, which didn't help his case. However, he knew that if he succeeded in life, the stigma lingering around him would indeed be worthwhile. Flipping the page over, he noticed with relish that he was on the final double page. To his left somewhere, he heard someone entering through the door again; it was the teacher who had left with the papers of the absentees. Phil's eyes flitted quickly over the man's relief; he had cropped brown hair, a slightly piggy nose and was slightly short. Virtually the opposite of Phil himself, who was tall with floppy blond hair, and a Roman nose that had been the subject of a few nicknames when he was a small boy. Eyes darting to the man again, Phil spotted he was carrying a bag; a khaki hold-all. It was at this moment that Phil realised he had never seen this man before in his life, and certainly never before in the school. Though the drafting in of substitute and supply teachers was common practice (as there was a staff shortage, and nobody seemed willing to stay at White Hill longer than was neccessary), Phil thought it slightly odd they would get somebody new to invigilate an exam. He thought no more about it; he had almost finished the exam. His put his head close to the paper, and started replying to the newest question.
Ten minutes more had elapsed, and there was now no sound in the room. The students were approaching the end, and though some would reach it before others could, the finish line was drawing nearer, inevitable.
"Class, you have fifteen minutes remaining"
This was the voice of Mr Halligan. It made Hope Castle shudder slightly, due to its bizarre qualities. Though the teacher was stern-looking, strict and bossy, his voice was gentle and easy, the slight Irish accent adding to the effect somewhat. In her mind, Hope did not like his voice, because it didn't suit him. She thought the man, gravelly and powerful in nature, should have a voice that matched. She was nearing the end. She had been one of the few people in the class who had bothered to revise that weekend. Her father and brothers had taken care of her other, younger siblings, and vacated the house on the Saturday, leaving her at liberty to study as she so required. She appreciated the gesture they made; they knew that her maths was a little shaky. Being the eldest of six children, whe knew what responsibility was. She also knew what responsibilty required and never hesitated into instilling that into her brothers, Germaine and Christopher, who helped her look after their younger siblings Teslyn and Leonie. The youngest child, a four-year-old called Marcus, was sickly and small and needed special attention. He was the focus of Hope and her parents' affections, a combination of his being the youngest child and his extra needs. In spite of all this, he was warm and courageous, and revered his eldest sister like a second mother. To Hope, he was a beacon of inspiration and success, and she secretly admired him too, though she felt he was too young to fully understand that.
Hope had turned the page, and realised with relief that she was on the final double page. Skimming the three questions, she judged that the first and second one wouldn't need much thought, but were quite long-winded at any rate; the final one looked challenging, but she didn't expect to find the test a breeze anyway, so did not dwell on the impending trouble any further. Something caught her eye; one of the teachers at the front was making hand gestures at her. Distracted, she sat up and looked questioningly at the man. It took her a few moments to realise he was actually signing to another teacher, who was hovering on the opposite side of her. She tried to recognise where she had seen the man before. She had a dim idea that he worked in the computer department, but there was something else about him. She tried to picture him somewhere else, and after a few moments more, recognised him as the teacher who had spoken to Mr Davey the Friday before at the end of their abandoned lesson. With this established, Hope was able to focus on her work again. She was aching and slightly tired, but within the next ten minutes she knew she could finish the task as long as kept her wits about her.
As Hope re-read the first of her three remaining questions, Steven Lee was on the penultimate one. A very average boy with long blond hair that framed his face, hair he always kept under a hat, he was content that he had gotten this far in the test, and that it had been easier than he had thought. He was sitting in the middle of the middle row, off to the left slightly, surrounded by five vacant seats. He was the only student between Francis Konig and Colin Nately who had bothered to turn up for the exam. Typical. He despised the class as a whole, or rather, its reputation as a hoard of delinquents. That stigma would stick for the rest of their academic lives. He himself was not a bad person, rather, he was proud of his morality. A wave of coughing broke out among the class. It was one of those inexpicable phenomena, he thought: when one person coughed or yawned, everyone else began copying them. Foolishly, having thought about yawning, Steven's brain triggered his mouth to do so, sucking in a rush of air, even though he was not tired. He had to focus on the test. He had calculated the results, but writing "2x" on the paper would not be enough to achieve seven marks. So began the tedious process of copying the algebraic formulae across and rearranging them as required. It was mind numbing and repetitive and as he wrote it out, he could felt slightly nauseous. The paper was swimming in and out of focus, and his forehead hurt; Steven considered an early night that night, but instead decided to compromise by having a late night and a lie-in the next day.
He looked at the clock, where the little hand was hovering at a slight angle above the three, indicating he had but a few minutes to complete the question paper. He could do it; he knew he could. He rested his scarred cheek on his empty palm, and continued, determined.
Melissa Williams was in the back corner of the room, concentrating so hard on her examination paper she was hardly breathing. She was scribbling the results of the final question down. Eyes squinting in concentration, her heart leapt with a thrill, knowing she was moments away from completing the paper that had been worrying her immensely since before Christmas, when she had done her abysmal coursework. Before her, the empty chair of Charlotte Graves was positioned between herself and Adam Garretty, whose head was rolled back over his shoulders. To her left, another empty seat, belonging to a girl very few people had spoken to: Lindsay Vaughan. Melissa had never spoken to this girl; she had been in the other class when 11D was not intergrated as it was at the current time, and there was never any need for the two to interact and, at any rate, the other girl started boycotting school almost eighteen months ago. Nobody cared about the other girl; few even remembered what she looked like. Melissa sucked in a new breath of air. There was something odd about the air, a stale, rusty taste that Melissa may have noticed had she not been so focused on finishing the question. At any rate, the test was almost complete. She had just to rule a line under her solution and she was finished. She did so; she was finished! Relaxing, she closed her paper and thumbed through her question booklet, smiling smugly. As she did, a powerful wave of fatigue was washing over her body. Funny, she should feel so tired, so early in the afternoon; her eyelids were so heavy, she could hardly keep them open. She sneezed, which seemed to clear her head a little. She turned her head up, and looked around the room. She suddenly noticed that there was only Mr Davey and Mr Halligan, and although the test was nearing its end, both of them seemed to have their heads down, their eyes focussed keenly on the papers on their desks. Like Phillip Robertson had before her, Melissa had also wondered why they had drafted in so many supply teachers to oversee one class. It confused her slightly, as there were undoubtedly enough members of regular staff who were prepared to invigilate an examination instead of teaching. Even so, she was adamant she had seen one of these people before, adamant she had seen one of these people before. Her mind was swimming out of focus, she was having trouble thinking; like she was drunk, her mind was forgetting things, her mind was repeating things, her eyes were dancing, she heard a 'thud' elsewhere in the room but couldn't distinguish where it was coming from. Melissa Williams tried her hardest to think of where she had seen the one teacher before, concentrating on the image of his face she was recalling from when they made brief eye contact as he walked past her in the invigilation. She was sure it was in school somewhere, that it had been recent. Melissa's mind was slowing down alarmingly, had she had the strength to do so she would have panicked there and then, but the food in her stomach was churning, making her feel sickly.
Food in stomach. Food in James' face. Funny. The canteen.
He was not a teacher, but a soldier.
Confused, she stuck her head on the floor and slept.
Everyone was tired. Emma Newton was slightly ill; she had been coming down with a cold all weekend, and the wind and rain from the previous afternoon had exacerbated the symptoms. Her nose was blocked slightly, so she paused to clear her nostrils a little. The exam was inconsequential; she knew she was getting a very average mark. Just looking at her classmates, she felt tired and anxious. In front of her, she could see the sleek hair of Lena Amornie slumped on the desk, and on her right, Tom Billings was slowly making marks on his paper, though he also looked asleep. Even the teachers at the front looked like they were asleep: Mr Halligan had his head hanging over his chest, and Mr Davey was slouching dangerously. Alerted to the unnatural mass slumber around her, Emma began to panic. This was redoubled when Steven Lee keeled sideways off his chair, several desks to her right. The 'thud' was loud, but nobody seemed to react except for her. Emma had completely forgotten about the test now: something was seriously wrong. Her own eyes were hurting, though this was partly due to her cold; the mucus in her nose seemingly offering protection from the infectious sleep. Somebody else had fallen from their desk. Emma turned round to see it was Melissa Williams in the far corner of the room. Emma screamed. Nobody responded. Frantic, she turned and saw to look for the other teachers.
They were all stood at the back of the room, wearing gas masks.
She screamed in sheer panic; they had been gassed! What had happened? Was it a terrorist attack? Some elaborate plan conspired by a member of staff to earn revence against 11D? Abandoning her chair, she stood up, and shook Luke O'Neill violenty, sat at the adjacent table.
"Luke," she said, but noticing the negligable response, yelled. "Luke! Can you hear me? Wake up! Everyone's been knocked out"
"'At's nice," he mumbled quietly, seeming to miss the point. "Get some sleep"
"LUKE!" She screamed, shaking him firmly on the shoulder, trying in vain to get his attention again. It was futile; it seemed that he had rolled into a deeper sleep than before. Emma heard footsteps approaching from behind. Her voice and actions had undoubtedly drawn the attention of the men with the gas masks. She needed to think quickly; her plans were always excellent, and she hoped her reputation would save her now. Unfortunately, the gas was taking its toll on her, and it was taking a massive conscious effort to think. The only thing she could think about was to run to the front, try and alert the teachers, and hopefully draw the guards away from the door, and chance an escape. Taking her chances, she dived forward, knocking her desk over. She could hear footsteps behind her. She mustn't turn round, Mr Davey was just yards in front of her. She dodged between Samantha Carter and Graham Brooke, using their shoulders as a slingshot, to propel herself forward with some extra momentum. She stumbled, her arms and legs were becoming stiffer as she worked them, the physical effort being immense. She was helped to her feet by somebody. Befuddled thoughts crossed her mind, as the noxious fumes began to make her eyes water. There was no hope, no hope at all. As one of the soldiers held her arms behind her back, she struggled weakly to free herself. A second person was picking up a khaki bag at Mr Davey's feet, and began wafting it in front of Emma's face. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the overwhelming chemicals knocked her unconscious in seconds, the third person to land on the floor.
The two men stood back, letting the body of Emma Newton lie prone on the ground, her one arm inches away from her form tutor's brown shoe. They were scanning the room, ensuring the thirty-eight people in the room were all unconscious. The men looked at the two betrayed teachers at the front, then to their military superordinate, who was still standing at the back of the room wearing a gas mask. The third man was slightly relieved he could drop the pretense of being a teacher. He hated children with a passion, and working with them for so many months had been a burden. Watching his troops shuffle from desk to desk, confirming the bodies of the students, he stepped outside the room, removed his mask, and rang a number from his mobile phone. "Meyer? This is Jeyes. What's your situation"
"Eight attained, a further four are in our sights now"
The faux-teacher Jeyes paused, breathing the pure air outside the room.
"And the thirteenth student"
"Has not been located yet, sir. We're following a promosing lead on her whereabouts"
"Copy that. When you find them, take the bodies to the downstream rendezvous point"
"Roger, sir"
Jeyes ended the call and peered through the glass in the door. He had every confidence in Meyer; he was one of his best men, and would would not let his boss down. Meyer readjusted his tie; the gas mask had knocked it off-centre. The class had been chosen for the Juvenile Reform Bill the previous April, and the operation to purge the class of its troublesome students, and to purge the country of a troublesome class, was drawing to a close. As Jeyes re-fitted his gas mask and entered the room, the clock at the front was reaching three o'clock. The other two soldiers had finished verifying the bodies of the pupils (none of whom were showing signs of life so the task was quick), they told their commanding officer, Jeyes.
"We're ready to go," Jeyes said from behind his mask. "We're taking them downstream."