CHAPTER 12

 

Grose adjusted the creases of his trousers and tried to keep a straight face as Stan Naghdi looked up from his laptop and took his first breath in almost three minutes. Naghdi was one of the more enthusiastic students on the course, a slim second generation Persian with slicked-back gelled hair and rat-like eyes. Naghdi blinked, flashed Grose a hopeful smile, and went back to reading from his screen. His voice was a dull, flat monotone, totally devoid of emotion. “The fighters came screaming from behind the moon, lasers blasting as they swooped down on the space station. Admiral Mackenzie screamed into his intercom. “Fire solar torpedoes!” he screamed.” Stan looked up, pained. “Oh, I’ve used screamed twice. That’s not good is it?”

“It’s okay, Stan,” said Grose. “Keep going.”

Naghdi nodded and carried on reading. “Needle fighters burst from the space station's underbelly, breaking formation and attacking the invaders. They were heavily outnumbered, but the needle fighters were faster and harder to hit. Mackenzie watched the dog fight on the main screen. He turned to his weapons officer. “Screens down,” he screamed. Oh, I’ve done it again.” Naghdi looked up at Grose. Grose smiled and waved for him to continue. Naghdi bent down over his laptop and took another deep breath. “The weapons officer looked surprised. To drop the shields in the middle of an attack was suicide. “Just do it.” Mackenzie scr.....” Naghdi rubbed the back of his neck. “Yelled. He pointed at the weapons officer. “Just do it, Sandra, I know what I’m doing. Just trust me.” The weapons officer looked into Mackenzie’s azure blue eyes and her lower lip trembled with passion.”

Naghdi closed his laptop and looked at Grose. “That’s as far as I’ve got.”

Grose nodded thoughtfully. “It's coming on, Stan,” said Grose. “Your descriptions need work, of course. And you must watch out for repetition.”

“You said that last week,” said a voice from the back of the room and the class laughed. It was Slater, looking over the top of his notepad, wearing his trademark RayBans.

Grose looked up at Slater, his face hardening. He wanted to ask Slater to remove his sunglasses but couldn’t risk a confrontation. If Slater refused, what were his options? He could hardly force Slater to take them off.

The class gradually fell silent as they realized that Grose wasn’t amused.

“Your point being what, Mr Slater?” said Grose, his voice carrying across the lecture hall.

Slater put down his notepad and stared at Grose without replying.

“Well, Mr Slater?”

Slater shrugged. “I just meant that you repeated that repetition was a bad thing, which I guess was sort of ironic. I was being funny. Or I thought I was. I guess with hindsight…” He shrugged.

Grose took off his spectacles and began to polish them. When he looked back up at Slater, all he could see was a blur. “I think it’s time for you to share your work in progress with us,” said Grose. “Hopefully you’ll have improved it since you last gave us a reading.”

“I'll pass,” said Slater.

“All talk, huh?” said Grose. “Talk is cheap, Mr Slater. Anyone can talk. But being a writer takes more. It takes commitment. It takes intelligence. It takes character. To put it bluntly, it takes balls. Balls that apparently you are lacking.”

Slater stared down at Grose for several seconds, then he reached into his backpack and took out a clear plastic file containing several papers. He stood up, looked around, and cleared his throat. Grose pushed his glasses high up on his head and tucked his handkerchief in his pocket.

“Chapter Two,” said Slater. “The victim.” He paused for effect, smiled, and then continued. “The victim is everything. The victim can't be too obscure. There'd be no challenge in picking up someone from the street, someone who'd never be missed. A prostitute would be too easy. Young and pretty would be best. Somebody's daughter. But not a child. Definitely not a child. I think that what will happen is that eventually the victim will select herself. I saw a wildlife documentary once on the National Geographic channel, about how a cheetah kills its prey. The cheetah prowls around the herd, zebras maybe, watching and waiting. The zebras can run if they want, but unless the cheetah gets too close they keep on grazing.”

Pretty much all the students had twisted around in their seats to get a better look at Slater. Slater grinned, reveling in the attention, and then began to read again. “Eventually the cheetah selects its victim. It stands and stares, but still makes no move to attack. The zebra that's been chosen stands and stares back. It knows that it's going to be killed, but it doesn't run. Why? Because deep down, it wants to be killed. It wants to be a victim. Then the cheetah attacks, it breaks into the lethal sprint that ends in death, and only then does the herd scatter and the victim run. But by then it's too late. It's all over bar the killing.”

Grose felt his stomach lurch as he saw that Jenny was looking up at Slater, her eyes wide, clearly enjoying the story. Jenny seemed to sense that Grose was looking at her and she turned to look at him. Their eyes locked for a couple of seconds and then Grose realized that Slater had stopped speaking. He was watching Grose with a sly smile on his face.

Slater jutted his chin forward before continuing. “I think the victim might turn out to be one of the students on this course,” he said.

Grose got slowly to his feet. “That’s enough, Mr Slater!” he said wearily.

Slater held out the papers he was holding. “There’s more,” he said. “I was up all night writing. It just seemed to flow.”

“We’re done, Mr Slater. I’m not having you sully this lesson with your garbage.” He pointed up at Slater. “You’re treading on very thin ice, very thin ice indeed. I’m this close to throwing you off this course.”

Slater stared at Grose, his face impassive behind the RayBans. “Actually, I don’t think you have the authority to do that, Doctor Grose.”

“You don’t think so?” He pointed at the door. “Out. Now.”

Slater looked as if he was going to argue, but then he slowly shook his head, put his folder back into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, picked up his motorcycle helmet and then walked down the stairs. He stopped at the door and turned to look back at Grose. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said.

“We’ll see about that, Mr Slater,” said Grose. He pointed again at the door. “Now go before I call security and have you removed.”

Slater smiled, shook his head again, and pushed open the door. Grose glared after him, seething.