I’m pacing hatchet-faced between desks. Pupils are sitting hatchet-faced at them. They drudge away, tense, sullen, anxious.
We are in an exam hall. We are in an exam hell. I am The Invigilator.
I do gravitas and gaze frostily at their faces, many replete with struggle, resentment and defeat. I spot a hand raised. It belongs to Dennis Plum. His face is blank and quizzical. He seems to be summoning me.
I give him nil eye contact and pass him by like a hanging judge. I hear the sound of my footsteps. I turn round. His arm is still raised. I pass pitilessly by. I turn a third time. Still his arm is raised. I stop. He whispers in my ear.
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