Black Chalk Read Free

spent stroking her arm and whispering so she would calm down, I was aware of a body I had loved, now fighting itself. I knew I ought to feel something, perhaps apprehension or dread. Ideally it would have been love and forgiveness but I would have taken simple lust. It didn’t have to be beautiful. But I wanted it to be strong. Nothing came.
    Jeffrey was no longer grunting. Eric wasn’t by the window anymore, and pretty Jayvanti’s curvy body straddled a fallen chair on the floor. I surveyed the scene. It was meticulous, yes: neat and precise. Even the chaos made sense. Don’t listen to me, there was no honour in the chaos. One, two, three, crack. I’d survived. One, two, crack, crack, three, crack. Even now, I can’t do the moment justice. Even now, I can’t tell it right: the images are there, however smudged, but the words don’t follow.
    ***
    They were all still, except for Anna whom I could hear breathing, and Grace whose leg I could see twitching. How long had it been since Eric had come into the classroom? It felt like it had happened a long time ago and that it hadn’t happened yet. But the classroom was quiet, except for the three of us breathing and bleeding. Grace made no sound, as quiet in agony as she had been in life. And I crawled back to Anna’s side, who was silent now. I lay there wondering what to do about the bullet in my stomach.
    If a part of me remembers the pain, another sees me disassociated, above the room, floating amongst ideas and images. My hands were covering my stomach, my back resting against two school bags and part of an overturned table, my knees as close to my midriff as I could bring them, blood slowly seeping out. Help was coming, I knew. Help: the word came to life. I imagined a swarm of doctors resuscitating our limp bodies, lifting us onto comfortable stretchers, airlifting us to a new hospital, removing and discarding the traces of the day from our bodies, and discharging us a day later after a long night’s sleep. I needed sleep. And then school would declare a week-long recovery, which I would spend reading and watching cricket.
    The picture was too hopeful. Help would be two policemen coming to investigate a routine call, wondering what to do outside the chained door, and deciding to kick it in and assess what was inside before asking for reinforcements. They would come in, see the carnage and then, it was almost worth a laugh, I would die before the ambulance turned up.
    ***
    Help arrived as help is meant to arrive. The spectacle trod on, and I was draining away in its midst, curiously overtaken by a profound wonder. Wonder at the eclectic scene around me, and wonder at the commotion gathering outside. At first, it was the lonely sound of a siren blaring far from all traffic – I imagined its cold blue light flashing past the grey leafless trees up to the cold blue sky. As if it realised its incongruity, it stopped, giving way to a murmur of muddled voices. To the sound of metal on metal: they were cutting through the outside door, and then they were hammering their way through. These were harsh sounds but they had to be. And then a teacher led them to the fire exit on the side of the building, hidden in between two thorny bushes. It wasn’t much of an exit, just a low-lying window with a foldable stile. And then they were in. Shock gently etched onto their faces, giving way to an uneasy determination, the scowls and pursed lips smoothing into a final flat mask. There were to be no smiles, no tears – just a job to do.
    A woman was sitting by me.
    â€˜Let me see,’ she asked. But I didn’t want to show her. I told her to go and see to the others, I was fine and they needed help. ‘Let me see,’ she said. I told her to take a look at Anna. I asked her whether anyone else was alive. She didn’t know. ‘Let me see,’ she said. I just had to lift my hand for a few instants.
    I noticed sweat