welcome Cecil Humphries, the education minister, to our school. Receiving this award is, without a doubt, the single greatest honor that has been bestowed on the school in its one-hundred-twenty-four-year history. Established as an orphanage by Lord Harold . . .”
Humphries stifled a yawn, cocked his head, and tried his best to look interested as the headmistress began a twenty-minute history of the school and its achievements. He felt his eyes grow heavy, but, just as he thought he might not be able to stay awake a second longer, the headmistress turned to face him. He quickly sat up and straightened his tie.
“. . . and so I’d like you all to put your hands together for our esteemed guest, Mr. Cecil Humphries.”
Another round of applause, and Humphries approached the podium. He looked over at the headmistress and gave her his warmest smile (which would be better described as a grimace), then turned back to the audience and cleared his throat.
“Thank you so much for that wonderful introduction. One of the most pleasurable aspects of my job as education minister is to visit schools and see the wonderful achievements of pupils and staff. Today has been no exception, and I thank you all for the warm reception you have given me. It is—”
Humphries was interrupted by a loud ringing sound in his ears. He shook his head and coughed, but the noise persisted. Looking up, Humphries saw the audience watching him expectantly. He tried to ignore the sound and leaned forward toward the microphone.
“Excuse me,” he said, louder than necessary. “As I was saying, it is—” He stopped again. The high-pitched whining was getting louder, and he was finding it difficult to hear himself speak.
“I’m sorry, I seem to—”
He felt his ears start to throb in pain. He clutched his head and pressed at the side of his temples, but the noise kept rising in volume and seemed to expand and press against his skull until he thought it might explode. He reeled backward, struggling to stay standing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw James making his way toward the stage in a half run with a concerned look on his face. The pain was getting worse, and he felt the blood start to rush to his head. He struggled to look calm, aware that the cameras were rolling, but the pressure was building up against his eyes until his eyeballs started pushing out against their sockets. He put his arm out and felt for the side of the podium to try to steady himself, but the room started to spin, and he fell to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but sharp, stabbing pains began to spread across his whole body, each one as if a knife were being pushed into him and then turned slowly.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ringing stopped. Humphries looked around, dazed, and slowly stood up, trying to gather his composure. He heard the sound of a child laughing, and the expression on his face turned from confusion to fury.
“Who is that?” he asked. “Who is laughing?”
Humphries looked out at the audience as the laughter increased in volume, but all he could see were shocked faces.
He turned and saw that James was beside him.
“Nobody is laughing, sir. I think we need to leave,” whispered James, but Humphries didn’t hear him, as the sound of the child’s laughter was joined by the laughter of what sounded like a hundred others.
“They’re all laughing. Stop laughing! ” screamed Humphries at the stunned crowd, but instead the sound got increasingly louder until it became unbearable. He fell to the ground once more, his hands clutching his head, the veins on his forehead throbbing intensely from the pressure.
“Arghhh . . . HELP ME!” he shouted, his fear of dying overriding any embarrassment he might have felt at such a public lack of composure.
He looked up and saw a mass of flashing bulbs coming from the press photographers’ pen to his right. Struggling, he turned his head slowly away, his face twisted in
Humphries stifled a yawn, cocked his head, and tried his best to look interested as the headmistress began a twenty-minute history of the school and its achievements. He felt his eyes grow heavy, but, just as he thought he might not be able to stay awake a second longer, the headmistress turned to face him. He quickly sat up and straightened his tie.
“. . . and so I’d like you all to put your hands together for our esteemed guest, Mr. Cecil Humphries.”
Another round of applause, and Humphries approached the podium. He looked over at the headmistress and gave her his warmest smile (which would be better described as a grimace), then turned back to the audience and cleared his throat.
“Thank you so much for that wonderful introduction. One of the most pleasurable aspects of my job as education minister is to visit schools and see the wonderful achievements of pupils and staff. Today has been no exception, and I thank you all for the warm reception you have given me. It is—”
Humphries was interrupted by a loud ringing sound in his ears. He shook his head and coughed, but the noise persisted. Looking up, Humphries saw the audience watching him expectantly. He tried to ignore the sound and leaned forward toward the microphone.
“Excuse me,” he said, louder than necessary. “As I was saying, it is—” He stopped again. The high-pitched whining was getting louder, and he was finding it difficult to hear himself speak.
“I’m sorry, I seem to—”
He felt his ears start to throb in pain. He clutched his head and pressed at the side of his temples, but the noise kept rising in volume and seemed to expand and press against his skull until he thought it might explode. He reeled backward, struggling to stay standing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw James making his way toward the stage in a half run with a concerned look on his face. The pain was getting worse, and he felt the blood start to rush to his head. He struggled to look calm, aware that the cameras were rolling, but the pressure was building up against his eyes until his eyeballs started pushing out against their sockets. He put his arm out and felt for the side of the podium to try to steady himself, but the room started to spin, and he fell to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but sharp, stabbing pains began to spread across his whole body, each one as if a knife were being pushed into him and then turned slowly.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ringing stopped. Humphries looked around, dazed, and slowly stood up, trying to gather his composure. He heard the sound of a child laughing, and the expression on his face turned from confusion to fury.
“Who is that?” he asked. “Who is laughing?”
Humphries looked out at the audience as the laughter increased in volume, but all he could see were shocked faces.
He turned and saw that James was beside him.
“Nobody is laughing, sir. I think we need to leave,” whispered James, but Humphries didn’t hear him, as the sound of the child’s laughter was joined by the laughter of what sounded like a hundred others.
“They’re all laughing. Stop laughing! ” screamed Humphries at the stunned crowd, but instead the sound got increasingly louder until it became unbearable. He fell to the ground once more, his hands clutching his head, the veins on his forehead throbbing intensely from the pressure.
“Arghhh . . . HELP ME!” he shouted, his fear of dying overriding any embarrassment he might have felt at such a public lack of composure.
He looked up and saw a mass of flashing bulbs coming from the press photographers’ pen to his right. Struggling, he turned his head slowly away, his face twisted in
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