The Considerate Killer Read Free Page A

his mother said, and what Vincent was feeling was probably just a kind of stage fright. His place in medical school was as good as certain.
    â€œYou are gifted,” said his mother. “And your scholarship comes from the church. That means that you are both gifted and of good moral character. God will help us.”
    Vincent tried to hold on to that thought. His mother, God, and the fact that that all previous applicants with the St. Joseph’s Church Scholarship had been accepted and had passed with distinction—white coats, families bawling with happiness.
    Nothing could go wrong.
    Vincent sat in the sweltering lobby of the university, trying not to fidget.
    It was one of Manila’s finest universities, and graduating from it practically guaranteed a job—perhaps even an international one. But the decor was far from fashionable. The broad stone staircase to the auditoriums on the second floor was scratched and dull, and the paint on the bannister was peeling. Portraits of the school’s previous presidents graced the beige walls: men and women in suits, wearing serious smiles. The school’s current president wasn’t up there yet, but Vincent had heard that he was both a doctor and a professor and that he appreciated proper dress. Vincent’s mother had provided him with an ironed white shirt and newly pressed dark pants for the occasion, and on the entire trip in the jeepney, the open truck-bus from San Marcelino to Manila, he had stored the unfamiliar outfit neatly folded in his suitcase along with shorts, sandals, a couple of clean T-shirts and the present for his cousin Maria. Later he had changed his clothes in the restroom of a bowling alley.
    Now he sat as motionless as he could manage in the costume, his arms held away from his body so the sweat stains wouldn’t become too noticeable. The pages of the book he was attempting to read were damp from contact with his hands.
    Two hours ago there had been more guys sitting or standing around. Dark pants, white shirts, and glistening foreheads. There had been girls too, of course—most in business suits and skirts, but also a few in expensive-looking jeans, sneakers, shirts and discreet makeup. Not a single one had looked a day over eighteen, and Vincent was willing to bet next semester’s allowance that they were all fresh from high school with top grades, because you needed those to get in, but also with money. Rich kids, most of them, respectable and well-connected, from Manila or the wealthy suburbs. And they had all been called in before him.
    The only person left besides himself was a giant of a guy who sat a few empty seats away, reading the Manila Times while he calmly chewed his way through a bag of cashews.
    â€œWould you like one?” he asked when he noticed Vincent’s look.
    â€œNo, thanks.” Just the thought of the salty, dried nuts made his throat constrict even further.
    The guy just nodded.
    â€œVictor,” he said and stretched out a large hand. He could comfortably reach across the empty seats.
    â€œVincent,” said Vincent and offered his hand.
    Victor’s grip was soft and dry and without any macho attempt to demonstrate his strength. Vincent wondered how his own hand felt—damper than usual, definitely, but could his panic be detected?
    Victor did not seem to notice anything. He just offered him another small nod, as if this was merely another item on some inner to-do list: say hello politely—check. Vincent was envious of his apparent serenity.
    He wished it was over and done with. He knew that they would ask him about “his motivation for becoming a doctor” and about his “personal character,” as had been somewhat vaguely indicated in the letter from the faculty. What kind of personal characteristics they were hoping to find, he had no idea, even though he had had plenty of time to think about it lying awake the night before.
    He had always been told