Storytellersunplugged

Where Words Meet

A Theory of Evolution

At some point this year I evolved from being an ordinary person into a writer. More than that – a Horror writer.

This doesn’t mean that the day job has disappeared. Oh no, not a chance. That particular dream is still at least a few years and several prayers away from becoming even a wisp of reality. Nor does it mean that I only started writing recently. Or that I only just made my first sale.
No.
It just means that something’s happened to the way I think about things. To the way I see things. And sometimes I’m not too happy about the way that makes me feel about myself.

This newly evolved aspect of me was really brought home in an incident that happened last week in the day job that is years away from disappearing, that for me, is teaching. Now, a word of advice for anyone that thinks teaching is all Dead Poet’s Society. Forget it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the kids (well, in the main) but teaching sucks. It drains you and the paperwork and marking are endless and most teachers are, to be frank, pretty dull. The school I teach in is in a pretty rough estate in Luton, a pretty rough town not far from London. Although it is improving at a rapid rate of knots, there are days when you can feel that the tension is at a knife’s edge and anything could happen. The students are colourful – in fact only an hour ago one little charmer aged 12 called me a stupid-fucking-dumb-fucking-blonde-bitch – but in the main they are pretty fabulous.

Anyways, at about 2pm one afternoon last week, I was teaching my favourite group of kids and they were working on a presentation so it was far from quiet in the room. Suddenly, in the midst of the hubbub, those closest to the door lifted their head in wide-eyed consternation. The room quietened and then someone said, ‘Miss, what the fuck is that screaming?’ These were good 15 year olds and that one comment bore testament to my belief that fear may bring sometimes bring out the best in our personalities, but it always brings out the worst in our language. In my experience, at any rate, as anyone whose read one of my books could testify.

And the sound that was interrupting our lesson was scary. It scared the hell out of me anyway.

For my sins, I’m the Head of English (how the hell that happened I’ve never quite figured out) and I knew that the high-pitched, sexless desperate shrieking was coming from one of the English corridor classrooms. My heart pounding and wondering just what the hell was going on, I muttered something mundane about carrying on with their work and sprinted down the corridor. I must have been scared. No one’s seen me run since I was at school myself.

It was when I stepped across the threshold of room 35 that something happened. Something that confirmed that the next stage in my evolving has taken place. It was as if I divided into two people, one that everyone could see and one quietly existing only inside me.

Scanning the madness of the room, expecting blood and bone somewhere, the external me ushered out the students, calling to another teacher to let them into her room and take statements. The internal me took out a mental notebook and pen and jotted down the way the teacher was flapping, the way the children hurried themselves out, their voices excited and blood hungry and nervous, and all the time that awful screaming over-riding everything else. I took mental note of the flashes I could make out of the still huddled figure on the ground as the others left, eager to distance themselves from the scene.

There was no blood. But there was a lump sticking out the side of the boy’s left trouser leg where there shouldn’t have been one. And it was knee cap shaped.

The external me sent another teacher to call an ambulance, crouched by the child, held the small sweaty hand and told the boy that it was going to be okay. The internal me coolly watched the contortions of his face, the way sweat was forming in clear large drips along his hairline, the way his slightly buck teeth seemed more prominent in his agony, the way his body shook as it tensed with every wave of pain or slight involuntary movement. The internal me was particularly fascinated when he broke out into a coughing fit brought on by the screaming which in turn brought on more screaming. I’d never considered that screaming would dry the throat enough to make you cough. But of course it could. All of his suffering was logged and catalogued for later use in a story or stories as yet unwritten.

The external me helped make sure that his parents were informed and waited until his Head of Year took over the situation. The external me felt slightly sick when the paramedics carefully lifted the child’s trouser leg to reveal the dislocated knee. The internal me tilted my head slightly memorising his wrinkled sock and how pale the skin on his schoolboy thin leg was, and how stretched it seemed with that angular gristle poking out, and how desperately he sucked on the gas coming from within the mask.

The internal me was disappointed when the paramedics ushered us out in order to straighten his leg. The external me was quite relieved. Going into the other class I hauled out the boy that had kicked him in the back of the leg forcing the fall that forced the dislocation. His confession came quickly, his eyes shifting, his skin pale beneath freckles, his hands twitching in his pockets. All noted. All recorded.

It was only when I watched the child disappearing off in the ambulance that the two parts of me became one again and I took a moment to reflect. I did care that the child was hurt. I did hate the sound of all that pain and how pointless so much of the bullying that goes on in schools is and how easily it could get out of hand.

But if I was honest, another part of me, the horror writer that lives in my core, felt that it had been a very satisfying afternoon. Much had been gained. Much that could be used over and again in various settings and situations either as a whole or in part. That part of me could go home with a smile on its hidden face.

All writers are parasites to a certain extent. I know that. It’s just that as horror writers I never realised how much we exploit the suffering of others. It can’t be helped – all that observing comes as naturally as breathing, it has too if we want to write convincing stories after all – but it still leaves a nasty taste in your mouth at times. And last week was the first time I was consciously aware of the parasite in me.

And I was proud of it.
It seems I am a horror writer, after all!

Sarah Pinborough

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