38
Eric Murray leaned back in a creaking metal chair and watched the video with a cynical expression on his face. In a small classroom, with six tables arranged in a rectangle, a television that looked like it belonged in a museum had been set up with the camcorder attached in one corner.
He was 38, and had once been a student in the same place, so liked to think of himself as a kind of ‘trendy tutor’ with regards to what the students were going through. He knew how they felt, as he was constantly telling his students. ‘I know what it’s like. I’ve done it’. He thought himself kind of integrated into the student schema, yet his priority was firmly embedded in the work he was paid to do. He would try and be like a student while he was within his working time, laughing with them, listening to them talking about subjects unrelated to the work, yet when he was out of hours, he would not mingle with them, and would only talk to them if it was necessary.
Even then he would be strictly formal and brief. When he came to work in the morning, and the clock struck nine, it was back to being the smiling ex-student who knew what they were going through. He had wanted to see how they were progressing, and to give them any pointers and advice to help them gain good marks. It wasn’t favouritism. All students gained equal support, and now it was their turn for his assistance, and he watched the screen with his arms folded. Jane and Melissa looked at each other with unease.
Did he hate it? Was it the worst documentary he had ever seen? Not that it was a documentary any more, more an in-depth view of spirituality by Curio and Malcolm who were not part of the project. They hoped he didn’t point that out. He was watching the part where Curio gave his talk on the spirit world.
“Oh what’s he talking about?” said Eric. “Where did you find him? You got a psychic to help you out? He hears voices in his head and ‘speaks’ to dead people. Er, right…ok. That’s 50 points deducted right away”. They all looked at him in unison.
“What?” said Adam. Eric leaned even further back in the chair, and it protested loudly. “Only joking. It’s good that you enlisted the help of somebody else. It shows commitment and how serious you are about the project”. He continued to watch, and his face became even more sceptical when he saw Curio become supposedly possessed. “Seriously,” said Eric, “If this guy believes all this then he needs help”. The others glanced at each other, not wishing to say anything, preferring to keep quiet their willingness to mainly agree with Curio. His expression did not change until he saw Ian talking to Malcolm.
“What’s this? Surely you’ve set this up. This is not serious”.
“It is. It is,” said Melissa. “His father was involved in a weird sect or something, and so was Ian. I’d like to continue following this up...” Eric stared at the screen as Ian tried to break through the van.
“Is this for real? If you’ve set this up just for marks then I’m afraid I really will be making deductions, but if it’s real...”.
“It’s most definitely real,” said Stuart. “It was on the news”.
“Well…” said Eric, leaning forward on the table. “Have you shown this to the police?” The long silence gave him his answer.
“Why not?..it's the first thing you should have done”. Melissa couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I thought perhaps, that considering Ian was dead, and there were witnesses, then they did not need this tape,” she said. Eric nodded.
“If they take away the tape, then you have no documentary, I see”. He leaned back in the chair again, his hands behind his head.
“Make a copy. Give the original to the police, and you may continue as you were”. He stood up, picked up a folder he had brought in, but never opened, and walked out. Before the door had swung closed, it was pushed open by another tutor whom they vaguely recognised. He stopped and looked at them all. They looked back. There were three seconds of silence.
“Are all of you doing the paranormal documentary?” he asked. They nodded.
“There’s nobody else?” he added. Jane shook her head.
“No, we’re all here”.
“You’re doing a video, right?” Well considering it’s a documentary, I would think so, Melissa thought.
“All of you are in it?” he said. “All of you are doing the project?”. They nodded again, and looked at each other.
“My name is Kenneth Romney. I work over in Civil engineering”. He was 53, was overweight, his belt straining at the lowest notch, had wild brown and white hair that did not take too kindly to a comb. He made no pretensions of knowing what the students were going through. He was a student in the early seventies, where peace and freedom was the order of the time, and he, like thousands of others, had made themselves visually known to be of like mind.
The most daring he went, however, was to wear a multi-coloured shirt and a pony-tail at the same time, and when he looked back at photographs of himself looking like that, he would redden with embarrassment. He was the type of tutor who always seemed to wear the same clothes, every day they were working, in all seasons. It was a dark brown suit that he would probably be buried in.
“I’m collating data about student projects within this term. It’s to store in the archives unit. I need details about this assignment, and I’m going to need your addresses”. Jane frowned.
“Our addresses?” he said. Kenneth nodded.
“For the records. Your addresses are in a separate database and cannot be attained for this purpose, therefore I will need you to write it down”. Suspiciously, and reluctantly, the students set about writing their addresses on pieces of paper. Kenneth collected them and put them in his top pocket.
“I need the video as well,” he said, crossing to the camcorder.
“What?” said Melissa. He picked up the camcorder and looked at it as though he didn’t know what it was.
“I want the tape. Give me the tape”.
“What for?” asked Melissa.
“For the record,” he said, finding the eject button. He took the tape out and let the camcorder drop to the floor. A piece broke away and hit the wall. The students all looked at the contraption, then at the class door which was slowly closing.