mean it’s not locked?” Dr Ehrlichman demanded. He seized the handle and shook it until he almost pulled it off.
“No disrespect, Dr Ehrlichman, sir. But I mean it’s not locked.”
“Then open it.”
Wallechinsky reached out for the handle, but Jim lifted his hand and stopped him. “Let me,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, and then he opened the door with no trouble at all. He pushed it, and it swung open, so that sunlight fell across the corridor and illuminated their shoes. Dr Ehrlichman’s brown rubber-soled lace-ups; Wallechinsky’s highly-polished black boots; and Jim’s balding blue suede sneakers.
Wallechinsky tried to push his way his inside, but Jim held out his arm to stop him. If Mrs Vaizey was right, then Wallechinsky wouldn’t be able to see the man in black anyway. Jim stepped into the classroom, looking right and left, ducking down so that he could check under the desk, then turning around to make sure that the man in black wasn’t hiding behind the bookcase.
It was then that he saw him. He was no longer dressed in black, but all in white, and even his face was white, although it was still the face of an Afro-American. He looked as if he had been rolling in flour, or ashes. Even the pupils of his eyes were white, like lychees.
He was up on the ceiling, lying horizontally against the cornice, his hands crossed over his chest as if he had been laid out in a funeral parlour. He wasn’t dead, though: he was staring at Jim with those milky white eyes and he was grinning in triumph.
Wallechinsky came into the classroom and circled around it with the clumsiness of a purblind bear, peering behind bookcases and wallcharts as if a man could hide in a space less than an inch wide. He turned to Jim and saw that he was staring at the ceiling, and he stared up at it, too.
“You want to tell me what you’re looking at?” he asked. “You don’t expect the guy to be up on the ceiling, do you?”
Jim whispered, “You can’t see him, can you? You really can’t see him.”
“See who?”
“The intruder, that’s who. He’s there. Look. Use your imagination.”
“You’re not trying to tell me he’s invisible? He’s up on the ceiling and he’s invisible? Come on, Mr Rook. Is this some kind of a practical joke?”
Up above them, the man grinned even more widely. Jim couldn’t take his eyes away from him. He felt so terrified that he couldn’t speak; but what was worse than his terror was his sense of helplessness. In all his years as a remedial teacher, he had always been able to cope. But he couldn’t cope with this. Not logically, or emotionally, or any way at all. He had to stand in the middle of the geography room and admit to himself that there was nothing he could do, and that was the most horrifying feeling of all.
Testily, Dr Ehrlichman said, “Are we done now? I’m extremely busy.”
“Ain’t nobody here but us chickens, Mr Principal,”said Wallechinsky, giving Jim an exasperated shake of his head.
“All right, then. You’d better call the police and tell them it was a false alarm.”
He turned away. As he did so, the door slammed shut with such violence that the glass cracked and plaster dropped from the architrave. Dr Ehrlichman’s face immediately reappeared in the window, and he was shouting something, but Jim couldn’t hear what.
Wallechinsky went for the door-handle and tried to pull it open, but it was stuck just as fast as it had been before.
“Give me a hand here!” he called. But Jim could see what he couldn’t see; and that was the white-faced man slowly sinking from the ceiling, slowly turning around, so that he landed feet-first on the floor only four or five feet away from them. His shoes touched the floor completely silently, and with exaggerated grace. Jim backed away, colliding with one of the desks. The white-faced man lifted his hat and dust fell off it and sifted to the floor.
“Will you please give me a hand here,
sir
?” Wallechinsky
“No disrespect, Dr Ehrlichman, sir. But I mean it’s not locked.”
“Then open it.”
Wallechinsky reached out for the handle, but Jim lifted his hand and stopped him. “Let me,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, and then he opened the door with no trouble at all. He pushed it, and it swung open, so that sunlight fell across the corridor and illuminated their shoes. Dr Ehrlichman’s brown rubber-soled lace-ups; Wallechinsky’s highly-polished black boots; and Jim’s balding blue suede sneakers.
Wallechinsky tried to push his way his inside, but Jim held out his arm to stop him. If Mrs Vaizey was right, then Wallechinsky wouldn’t be able to see the man in black anyway. Jim stepped into the classroom, looking right and left, ducking down so that he could check under the desk, then turning around to make sure that the man in black wasn’t hiding behind the bookcase.
It was then that he saw him. He was no longer dressed in black, but all in white, and even his face was white, although it was still the face of an Afro-American. He looked as if he had been rolling in flour, or ashes. Even the pupils of his eyes were white, like lychees.
He was up on the ceiling, lying horizontally against the cornice, his hands crossed over his chest as if he had been laid out in a funeral parlour. He wasn’t dead, though: he was staring at Jim with those milky white eyes and he was grinning in triumph.
Wallechinsky came into the classroom and circled around it with the clumsiness of a purblind bear, peering behind bookcases and wallcharts as if a man could hide in a space less than an inch wide. He turned to Jim and saw that he was staring at the ceiling, and he stared up at it, too.
“You want to tell me what you’re looking at?” he asked. “You don’t expect the guy to be up on the ceiling, do you?”
Jim whispered, “You can’t see him, can you? You really can’t see him.”
“See who?”
“The intruder, that’s who. He’s there. Look. Use your imagination.”
“You’re not trying to tell me he’s invisible? He’s up on the ceiling and he’s invisible? Come on, Mr Rook. Is this some kind of a practical joke?”
Up above them, the man grinned even more widely. Jim couldn’t take his eyes away from him. He felt so terrified that he couldn’t speak; but what was worse than his terror was his sense of helplessness. In all his years as a remedial teacher, he had always been able to cope. But he couldn’t cope with this. Not logically, or emotionally, or any way at all. He had to stand in the middle of the geography room and admit to himself that there was nothing he could do, and that was the most horrifying feeling of all.
Testily, Dr Ehrlichman said, “Are we done now? I’m extremely busy.”
“Ain’t nobody here but us chickens, Mr Principal,”said Wallechinsky, giving Jim an exasperated shake of his head.
“All right, then. You’d better call the police and tell them it was a false alarm.”
He turned away. As he did so, the door slammed shut with such violence that the glass cracked and plaster dropped from the architrave. Dr Ehrlichman’s face immediately reappeared in the window, and he was shouting something, but Jim couldn’t hear what.
Wallechinsky went for the door-handle and tried to pull it open, but it was stuck just as fast as it had been before.
“Give me a hand here!” he called. But Jim could see what he couldn’t see; and that was the white-faced man slowly sinking from the ceiling, slowly turning around, so that he landed feet-first on the floor only four or five feet away from them. His shoes touched the floor completely silently, and with exaggerated grace. Jim backed away, colliding with one of the desks. The white-faced man lifted his hat and dust fell off it and sifted to the floor.
“Will you please give me a hand here,
sir
?” Wallechinsky
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