Warning - This story contains strong language and deals with a 
      difficult and upsetting subject.           

       Mainly sharps

      High summer and the whole world is outside. Out under the bluest, blue
      sky flopping boneless in the heat. Listen carefully and you can hear the city
      kicking off its shoes; the creak of a lung; the rush of air in a tunnel; grass
      on the moor stirring.
      
      Not in this corridor though; here we're all holding our breath.
         
      The door opens and a man in a suit comes out.
         
      'Miss Marshall?' he says, his face expectant, and the girl sitting
      opposite me gets to her feet. You can see the welcoming smile placed
      to strike out across his face and as the girl reaches him, there it
      goes - teeth, lips, eyes.
         
      He sidesteps to let her into the room before him and then turns, like
      a dancer following a partner, and glides in behind her. It seems overtly
      theatrical; designed I suspect to show he is completely at ease, whilst
      we are not. The door closes behind them.
         
      'You're next,' says the lady who is invigilating, looking down at her list.
      It's a pointless statement designed to pad out the space between
      us: I am the only one left, of course I'm next. Or should that be last?
         
      But I'm glad of that falling gaze. It gives me time to work on
      re-assembling my expression. I think about how normal people are
      expected to look and do my best impersonation. I really hadn't
      expected him to come out. Somehow I'd assumed that we'd be delivered
      to him like so many bundles of nerves.
         
      It's all of a piece with that flamboyant turn. Marking his territory.
         
      I put my hand on my knee to stop it motoring and remember that the
      invigilator needs a reply. That's how it goes, isn't it, the return serve
      nature of conversation?

 

      'Yes, not long now,' I say, but perhaps I didn't get the tone right or the
      listener's ear is too finely attuned to shades of anxiety. She glances up
      at me and I receive what I guess is her best 'smoothing down nerves' face.
      I bring out an 'everything is fine' one.
         
      Equilibrium is restored.
         
      A quick look at my watch and I see that I only have about
      fifteen minutes left, at the most. But you can do a lot in fifteen minutes.
      I could be half way to Newcastle by the time he came to get me.
         
      There's scant comfort in that thought and little time to explore it
      because here comes the music, a scale, muted and hesitant
      seeping under the door. I'm not going to think about those plucky
      little notes.
         
      'Poor dear,' says the invigilator, 'she sounds nervous,' and I sense
      that she is, like me, willing on the girl in the room. We smile at each
      other and she must feel as if a little bridge of sorts has been built
      between us because I see her lean forward, testing it.
        
      'Look, I was wondering, would you mind if I went out in the sun for
      a couple of minutes? It's so beautiful today. Such a gift.' She pauses.
      'I'll be back in plenty of time to show you in.' 
         
      Soon she is walking along the corridor heading for the open door and
      the sun. I am happy for her to go and buzz around someone else
      with all that badly suppressed backs-to-the-wall jollity.
      It isn't even her test.
         
      I lean forward and watch her standing in the sunlit doorway before
      she melts away, and then the music faltering brings my attention
      back inside.
   
      I can still see that bright, tempting rectangle in front of me. The urge
      to run and jump into it is so overwhelming that I feel the top half of
      my body do that little pulse forward that would have me up and out
      of the chair if I let it.
        
       I pull my shoulders back and distract myself with the weave of
      the carpet and the photocopied notices pinned sharply to the wall by
      some wagging finger, each one full of stern 'Do Not's' concerning lights
      and plugs and keys. I wonder if they work, these notices, or whether
      they only get read by those who play by the rules.

 

      No, best not to follow that line of thinking, count the chairs instead.
      Six lined up along the wall, seven counting the one I'm sitting on.
      Two bags on the floor (one mine, one the invigilator's), a small table,
      two pens and a clipboard. Solid facts. Undeniable.
         
      There's a place on one of the chairs that is starting to wear and,
      high up on a wall, a smear of something the cleaner can't or won't reach.
      It's a comforting kind of shabbiness; everything just managing to
      hold itself together.
         
      Footsteps and it's the invigilator drifting back in. She blinks as if she's
      waking up.
        
       'Just a few minutes now,' she says, patting her hair, her face
      flushed beneath the powder.
         
      I nod, glad that I can get away with not saying anything. She brings
      me snippets of the outside world, easing herself back into
      her chair and then suddenly the door to the examination room opens
      again and my breathing goes to buggery and back.
        
      Unfortunate choice of words under the circumstances.
        
      It's all right, it's just the girl. She rolls her eyes. 'He's horrible. Really
      strict.' Her fingers are splayed out in emphasis almost as if she's still 
      trying to play that damned piano.
         
      'They've all been saying that.' The invigilator laughs sympathetically.
      'Doesn't mean he'll mark you down, though. It doesn't mean anything.
      Sometimes the strictest ones give the highest marks.'
         
      Her face is so smug, so sure that she understands the rules of the
      world that I am tempted to say that if somebody looks like a bastard
      and acts like a bastard then it probably means they are a bastard.
      It would be worth it just to see all that assurance jerked free and
      unravelling.
        
       I don't, of course. I've learned to keep quiet, but I am glad to see the
      sceptical look the girl gives her before she shrugs it into an expression
      of boredom. Stooping, she picks up her school bag.
         
      'Good luck,' she mouths in my direction and then strides away along the
      corridor. Such long legs, such a bouncy walk. I envy the defiant swing
      of her hair.

 

      In the silence that follows her exit, I look at the invigilator. Her face
      is at rest. Perhaps she's thinking about going home, already feeling the
      sun on her skin as she drives. Maybe she can taste the cold wine to
      be drunk later in the garden.
         
      The comforts of the banal.

      It is the door handle that I hear first; a slight grating as it is turned,
      and then there is a rubbing sound as the bottom of the door swings
      inwards over the carpet. I can't stop myself from looking into the space
     that will soon be filled with him.
         
      A shoe, a leg and there he is again.
         
      'Mrs Baxter?' His smile is hovering in the background of his face.
      I look past him into the examination room. I have no interest in that
      smile; I do not want to get involved in it; hooked on it.
         
      When he makes a motion to wave me into the room, I get up and
      go, holding my music book and hearing each of his footsteps as he
      follows me in.
         
      How, at the very moment when there is no saliva in my mouth, are
      my hands slipping on the shiny cover of my music book? Some kind of
      biological trade off, I guess. I sit and the stool is still warm from
      Miss Marshall.
         
      He sits too and I concentrate on breathing out and breathing in;
      on arranging my music book; on pulling one of my sleeves up just far
      enough. Even looking straight ahead he's on the edge of my vision.
         
      'So,' smile, smile, 'we haven't had many adults for the exam this
      summer,' he says.
         
      This is it then. 

      'You haven't got one now,' I answer and watch his mouth, which
      I presume he was preparing for the next part of his welcoming
      routine, do a wonky little up and down movement.
        
       'I'm sorry?' There is a frown between his eyes.
         
      That's new.
        
       I see him shift his weight a little and I do not speak on purpose.
         
      'Well,' he says eventually, '...Perhaps...perhaps we could begin.'

      The frown is still there and accompanied by a sideways look as if he is
      checking just where the edges of this situation lie. Was it something he
      misheard or a nervous blurt on my part? Or am I just strange? There's
      a fourth option but I doubt he's thought of that yet.
         
      'So, I see you have your music ready?' His tone suggests he's back
      in charge. 'Let's start with the scale of D Minor. Left hand.'
         
      Good choice. I lift my left hand in readiness and see him turn his head
      slightly so that he can watch how my fingers move over the keys.
      It is the last moment of what passes for normality in his world. That
      instant when his past meets now.
         
      There it is. He's seen my wrist; no mistaking that.
         
      I imagine in that second of understanding he is no longer in this room
      but back in my front room, in my house, in my childhood. Or is he
      thrashing about for a name and an address?
         
      My hand goes down on to the keyboard but I do not play. Little thorns
      of tension are pushing their way into my lungs and I wonder if they
      look like the shiny metal prongs holding my music in place?
         
      And then I'm speaking, although I cannot remember deciding to.
      Perhaps I've been practising so long that it all had to come out. 
        
       'It's amazing what a difference just one little word can make,' I say.
      'The words 'for' and 'with', for example.' 

      He stares.
         
      'Play 'for' me is one thing, whereas…'
         
      I let it hang, but not too long. It's vital to keep up the momentum,
      keep him on the back foot. I run my hands lightly over the piano
      keys. 'What was it you wanted me to play?'
         
      There's nothing from him at first and then, from far out he
      says, 'Scales.' A moment later, 'Scales,' again. He is stuck in a loop,
      a piece of music on repeat.
         
      I start to play; not scales but a sonata by Corelli. I don't play it
      particularly well, my fingers on the keyboard, my mind elsewhere, but I do
      play. Its suitably melancholic, this soundtrack. And in the end it
      doesn't matter what piece I choose. I distrust them all and he's not 
      listening. He's waiting, like me, for when the music stops.
         
      Whatever he's going to do is coming, I can feel it.There's still a bloody    
      connection there.
         
      I reach the end of the piece and sit silently trying to gather comfort
      from the way the sun is now falling across the piano. If I were to put
      my hand on the wood, I know it would be warm.
         
      'You were meant to do your scales first,' he snaps finally. It is
      aggressive. No stopping at confusion to test the waters, but I sense a
      slight tremor in there too - which one am I? How bad is this going to get?
         
      I don't move. I certainly don't look at him. A little trick to match
      all of his. He leans forward, assurance growing. 'I said you were meant
      to do your scales first.'

      My heart is pumping so hard I am surprised that my fingers are not
      pulsing on the keys.
         
      'Are you deaf?' There's deeper menace in his voice. 'Or just -'
         
      'You're in the wrong seat,' I say suddenly, standing up.
         
      Getting what you want is all in the way you stand, how you say
      what you have to say. How far you are prepared to go.
         
      'Move to this seat and play for me,' I say firmly, resisting the temptation
      to flourish out that 'for'.
        
       'No.' Flat, emotionless. He folds his arms. 'No.' Smiles. 'I don't know
      what you think you're playing at.'
         
      'Not the piano,' I hear myself joke, and there's a proper little
      following-after laugh too.  I have no idea how it came from me when my
      ribs are welding themselves together, forcing me to dive deeper for
      my oxygen.
         
      'Enough, girl,' he snaps.
         
      If, at that point, I could be disinterested I would say that was
      a masterstroke. I do momentarily feel the impulse to sit like a good
      little girl and stay quiet; condense into childhood and accept once and
      for all that the bogeyman never went home. Except I can't sit back
      down, there are too many others on this piano stool.
         
      'The rest are here,' I say at full pelt and it has an immediate effect.
      That frown is back. He will have to think about this. It's not a big enough
      bomb to shatter his control but that little frown and sideways look tell me
      that it's fractured.
        
      As a holding measure, he brings out a little derisive snort. One of his
      infamous lynchpins. From this end of the age telescope, it just sounds
      like a snort. 

      I follow up my advantage; list the names. Just the right number to be
      believable. A car full.
        
      'So if you don't move…'
         
      He'll understand. He's made enough threats in his time.
      
      We're at the tipping point and once, just once, please God it has to
      tip my way. I try to hide my hope in the fundamentals: breathing;
      staying still; repeating all those little mantras that I've been given
      to cope; all those affirmations that the world is a good place. I know
      it isn't, of course, not even for good little girls.
        
      Well, especially not for them.

      But my mantras are not working. Perhaps the powder is wet, or the
      wrong nut has been tightened. All I have now is the flimsy little barricade
      I have built around myself. It's a battle of wills and he's a highly
      seeded player.
         
      No. No. That's not exactly right. Not so much seeded as seedy, I can
      realise that now. Not so smart close up; tie a little grubby, trousers a
      bit too creased, a slightly sour tang about him. Too young to notice
      these things before.
         
      The silence has spooled out far enough; he's making it his own.
         
      'Move.' I'm almost shouting. 'Get up and bloody move.'
         
      'No,' he repeats with force and there's that arrogant lift of his chin.
         
      I look towards the door and wonder how long it will be before the
      invigilator comes knocking, confused about the lack of music. I imagine
      her already, ear to the door, hand hovering. A vigilant invigilator. How
      nice that, finally, someone is taking note.
         
      But back in this room we both know that this is one of those times
      you have to jump and not care if you land. I remember what I've
      learned about anger. How you need to stir it up enough to breathe in
      what rises up from it, but never choke.
         
      So I don't allow myself to remember sitting at the piano on those
      other hot, sticky days waiting for him to start. I don't even think about
      how every new page I've ever turned has already seemed fingered.
         
      I think instead of that raised chin and smug mouth; those dead shark
      eyes. His complete assurance that even now there is nothing to be
      ashamed of. That it was a duet.
         
      The great toucher, untouchable. 

      It's just the shove I need. I'm right next to him suddenly, bent to
      his level. It is a position so familiar to him that he cannot fail to hear its
      echoes.
         
      'Move,' I shout and all the oxygen seems to kick out of the air around us.
      One beat, two beats, three, four. A flick of his tongue; five, six.
      
      I slam my hand on his shoulder and he jumps. Seven.
      
      I do it again, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't touch him.
         
      'Do I have to bring them all in here?'
         
      That's it. The moment. A shake of his head and unbelievably he
      starts to stand. He looks groggy.Did he really believe that the others
      were outside? Or did he just realise that everything has to end, eventually?
         
      He makes a clumsy move to the stool and I can see he's confused.
      Out of all the possible scenarios he'd ever imagined, this is one he
      missed. Where are the police? The screaming accusations? The little
      speech about surviving?
        
      I could laugh again now, I feel so light headed. My only defence, m'lud,
      is that it was a string he pulled long ago that moved my hand. I wonder
      what I look like now, right in this moment, nerves straining, heart
      pounding, a nasty smile on my face. I have no shame.
         
      'Play anything you like, any last request,' I say.
         
      So he sits and plays. Something from the old days. Nice try. I reach
      across and tap the music book.
         
      He begins again and I listen to every bloody minim and crotchet and
      semiquaver of it, hating them like I hate every note that has ever been
      played on a piano. But it's his fingers I really want to watch. It's as if
      he's trying to retract them and still play. Two shabby crabs skittering
      over the keys.
         
      He keeps on playing, looking straight ahead, leaving little damp
      patches on the black notes with his curling fingers. Quite a drug knowing
      someone is that scared of you.
         
      The invigilator must come knocking soon, unless she has forgotten
      the time and been drawn back down that corridor with the sunny
      world at the end of it.
        
      He doesn't flinch as my hand goes to the piano lid. I was right, it is warm.
      
      We sit there a little longer. Him waiting for the pain to start; me waiting
      for it to end.
      
      Teacher and pupil.