The Boy Who Would Rule the World

by Brian Toal

  "Okay, thanks." He said turning away. "I’ll read the books in order, so they don't get too mixed up. I’m only interested in what’s happening to me, so I'll start with the books on telekinesis, before I read any of the others."

  He walked away towards the stacks, leaving Mrs. Hepburn to smile happily after him, until the true meaning of his last statement shivered through her body.

  She watched the small boy disappear among the shelves.

  FIVE - FIVE

  Sharon McCarter pushed open the exit door from the civic centre, lugging a large canvas bag in her left hand, and ran lightly down the steps. Her face was flushed and her long red hair hung down the back of her warm-up suit. She had just picked up the registrations for the first fall class of the "Young Mothers Dancersize" group and over fifty mothers had signed up, the largest class Sharon had ever enrolled at this centre. The camaraderie and excitement of the group of mothers during and after the class had been infectious and heightened Sharon's commitment to her chosen profession. She moved across the parking lot, waving to a couple of the mothers as she reached her Mustang. Then throwing her bag in the rear, she slid behind the wheel. She had an hour and a half before another new class began at the Senior High School on Eight Mile Road and so she would have enough time to go home for a quick shower. She twisted the keys in the ignition, noticing as she did so the light on her beeper flashing from the passenger seat. She picked it up to read the number she was to call back. Then, turning the car off she went back inside the civic centre to make the call.

  "Hello Beth, it’s Sharon,” she began as her sister picked up the phone.

  “Hello Sharon.” Beth paused for a moment and then began, “Chris' vice-principal just called. Apparently, Chris has got into some sort of trouble at school and has run away. You’re supposed to call him." She paused again, "but, Sharon why don't you come here first. You can call from my phone. I’ll put some coffee on and we can talk about it."

  “Okay, but what sort of trouble did Chris get into?’

  “It’s not good, that’s why I think it is best you come here first.”

  “Is he okay?” Sharon was concerned. Chris had got into some minor trouble before at school, but never bad enough to necessitate a call from the vice-principal in the middle of the day.

  “I’m not sure. And he told me Chris has actually run away from school.”

  ‘Oh no! Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, Sharon, but I think it is best if you come here.”

  Sharon sighed, holding the phone in her hand. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  She ran back out into the parking lot, jumped into the car and put it in gear, a few moments later passing the Gothic library where at that very moment Chris was just sitting down with a stack of books.

  Beth met her at the door, leading Sharon into the kitchen and sitting her down, before she began to speak. "Sharon, I can't really make much sense of what Mr. Victor, the vice-principal said. Apparently, Chris got into an altercation with that teacher he doesn't like very much - a Mr. Clifford. Anyway, there was a shouting match and then...and this is where the story becomes unclear. Apparently, Chris somehow extensively damaged the classroom, even threw a desk though a window..."

  "Oh, my God!" Sharon exclaimed.

  "It gets worse, Sharon..." Beth said gently, "Apparently Chris, in some way, damaged the ceiling and it collapsed on top of several students as well as this teacher, who got quite badly hurt." Beth paused to try and ease the impact on Sharon who was staring at her, glassy eyed, "Seven students and this Mr. Clifford had to be hospitalized and Chris has run away. The school has notified the Detroit police to look for him."

  "Oh, my God!" Sharon repeated. "How...how could he do all that damage? He threw his desk through the window...why would he do that? That doesn't sound like Chris. What do they do to them in those schools, that could make him so angry?"

  "Actually, it wasn't his desk. It was his teacher's deck."

  "His teacher's deck!" Sharon repeated, horrified at the thought of Chris hurling anything through a window - not to mention his teacher's desk.

  Beth placed her hands on Sharon's shoulders, "Sharon, I think you should find a substitute for your afternoon classes and you and I should go to the school and sort this out. The most important thing is we have to find Chris."

  "Are the police looking for him?"

  "Yes, but the alert just went out about an hour ago."

  "Poor Christopher." Sharon said sadly, her eyes wide, her mind searching for answers to this inexplicable and extreme departure from Chris' normal behaviour. She knew Chris had found himself in plenty of trouble before, but never anything this serious and, more importantly, he had certainly never run away from his own problems. "Why would he do this?

  "I don't know, Sharon. Maybe it was a prank that got out of control."

  "What type of prank would send eight people to hospital? And how can a twelve-year-old boy pull down a ceiling? And I can hardly believe he would be strong enough to pick up a desk and throw it through a window. How could he do all of these things?" Sharon asked, looking towards her sister for answers.

  "As I said, maybe it was an accident. But right now, we should go to the school and see if they have any idea where Chris might have gone."

  Sharon nodded, her mind still reeling as she tried to determine Chris' motives.

  "Okay." And Beth stood up, her voice commanding. "We’ll leave a note on your side door, telling Chris to go to the neighbours, if he comes home. Call one of your other instructors to pick up the registrations for your next class and let's go to the school."

  Sharon and Beth stood just inside the door to Chris' classroom with Mr. Victor standing behind them. Beth had never seen such damage done to a room. The metal latticework that had held the ceiling tiles in place lay twisted across the room, its metal frames broken and bent, as it lay on overturned student desks, gym bags and other assorted litter. The fluorescent fixtures that had stretched in four long rows the full length of the ceiling lay under the rubble, the tubes spilling powder and glass across the floor. At one end of the long set of windows, the curtains were ripped off their rods where the window was holed, the large teacher's desk still laying on its back outside on the lawn.

  "As you can see, Mrs. McCarter, the damage is extensive."

  Sharon turned towards the vice-principal, his bald head level with her eyes. "But how could a little boy do this much damage?"

  Mr. Victor allowed a small smile to crease his lips, "That’s a question we’d certainly like to ask him ourselves."

  "Oh, this is horrible," Sharon said miserably, "Beth, how could Chris have done this? There’s got to be some other explanation."

  "Mrs. McCarter we don’t know how he did it, but there is no doubt in my mind he is aware of how it can be done. We have talked to a number of the students that were in Mr. Clifford's class, and they all recall Chris and Mr. Clifford exchanging numerous heated words and possibly blows - a matter I assure you we will address with Mr. Clifford when he recovers - and then this mass destruction began. A bit too timely, don't you think, to be caused by anyone else, but your son."

  "But how!"

  "That we don't know. But we will find out," Mr. Victor said, turning away. "Shall we return to my office? Harold, would you please lock up?" He said to the security guard standing beside them, the same man that had forcibly evicted Chris from the public library a week before.

  The security guard swung the door shut and used his key in the lock as Sharon and Beth turned away to follow the vice-principal.

  "So, we’ll be unable to accept Chris back at this school," Mr. Victor began as they re-seated themselves in his sparsely furnished office, "until we find out exactly what occurred today. I suspect, going from Chris' past record at this school, it was some sort of elaborate prank that, on its initiation, became a much greater catastrophe than your son had allowed for. All the same, a good deal of damage has been done. As well, his teacher and sever
al of his classmates have been severely hurt, and I feel determined that Chris must receive a psychiatric evaluation before we consider his re-admission to this school."

  "Do you have any idea, where Chris might have gone after he left the school?" Beth asked. She felt that the vice-principal was placing far too much emphasis on what would take place days or weeks later, than on the immediate concerns of this day.

  "No we do not. The last he was seen, and that was by Mrs. Bentford in the primary wing, he was running down Fernwood Street. As you know, we have notified the police, both because of our concern for Chris' welfare, and because of the extensive damage and the injuries caused by his prank."

  Sharon suddenly stood up and Beth could see two bright spots of anger burning in her cheeks. "Well, you have certainly made your point clear! You have arbitrarily blamed my son for demolishing that classroom. You have laid the guilt on his head for injuring seven of his classmates and his teacher. A teacher whom, if I understand you correctly, may have assaulted my son before this mysterious occurrence..."

  "Mrs. McCarter, please..." Mr. Victor had also stood up behind his desk.

  "Be quiet! Then when my son runs from the room, after being assaulted by his teacher and apparently, in the midst of the actual occurrence of this catastrophe, you call the police on him. Assuming..."Sharon held up her hand as the vice-principal again tried to interrupt, "...assuming he was the one that caused that devastation, and I use that word on purpose. A bulldozer could not have done a better job of destroying that class-room, but you decide without a shred of evidence that you will blame my son for that destruction. In fact, you admit you have no idea, how it even occurred." Sharon turned to face her sister and Beth could see her entire face and neck had turned a brilliant shade of red.

  "We will be leaving now Beth", Sharon said, then turning once more to the vice-principal she added, "I suspect what we will find out is this: that in fact Chris was assaulted by this Mr. Clifford fellow, and he ran from the school. Not because of his complicity with the damage to that room - I would suggest you get some inspectors in there to find out what caused that collapse - but because of his pain and embarrassment of being struck by his own teacher!" She strode over to the door, her long hair trailing out behind her, and flung the door open, startling the secretary that had been listening behind it. "And you can be sure," she finished, addressing herself a last time towards the vice-principal, still standing behind his desk, "that Chris will not be returning to this school, until I am satisfied there is no further danger to himself or he will not be confronted with that brutish man you call a teacher!" With that, she whirled and left the office.

  FIVE - SIX

  The young boy who entered St. John's emergency ward at 3:25 p.m., as later noted by Vivian Benton, the admitting nurse, looked entirely healthy - a little dishevelled perhaps, but not obviously in need of hospital emergency care.

  It had been a slow afternoon, the nightly Detroit gunfights had not yet begun and it was a sunny summer's day, so the freeways were clean and dry. A few work-related accidents and one heart attack victim had accounted for all of the business Vivian had to cope with so far on her shift. She was sitting behind the large curved, emergency department admittance counter, munching on a few Cheezies and keeping her eye on the bank of 'help needed' lights in case any of the other attending nurses or doctors required her assistance. She popped down another two Cheezies, reprimanding herself as she did so - she had already regained five of the fifteen pounds she lost on the special diet she had completed two months ago - when the small dark-haired boy came through the doors and, after a moment's hesitation, turned towards her counter.

  He’s a small one. I wonder what he’s doing out of school? She thought, as he advanced towards her, his head barely cresting the Formica top.

  "Yes, what can I do for you." She asked, as he stopped in front of the counter and looked up at her.

  "I need to see Dr. Murance."

  "This is the emergency department. Admitting is just inside the North doors."

  "Well..." The boy hesitated, uncertainly, "this is kind of an emergency. I just thought that Dr. Murance would be the best doctor to see."

  "Dr. Murance..." She had never heard of a Dr. Murance and she reached for the hospital directory as she spoke. "Are you under Dr. Murance's care?"

  "No, but I need to see him."

  "If you aren't a patient of his and don't have an appointment, I doubt if he will see you." She replied as she thumbed through the directory, sneaking another Cheezie with her left hand.

  "But this is an emergency." The small boy insisted.

  "I see...Dr. Murance..." She looked up to confront the small head peering over her counter, his eyes taking in the cluttered bulletin board behind her, the files scattered across the desk, the drug dispensing cabinet beside her and the multitude of clipboards attached to the rear wall. "Dr. Murance is in research. He’s not part of the medical team of the hospital."

  "But I need to see him." The boy stated again, his clear blue eyes broadcasting his need.

  "But, you aren't even a patient of his."

  "No. But I have an appointment with him in two weeks."

  "Oh..." Vivian sighed. With kids, everything is an emergency. "What is it that is troubling you?"

  "I've got something happening in my head."

  "You've got pains in your head, have you? Like a headache?" Vivian closed the hospital directory and leaned back in her chair. The kid has got a headache. He undoubtedly doesn't have his insurance card with him and I am going to have to phone around until I contact his parents at some business where he doesn't remember the phone number. "Where are your parents?"

  "They’re at work. But I’m sure Dr. Murance will see me if you tell him I am here."

  "Dr. Murance is in research. I can't call the research department and tell him to come down to emergency. The hospital doesn't pay him, the government does." Vivian picked up a clipboard with an admitting form on it. "Now what’s your name and where do your parents work?"

  "My name is Chris McCarter. My mom runs exercise groups all over the city and I don't know where she is. My dad drives a truck and I think he’s in Tennessee."

  Vivian paused after she had written, 'Chris McCarter'. This was worse than she had expected. "Does your school know you are here?"

  "No. That’s the reason I’m here." The boy stated, his face creased with worry. "I can't go back to my school until I see Dr. Murance...I’m afraid they’re mad at me and I might do something."

  If Vivian had known that at that moment George Clifford was laying in the operating room of another hospital, as the surgeons prepared to re-construct his face and scalp - and that seven of his pupils all suffering from concussions and various cuts and bruises also lay in the same hospital - she might have admitted Chris immediately or run for cover herself. But she was unaware of her danger nor of the interest, the school board, and now the Detroit Police, had in finding this very boy standing in front of her.

  She continued her questioning. "Young man, I cannot admit you to this hospital without contacting your school or one of your parents."

  "I don't want to be admitted." Chris replied firmly. "I want to see Dr. Murance."

  Vivian put the clipboard down and looked sternly at the boy on the other side of the counter. "Young man, what exactly do you wish to see Dr. Murance about?"

  She watched as he hesitated, his eyes searching her face and then in a small hesitant voice he began. "I wrecked my school and I ran away and...I can break things by thinking about it and...I'm afraid if I go back to school or home because maybe...I will get in trouble and...then I will break something and maybe even hurt somebody real bad."

  Vivian sat in her chair looking across the counter at the boy. She had never heard such a strange description of a medical problem, and she had heard quite a few weird ones in her time. Her immediate reaction was the boy was an imaginative liar, but she had become a good judge of intent during her years in emergency, an
d her experience told her this boy believed he was telling the truth. He could be absolutely insane, but that was a problem St. John's also dealt with. She decided she would ask a few more questions before deciding whether he should be seen by a physician or sent up to Psychiatry. "Did all this happen today?"

  "Yes, just this morning. I didn't know I could do it before."

  "And you say you break things by thinking about it?"

  "Yes, and sometimes I don't know I’m going to do it and I get carried away. That’s what happened to me in school - I did it because I got mad and couldn't stop it."

  "Do you think about breaking things or do you actually break them?"

  The young boy paused as he pondered her question. "Well...they only break when I think about breaking them."

  "So, when you get mad, you want to break things and then they get broken?"

  "Yeah, kind of..."

  "So, this morning, when you got angry, you lost control and then you found you had broken some stuff at your school - is that what you mean?"

  "Yeah, sort of..."

  Vivian stood up behind her counter and glanced down at her admitting sheet for his name. "Chris, I think what I’ll do is call Dr. Johnson and he’ll have a talk with you."

  "Is Dr. Johnson, like Dr. Murance?"

  "No, Dr. Johnson is in Psychiatry."

  Vivian picked up the phone and punched in the number for the Psychiatric Department, watching the young boy as he took two steps back from the counter. She was about to tell him to remain where he was, when she noticed he wasn't looking at her, but instead his eyes were fixated on something behind her, his body rigid with strain.

  She turned to look behind her and the only obvious object she could see, was the bulletin board with its affixed clipboards and memos.

  As she turned back to face the boy her call was answered in psychiatry. She pressed the phone to her ear, preparing to respond and almost missed the boy's one-word whispered utterance.