Writer of the Week: Alex Zarrabi, Year 10

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Logan Whitehurst and the Science Club

Wednesday, September 12, 10:37 p.m.

“Neil! Neil, get over here,” I hear someone calling from a distance.
“Coming,” I respond sarcastically.
“Bro, we need to talk, like, right now.”
“What is it?” I say worriedly.
“Man, I can’t believe you, Neil. The Science Club? Really?”
“Will, I know it may not have the best reputation, but I was part of it for the first three terms this year. It’s fun, I swear.”
“Yeah, sureeee,” Will replies sheepishly. “Mr Whitehurst and ‘fun’ should NOT go together, man. Have you heard the kind of stuff the Year Eights are saying about him and his classes?”
“Will, you need to give him a chance. He’s a cool guy, especially when he’s not forced to teach the most boring crap on Earth,” I argue. “Can you please join?” I beg.
“You… fine,” he says. “But if this turns out to be some moronic excuse for a school ‘club’, you owe me canteen.”
“Sure,” I reply confidently.

Thursday, September 13, 6:45 a.m.

I hear a crash coming from upstairs, along with the sound of footsteps. I jump out of bed quickly, put on my jacket, and sprint upstairs. “Mum!?” I yell worriedly. As I run up the stairs that go to the living room, I see about half a dozen men dressed in police uniforms with flashlights.
“What the hell?!” I say, loud enough for them to notice me standing at the top of the staircase.
“FREEZE!” they yell at me, turning around and pointing their lights at me. I suddenly feel like a massive spotlight has been shone right in my face, and I squint to see what is happening. I can barely make out one of the officers taking out his handheld radio and saying, “Dispatch. Primary suspect secured. Over.”
I just about manage to say, “What the fu–” before one of them grabs me, handcuffs me, drags me down the stairs, and out the front door.

Wednesday, September 12, 12:44 p.m.

“Look who it is,” I hear a voice say from behind me. It’s Will.
“You made it,” I respond, turning around. “Y’know, I half didn’t even expect you to show. You sounded like you REALLY didn’t want to come when we were talking earlier.”
“Yeah, well…” Will starts. “I figured I might as well come to see what all the fuss is about. Since the start of this year, you’ve just been going onnnn and onnnn about this place. I thought I might as well give it a try.”
“Well, thanks,” I say. “And also, before you ask, it’s on Mondays and Wednesdays every week. Not like you’re busy at lunchtimes anyway,” I say, rolling my eyes. Will grins at me, and we walk towards the science class.

Thursday, September 13, 7:02 a.m.

As I step out of the police car, I’m greeted by a building with a sign saying “Dunedin Police Station”. Still in my pyjamas and with my hands handcuffed behind my back, I’m escorted by the group of policemen into the building. Having never been in the police station, everything feels new to me — a feeling that always makes me nervous.
“Listen, I’m telling you. Whatever you think I’ve done, I swear to you, I didn’t do it, okay?” I plead to them.
“Chief’s orders, not ours,” says one of the police officers.
“Can you at least tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
“No,” he says, not even glancing at me.
The hallway we’re travelling down is long and narrow, with dim lights every two metres on the roof. I’m suddenly brought to a door with an old wooden sign that says “2B”. Before I can say anything, the police officers open the door. The room is even more dimly lit than the hallway, but I can just about make out someone I never expected to see here.

Wednesday, September 12, 12:46 p.m.

Mr Whitehurst is a relatively short guy for our school’s standards. Whenever he talks, he always paces around the room, and often pauses in the middle of sentences for extra effect. You’d think he’d be the type to give speeches to massive audiences, but he was a relatively reclusive person who no one ever really saw outside his lab, even at lunchtime. No one really knew his age, but he was most likely in his mid-twenties.

The Year Eights, whom he taught regularly, never had much good to say about him, describing him as a creepy no-life who always seemed to revolve his classes around the most boring things imaginable. The only good thing I’ve ever heard said about him was that sometimes he showed off some really strong acids that he once used to burn through a sheet of metal as a way of “warning” the students about substances in the lab.

As Will and I approach the door to his lab, I spot a piece of paper on the door saying, “Science Club Meeting, Monday @ Lunchtime”. As Will and I enter the room, we see about eight other students sitting at desks, and Mr Whitehurst at the whiteboard at the front of the class, writing something.

“Should be called the ‘Junior’ Science Club with the amount of Year Sevens and Eights here,” Will mutters to me. We sit down near the back of the relatively small classroom and wait for Mr Whitehurst to finish.

“There!” Mr Whitehurst eventually exclaims as he spins around to face us. “Welcome, boys and boys, to the Science Club,” he says cheerfully. “Whether you’re a regular member or new…” he says, looking at Will, causing everyone to turn around and stare at him. “... I hope you all learn something interesting from this club.”
“He’s like a different person when he’s not teaching classes,” one of the Year Eights whispers to someone.
Mr Whitehurst starts talking about what he had written on the whiteboard, but all anyone can focus on is what’s on his desk right behind him: a plastic vial of hydrochloric acid.

Thursday, September 13, 7:13 a.m.

“Mr Whitehurst, what are you doing here?!” I ask.
“Not just me,” he responds wearily, as he points to the rest of the Science Club also sitting in the room.
“What the…” I start. “I’m sorry, why is the Science Club here?”

Everyone is silent for a few seconds until I notice something.
“Wait. Where’s Will?”

The police officers that I didn’t even notice behind me start talking.
“At 6:15 a.m. this morning, Will Palmer was found dead in Logan Whitehurst’s apartment.” I freeze, and everybody, including me, looks at Mr Whitehurst. Mr Whitehurst is silent, and his eyes are on the floor.
“How did he die?” one of the Science Club members asks, almost whispering. The policeman pauses for a second and then speaks.
“His throat was burned out with some kind of acid.”

Wednesday, September 12, 1:05 p.m.

“Now, for the club’s first meeting of the term, we HAVE to start with something… exciting,” Mr Whitehurst starts. “And to all my Year Eights here, and those who have been here before, you guys all know that I LOVE acids. So today we’ll be learning about something quite special.”

He points to the acid on his desk. “This right here, as you can see from the label, is hydrochloric acid. Strong hydrochloric acid. Burns through just about anything it touches,” Mr Whitehurst says while grinning proudly. “And when I say it burns through anything, I mean everything. Even skin and small bones.”

Mr Whitehurst picks up the vial and a sheet of steel from under his desk. Then, he pours something in the sink. “What I just poured in the sink is a ‘base’,” Mr Whitehurst says. “It cancels out the acid.”

Then, holding the piece of steel about fifty centimetres above the sink, he slowly pours the hydrochloric acid on the sheet. The class gasps in disbelief at the metal. The acid effortlessly burns through it. When he’s done, Mr Whitehurst puts the vial at the back of his desk.

“Ok. Now it’s your turn,” he says, pointing to the class.

Thursday, September 13, 7:20 a.m.

I hear the door to the room open, and I see that the rest of the Science Club is in. “Logan Whitehurst, come with me, please,” an officer says. Mr Whitehurst slowly gets up from his sitting position on the cold, hard floor. The rest of the Science Club stares silently at him as he stumbles out of the room. His face is expressionless.

As the door shuts, everyone starts talking silently among themselves.
“I can’t believe Will’s dead,” I hear someone whispering.
“Do you think Mr Whitehurst did it?” I hear another ask.

About ten minutes later, I hear the door open, and Mr Whitehurst walks into the room. I can see about three police officers standing behind him. The door shuts again, and everyone is silent as Mr Whitehurst sits back down on the floor. I notice that his eyes are red.

Wednesday, September 12, 1:15 p.m.

“This is sick!” Will exclaims as he slowly pours the acid over the sheet of metal. “I can’t believe Mr Whitehurst lets us do this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Can I have a turn?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Will says, but it’s clear that he’s not done with the metal yet. He keeps pouring the acid over it until there’s barely any left. He suddenly stops and turns to me, looking serious.

“Listen, I… know about what happened to your dad. And I’m sorry, okay, man?” Will says.
“Thanks, dude,” I start. “Yeah, my mum’s struggling. Our family never had life insurance because we thought he was healthy, but… he died so quickly, and we don’t know why. My mum says we’re okay with money, but most of our income was from my dad, so I’m worried we’re gonna have to sell all our stuff.”
“Hey, listen man, whatever you need, I’m here for you, ‘kay?” Will says, patting my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

Thursday, September 13, 8:02 a.m.

“Neil Flynn?” I hear a voice say, and I jolt awake. I must’ve fallen asleep. “Come with me, please,” the voice continues. I look up and see a police officer at the door. I look around me and see the Science Club staring at me. I get up and walk towards the door.

“Follow me, please,” the police officer says. He takes me through the hallway until we reach a door reading “Interrogation”. The police officer opens the door, and I’m brought into exactly what the sign implied: an interrogation room. A table with a microphone on top of it, and two chairs at either end of the table, greets me.

The policeman shuts the door behind me. “Take a seat,” he says, serious but with a hint of kindness in his voice. I sit down, and he sits down at the opposite end of the table.

“I think I should start with an apology…” the officer starts. “I’m sorry we broke into your house and scared you and your mum. We understand what you two are going through at the moment,” he says. “But murder is a serious crime, which should be met with serious measures. Now, I’m not saying you’re the one responsible. I’m just here to ask a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?” I ask.
“Just what was going on with Will at the time. We’re not ruling out suicide here.”
“I don’t think Will was suicidal,” I say quietly.
“Then what about Mr Whitehurst? Do you think he’d commit a crime as serious as murder?”
“I don’t know him well enough,” I say. “You’ll have to ask the younger kids; he teaches them regularly.”

The policeman thinks for a few seconds and then gets up. “Ok, Mr Flynn. We’ll investigate the younger kids. You can go back to 2B.”
“Thanks,” I say.

Wednesday, September 12, 11:48 p.m.

The door to the science room creaks open. It’s pitch black inside. A figure dressed in all black enters the room, surveying the surroundings. He walks towards Mr Whitehurst’s desk at the front of the class. Hesitating, he slowly reaches for a vial of hydrochloric acid, grabs it, and puts it in his backpack.
“I’m sorry, Will,” I whisper to myself.