“Further Disciplinary Action”: Part II
The Ultimate End To This Mind-Boggling Saga
H. R. Gluskie
TO RECAP MY PREVIOUS ADVENTURES, uncovering just what this infamous and mysterious ‘further disciplinary action’ is, has proven harder than expected. Snooping into the archives of the Shore Weekly Record was where I found Old Boy, John Doe’s diary from 1932. Once a popular boy navigating the struggles of senior school life, his not-so-brilliant idea to enact a practical prank during the Preliminary Year 11 English Advanced Examination had him waiting for his further disciplinary action in the Chapel; illuminating my first clue in this riveting case.
Getting access to the Chapel alone was the hardest feat I had faced yet. Weeks of planning, and multiple Ocean’s Eleven movies were studied and I had still come up with nothing. It was only when I fell into a deep sleep mid-economics lesson where I had a most odd dream that ignited a flawless plan to be brewed – I was to become Shore’s newest organ scholar. Instantaneously I started researching the organ, borrowing books from the library, buying masterclasses on the organ, and spending sleepless nights practising on my cutout paper organ I had made myself at home. Months later, I was determined and confident that I could play a rendition of ‘I Vow to Thee My Country’ sublimely on a real organ. Ready to prove to the Music Department that I was a real scholar and thenceforth gain access to the Chapel, I approached the Head office and told them I was the newest organ scholar and needed keys to the Chapel to practice. To which they replied with “Sure”, and didn’t bat an eye at this absurd request I was coming to them with. Regardless, I made my way down to the Chapel and heroically swung open the doors to be met with a most eerie pitch-black Chapel.
I lit a candle and slid off my sandals to ensure whoever, or whatever was here, could not hear me.
I started my scavenge, aggressively checking each hymn book and pew Bible. Nothing showed up. I couldn’t find any trace of John Doe. I was struck when I realised there was one more place I hadn’t checked yet – the North Transept. I creaked open the door, stepping into a rather chilly room, frightened by the rows of previous Chaplain’s eyes staring me down. I shone my candle in the middle of the room, illuminating a clump of golf clubs sitting in the corner – spooky!
Pulling open draws revealed nothing but the same old hymn books and Bibles. One however, had a collection of vintage Torch Bearers. I started reading the spines; 1924… 1927… 1929… 1932. I tore open the book which was followed by a cloud of dust and a faint scream to come from the centre. Frozen, I concluded that it was just my imagination, and had to reflect on exactly what Street Chef were putting in those Bento Boxes… My fingers started flipping through the pages until I reached Year 11, Semester 1. I skimmed through the names; Anderson, Bakewell, Brown… Calcraft, Dexter… And there it was – ‘Doe’. I turned the page over to Year 11, Semester 2, in aid of quenching my worries. Again, my eyes frantically skimmed the page: Anderson, Bakewell, Brown… Calcraft, Dexter, Erickson. Where was Doe? I read it again to no conclusion: Calcraft, Dexter, Erickson. Doe was gone, wiped from the records, the School, and God only knows what else. I slammed the book shut, frightened to the core; the Exam King had taken action. With my heart in a pit of anxiousness, I trudged over to the organ, melancholic that my quest had come to a not-so-insightful end. I lined up my fingers on any note I saw fit; A low F# on the pinky, to a high Ab on the ring, but most importantly; all the pedals pressed down. I held my breath and played this horrendous, cacophony of a chord. It echoed all around that grand Chapel, but suddenly, I heard something out of the ordinary – A bell tolled, followed by a series of clicks. I stepped back from the organ and took a look down the hallway from the alter what had just occurred: the floor had descended underground, revealing a staircase leading to somewhere beyond eyesight.
With each stair I stepped down, a row of tiki torches would automatically alight from the darkness, setting me a path where I could not see the end. It was with one step however, that a distant light in the middle of this transcendent void illuminated itself on a podium. Much like The Smiths’ song, it was a light that indeed never went out. I hurried over, revealing it to be an intricately carved, wooden lectern of hands holding up this book. And there it was, right on the front cover: “Further Disciplinary Action”. I turned over the cover in eagerness – this was to be my career-defining solve. But right at that moment, all my hairs stood on end, a silent shriek unable to escape my lips, tinged ocean blue from fear. Anxiety’s claws began to distort my mind.
The light from the book was emerging, but the only thing I could feel was the reaper’s impending scythe, the serrated edge poised to draw blood from my pale neck. The cold breath of the only man it could be behind me hit my neck: “You have just received further disciplinary action.”