The blood seeped slowly from under the office door. Anisha, happily wandering from office to office with her mop and bucket, didn't notice it until she felt a faint stickiness under her feet. Bemused, she looked down, sniffed cautiously - and screamed.
Rupert Piestley-Jones was the type of Assistant Head I find, shall we say, "difficult". Put another way, I wanted to poke his eyes out, slowly. He was shiny - neat briefcase, iPhone, immaculate shirt with posy cufflinks and a faint waft of a very expensive but rather nasty aftershave. Always busy, always just back from, or going to, his latest session at the National College, full of strategies, action plans and hot air. As far as I could see Rupert never actually did anything; he just ran about a lot looking important. I'd long ago abandoned going to him for advice or support; I only had to put my head round the door and he'd be on the phone to Someone Important or just off to a Meeting. I didn't merit any capital letters in Rupert's world.
So, why was I going to his office? I wasn't, I was just passing..but noticed Anisha's discarded mop and bucket. It looked odd - the cleaning materials sprawled in front of his door, and his blind pulled down. Ruport never closed the blind on his office door; he always wanted to be On Show, Importantly Busy. The blind had a spray of dark spots across it, and I started to feel vaguely quesay - this didn't look right. It was only 7.50 in the morning, and none of the rest of the Senior Team was in yet. Looking back on it now I feel I demonstrated remarkable presence of mind. Unlike Anisha, I did not scream and run off; what I beheld as I opened the door was truly shocking.
Rupert sprawled in the middle of his office, speadeagled and face down over a pile of files and folders. He looked like someone who had been carrying an enormous pile of files, tipped an falln on top of them. Apart from the javelin sticking out of his back, that is.
