The Adventures of David Argyll (standard:adventure, 1376 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Feb 04 2006	Views/Reads: 3545/2266	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Following the exploits of an uncharismatic intellectual teenager. Part one, in which David Argyll bears witness to murder

David has always been an appropriate name for me, because it is sort of
neutral. 

If anything, the pronunciation of “David” leans towards slowness,
idleness and a droning lack of enthusiasm, which pretty much sums me 
up.  I have been called an idol intellectual, which is rather nice, and 
something I like to play up to - but if you can't be idle at sixteen, 
when can you be idle? 

“Any time after your exams... just pull your act together until then!”
my mother enjoys telling me.  She also enjoys reminding me that “It's 
so unfair on me that you keeping living so relentlessly in the world of 
yourself,” so I never know how much to listen. 

The one I should never have listened to, and I see that now, was the
constant pressure to go to college.  As they kept protesting, the 
Ailfordham and Marwick Specialist College for Students of Mathematics 
and English Literature is the second best in the country within its 
field, and ninth (I believe) in the world.  That didn't really appeal 
greatly.  I still can't see that I wouldn't have been a hell of a lot 
happier meeting interesting people in dubious fast food outlets, 
flipping dubious burgers with dubious meat in them, for a dubious wage. 
 I like money better than qualifications, and the whole experience 
would not only have worked wonders for my social diversity, but also 
have induced much less mental exhaustion. 

Of course, there's also the factor that becoming a “McSkivvy” would have
meant I'd never have got involved in the obscure series of murders.  I 
had better get on with telling you about that one, hadn't I? 

The most suitable beginning would probably be the maths lesson during
which the first major event, as such, took place. 

If I recall correctly, and it is very possible that I don't, because I
really lack the motivation to listen in these lessons, we were talking 
about tangents. 

“Just a quick revision lesson, really,” the teacher, and I use the term
lightly, was expostulating in his pointlessly forged and self-satisfied 
crisp accent.  “If you're anything like me, I know  you won't even need 
this lesson; we members of the intellectually elite never need to be 
told anything more than once, and sometimes not even that.”  He 
surveyed the room distastefully (and that is a word heavily associated 
with Mark Cartwright).  “I'm not overly pleased with the poor 
attendance here.  How many of us are there...?”  He counted the room.  
Yes, the Head of Mathematics needed to count on his fingers.  “Only 
six.  How disappointing.” 

How odd: could it perhaps be anything to do with his comment last week
that if you disagreed with the way in which he taught you didn't have 
to turn up? 

“Well,” the arrogant and weakly bearded man, who was indubitably half
way through a midlife crisis, continued.  “It makes no difference to 
me.  Whatever happens, this isn't my fault, so I still get paid.  Ah!” 
Sitting back and grinning again, he added: “Not that I need it.  I've 
told you all, of course, the story of me and the tramp... he actually 
wanted my money...  I mean it's not like he even pays his taxes...  No 
time for the homeless, it is their fault...” 

I don't hate anyone; it goes against all my principals.  I simply try to
maintain a neutral attitude to everything and everyone in my life, but 
Mark Cartwright tries this maxim more than anyone else. 

He was going on, though.  “Well, well, we had ought to start  hadn't we?
 Have I told you all about the time I was stopped because the policeman 
liked my personalised Bentley?”  Only nine times this weak - it was 
already  Wednesday, he was slowing down. 

“I thought today,” Ha!  First time for everything.  “That we might watch
a film.  This is the one with my very good friend Keanu Reaves in the 
lead.”  In fact, to earn the accolade of being Mark Cartwright's very 
good friend, Mr. Reaves had only to be in the same building at one 
point: Buckingham Palace on a public exhibition.  We were being treated 
to The Matrix.  Yet again. 


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