Lessons in Cruety
Kieran Harris
Let us begin in a crowded lecture theatre, where a hundred bright-eyed and young impressionables wait to receive a lecture. It is a standard auditorium we visit, with a stage for the speaker and a sloped seating bank for the students. Upon the stage we notice that there are three objects of various shapes and sizes. It is these items that initially attract our attention because they have had their identities covered with draped black sheets. The largest item sits stage left and is long and narrow, almost covering the depth of the lecture theatre stage and measuring about half the height to the ceiling. The medium sized item sits centre stage like a large dining table, and the smallest is a box about the size of a microwave that is kept at the back of the stage. It is hard to construe what type of lecture would need such a range of accessories.
We are not alone in our interest of these objects, the students are chattering of their curiosity and speculation about what they could be, after all this is not a class you would expect to find props to aid the lesson. These students are studying Folk Mythology and Fairytales, and in the build up to today's lecture, their tutor, Professor Pendlebury, has hardly been performative in his teachings. If anything he has been rather dull. Droning on about the Aarne-Thompson Type Index and how to apply this in the study of Folk Narratives. Until now the majority of these students had amassed a large disinterest in the subject matter, regretting ever having chosen the course, and this was mainly due to the tediousness of Professor Pendlebury's teachings. He could no more enthuse the students to begin scything through the six volumes of Stith Thompson's work on the Motif-Index than he could energise them to awaken at the end of his lectures. And so there is an excitement in the room as the students anticipate a lecture with the potential to entertain. These poor students, little do they realise the adverse perversity they are about to encounter. Little are they aware of the monstrosity that is approaching.
Caught in their budding excitement the students don't seem to notice, but if you take a moment to pause with me I believe you should hear it. Just concentrate. There. Did you hear? It is building. What started as a gust has become a wind, which seems to be coming from the corridor that leads into this lecture theatre. And look, the doors, now they're rattling, but the students are unaware. The wind seems to be getting stronger and stronger causing those doors to shake more violently in their frame, but still these students don't seem to notice. Those solid oak doors begin to quiver and warp under the winds increasing strength so much that we are wise to brace ourselves for what could happen, and then BANG! The doors slam open and the wind bursts into the room, inciting paper into flight and giving the students something of a panic. Look at that mixture of startle and confusion that paints those poor students' faces. And look at the wind as it continues to build in strength until it is swirling like a hurricane, causing the students to cling to their desks for anchorage whilst their hair flays like fire beneath the dancing stationery.
This moment of chaos only lasts for thirty seconds before the wind dies, blanketing a silence across the lecture theatre, but it's enough to make me, and you, and all of these students aware that something peculiar is beginning.
Add into this silence his approaching footsteps and it becomes eerie.
– CLUNK – CLUNK –
He wears heavy boots, you see. A creature of practicability he likes to think his boots could endure life's extremities, after all he is a patron of many an extremity.
– CLUNK – CLUNK –
The footsteps come to a stop as he enters the doorway. Can you see him? Don't mistrust your eyes. They see what the students see. The yellow eyes and pointed ears. That long powerful muzzle and bushy tail. A body covered from head to toe in grey fur. As the mind assembles these parts together they should amalgamate a wolf. Only this isn't a wolf. Not exactly. This is something else. A wolf that walks like a human upon its hind legs. A wolf so large that he has to stoop within a doorframe that measures eight feet high. The mere gigantism of this wolf should make him a monster, let alone the monstrosity of what he is. And on his feet he wears a pair of steel-capped boots. He stands in the doorway letting every pair of eyes absorb the sight of him. Allowing every mind to accept the reality of him. Just look. Can you see the fur of his legs? It is long and shaggy and in places it is matted? And look, he is wearing a jacket. Can you imagine? A wolf that is wearing a jacket? It is tweed, and looks too small for his bulging frame, but he has managed to fasten the buttons even though they look close to bursting. Between the buttons the jacket opens to reveal patches of the white fur that covers his chest and belly. It looks ridiculous. And the sleeves, look at them, they are so short that they end midway between his elbow and wrist. Because of that jacket his entire torso seems to be rigid. And his teeth? Who could miss those sharp jewels glistening between those black leather lips? And there's so much slaver and spittle it drools from his chin. And then look at that, upon his snout, he has managed to balance a tiny pair of half-rimmed glasses. Such an alarming contrast to the beastliness of what he is. And there he stands, stooped in the doorway, making sure that everyone captures the sight of him.
And then, from that snidely smiling jaw, he speaks.
"I see I have your attention," he says in a voice more human than could have been expected, but with enough gravel and enough guttural clog to be unnatural. "Good. Now let's see if I can keep it."
He steps forward, exposing the full enormity of his being, and closes the doors behind him. The slowness of his movement makes his every motion seem meticulously deliberate. The room remains silent as he approaches the centre of the stage with the only noise being the - CLUNK - CLUNK - of his boots and the heavy panting of his breath. Every three to four steps he seems to let out a low, short growl. During this walk the students are silent. So silent I'm beginning to suspect they're not breathing. Could they have died with horror at the sight of their new teacher? A quick look confirms they're still alive, but the only proof of life is the movement of their eyes following the Wolf's progression.
The Wolf reaches centre stage, placing himself between our timid students and those intriguingly covered objects that have, with his presence, taken on a more sinister persona. If they are in fact his, then what possible tools could he need, and what would he intend to do with them?
"I understand that many of you may be alarmed by appearance," says the Wolf, "this is expected." There's a controlled slowness to his speech like he is punctuating every other word. "But do not let my appearance distract you from the words I am saying. I require the attention of both your eyes and your ears."
Up close we can see the Wolf's hands, and we can see that what should be his front paws are humanoid in their structure – they have an opposable thumb and four fingers – but they are clearly not human. The skin is rough and thick, and the fingers, long and thin, are almost claw-like with those thick, black nails extending from them. Claws that could easily sear through flesh. Claws that, given the Wolf's size, could sear through concrete. After all, the Wolf is so large that each hand could hold, and potentially crush, any one of our students' innocent heads.
"I am here to replace Professor Pendlebury," explains the Wolf, "because he has become…" he shrugs as he finds the right word, "incapacitated with his studies, and this has provided me with the perfect opportunity to give you a lesson in my own area of expertise."
He licks his lips as he savours the prospect of what he is doing, and pushes his glasses back up his snout from where they seem to be falling.
"Now it is obvious that I am a wolf," he acknowledges, "what is perhaps less obvious is that I am a wolf you all know. I'm assuming, of course, that you don't recognise me. Is this true?" He waits. Nobody answers. He continues. "So perhaps I should introduce myself by my full title. The name you would have me known." He pauses to clear his throat. He wants to give himself a grand introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you today, the renowned yet misrepresented. The talented and amazing. The persecuted and prosecuted. The vilified. The villainised. The libelised and fantasised. The one and the only. Please, put your hands together for me, The Big Bad Wolf."
He bows.
There is silence.
He seems unaffected by this.
One thing I notice with the way the Wolf speaks is the enjoyment he seems to take in saying every word, and this shows in the way he stretches the sound of his vowels. Did you see? He's enjoying the delicate sibilance of those fricatives as they pass through his lips, and he's trying to soften the vehemence of his plosives, which is no mean feat when you consider the ill-shaped mouth he is talking with. He is taking pride in what he's doing.
"No doubt," says the Wolf, "you have some questions as to how this could be possible. How I, a revered fictional character, could be standing before you, but what is of a greater importance is the reason why I am standing here today."
The Wolf holds his hands behind his back and begins to pace from side to side whilst he continues speaking. With the rigid posture that his tight tweed jacket causes it makes him look like a general.
"There is a lie," he declares, "that has plagued many of these fairytales you study. The tales in which I appear, and this has been perpetrated for so long that I cannot bear to suffer it any longer."
He likes pausing in his speech, this Wolf. He pauses and examines his audience, checking that all their eyes are fixed on him.
"Let me tell you a story," he begins. "It is quite familiar. Once upon a time there were three little pigs. Three little pigs who each built themselves a home. One pig built his out of straw. Another built a house of twigs. The third, smartest of the three, built himself a house of bricks. Now, we are all aware of the version where I enter and I ask each of the pigs to let me in, and we know about each pig refusing and talking about the hairs on their chinney-chin-chin. You know that I then huff and I puff and that I blow their houses down. The house of hay and the house of straw that is. You know my breath is not strong enough for a house of brick. What you are then told is that I," he raises the inflection on this I to outline the preposterousness of what he is about to say, "that I then climb down the chimney of this indestructible house and become foiled by landing in a pot of boiling water. You are told that these tiny, insignificant pigs are able to get the upper hand and defeat me. You are told this because it makes you believe in happy endings, but look at me, standing before you, do I look like I could be beaten by something as pathetic as a pig?"
He chuckles. I don't think I've heard anything as demonic as the sound of this Wolf chuckling. It is gruff, unnatural, and evil. I don't know if it is the same for you but the very sound of his chuckle is like a warning to my soul telling me to get out of here, jump ship, be anywhere but where this monster is. And as if to highlight how unnatural his chuckle is he ends it sharply and cuts back into his speech.
"Let me tell you my version of events: If the Wolf wants it, the Wolf gets it."
The Wolf then walks to the smallest of the covered items, the one shaped like a microwave. He removes the black blanket to reveal a cage. A wire cage within which there is a pig. The pig looks to be struggling but its movements are limited due to the confined space it is in. At the sight of the Wolf the pig starts to squeal and battle against its restraints with a whole new vigour. The Wolf chuckles, this time louder, at the desperation of the pig.
He picks up the cage and shows it proudly to his captive audience.
"Here we have that third little pig," he boasts. "The one who built his house of bricks. The one you all believed had outwitted me."
He opens the cage door and pulls out the distressed pig, gently stroking it with those long, thin, fingers; taking care not to catch it with his claw-like nails.
"Look at how I am a master and he is subservient to me." The pig trembles and whimpers, but keeps wriggling as it battles for release from the Wolfs grip. It is futile, just one of the Wolf's hands is like a vice clamped around its body. "Now this little pig," continues the Wolf, "has been glorified by your stories whilst I was made a mockery of. This pig has been championed as the victor whilst I was ridiculed as the loser. But look at him now, feeble, is he really the right role model for children?" He takes hold of one of the pig's hind legs and dangles it like a fish before the students. "Is this the protagonist worth supporting in comparison to me?" He raises the pig to his face. "I think it's only fair to show how insignificant this pig really is."
The Wolf smiles, and whips the cover off the largest of the objects on the stage. A cloud of dust erupts causing fits of coughing amongst the room. As the dust settles the Wolf is revealed presenting his contraption like it is a prize for a TV game show.
"Beside me I have a catapult," he explains. "Quite an archaic design, admittedly. I believe it to be medieval in origin, but it works well and will suit its purpose for today."
There is a collective gulp from all the students as they see the sequence of events that are about to unfold in front of them. The Wolf walks round the catapult like he is a magician revealing that there are no trap doors or secret compartments through which he could fake his next trick.
"Now if I place the pig," continues the Wolf, "in the spoon, as I like to call it, of the catapult and I crank it all the way back, all I then have to do is pull this lever and…" he pulls the lever and the pig is given flight, careening across the lecture theatre over the heads of our students, squealing all the way until it comes to a splat! in the lecture theatre's wall.
My friend, have you ever witnessed something so cold, calculated and horrific? I struggle to believe what this Wolf has just done, and the brevity and effortlessness he has done it with. These poor students and that poor pig, what unseemly events are occurring?
And for the first time since the Wolf's arrival the students have taken their eyes off him. They are taking in the sight of the mushy pulp of blood and guts that was the pig. Watching those smushed remains slide to the ground where they will start to stink and stain the surface. No doubt you are as appalled as they are at what he has done to that poor pig, and if you take this moment to look at the Wolf whilst the students stare at those remains you will see that he really is enjoying himself. He's smiling. Waiting for his audience to return their attention. And look at the stage, there's still an item that hasn't been revealed. What further demonstration could he be planning? Surely these students can't allow this lecture to proceed? Surely we cannot allow this to continue?
The Wolf gives a cough to remind everyone of his presence.
"So what does this demonstration of mine show?" he asks. "Apart from the obvious that pigs cannot, in fact, fly?" He pauses to allow this question to hang for a moment. "It shows the truth," he answers. "It shows that which has been hidden. That which has been corrupted. In this story of three little pigs and a big bad wolf there can only be one winner. One inevitable outcome. Don't you see? In truth, it pays to be like me. It pays to be cruel. But no one has wanted to tell you this, and there the real cruelty was performed. You have been deluded into thinking that being like me leads to failure. But look at me, standing before you, don't I look like a champion?"
He takes a deep breath to puff out his chest and show his magnificence. As he does this a couple of buttons pop off his tweed jacket.
"Aren't I impressive?" He begins pacing about the stage again, his heavy boots CLUNK-CLUNKing with every step. "And before you begin to take pity on that pig I think you should understand an important lesson." He stops, and then says the next five words with a slow and steady beat. "There are no happy endings." He grins. "That is another lie from your stories. There are happy moments, but no happy-ever-afters. And those happy moments are only what you make or take for yourselves. Nothing is given. To seize the moment you have to be like me, not like a timid, squealing pig. This is why I should be your role model. This is why I should be the hero of your stories. Not these pets and princesses who are so weak and pathetic that they have to be saved by someone else. Saved by a White Knight or Prince Charming. I hate these stories because they support the lie that when things get bad someone else will fix it."
We're starting to catch glimpses of his anger. This lecture is personal. He walks to the middle-sized item on the stage and removes the black sheet to reveal a bed. Quite a small bed, but one large enough for an old lady to be fast asleep in.
"Here we have Grandma," he announces. "She is going to assist me with my next demonstration. I wouldn't worry about waking her, she is quite deaf." He sniggers to himself. "Now me and Grandma appear in a story called Little Red Riding Hood. You'll know it well. This is a story that really irritates me. It is the story of my failed attempt to catch and eat a little girl, which as a statement on my character is most insulting."
He spits in disgust onto the floor, and then readjusts his glasses that are once again sliding down his snout.
"Let us analyse this story. There once was a girl called Little Red Riding Hood who went walking through the forest. Along the way she meets me, the Big Bad Wolf, and I want to eat her. Now this is the moment the story should end. She meets me when I'm hungry, so the reality is that I would eat her. It should be that simple. But instead the story continues. It has me concoct a plan to catch the girl at her Grandma's house, and so I begin to look like an idiot." The Wolf tuts. "No wonder you never saw me as an example to follow." He begins his pacing again. "So I go to her Grandma's house, and I eat her Grandma up whole. The reason? So I can dress up as her Grandma and trick the little girl when she arrives. And then what happens? A woodsman turns up to save the day." He grimaces. "How convenient. Someone should have had the decency to be honest with you. After including me in a story someone should have had the courage to let me achieve my full potential. Today I intend to re-enact this story with my own interpretation. Today you'll see the lengths the Wolf will go to, to ensure that he doesn't lose."
He approaches the bed and throws back the cover to expose Grandma fast asleep in her nightgown.
"First, I need to get rid of Grandma, but I'm not going to eat her," he explains, "because that would mean I wouldn't have room for the little girl. I do, however, need to dispose of her in a way that is easy to store, and in a way that means she cannot interfere or be rescued."
He reaches into his tweed jacket and pulls out a cleaver.
"I need to make her smaller." He raises the cleaver and then swings it down towards Grandma's throat. The students jerk forward as they envisage the bloody outcome, but the Wolf stops the blade mere millimetres from the old woman's skin. He looks up mischievously at the students and laughs. "You didn't really think I was going to cut her up, did you?" He tosses the cleaver away. We hear it ting! as it hits the floor. "That way is far too messy."
Without hesitation he picks Grandma up, and then in one fluid motion he bends her in two at the hip. There's a loud and distinct cracking sound as the joints move beyond where they could feasibly move. The students "ooh" at the noise.
"This concern of yours for other people's well-being is only holding you back," he says. "Why does it bother you what happens to this old woman?" He then, mechanically, folds Grandma in half again, this time bending her in line with her knees and causing her spine to snap. A number of hands move to a number of the students' mouths as they fight back the vomit. Unflinchingly the Wolf bends Grandma yet again. There's a scrunching crunching sound as the bones crumble under his strength, and a number of those vomit-restricting hands are breached as the students begin to wretch.
"It's about time you embraced the cruel side of yourself," he instructed. "It is lying there, within you, closer to the surface than you care to admit." And then he folds Grandma in half once more. This time the only sound she gives off is a squelchy, farty noise that is a mixture of guts squashing and gasses being released. The Wolf now holds, proudly in his hand, a cube of what once was Grandma. On the side that faces his audience there is a bulbous, bloodshot eye staring blankly. This is a vulgarity to be privy to. The Wolf seems ignorant of the students' horror. I suspect he is having too much of a good time. He sets the cubed Grandma onto the floor tidily beside the bed.
"And now with Grandma out of the way I can capture and eat that little girl," he declares. "Today is the day I show you that only the Wolf could be victorious in this tale. And I'm going to show you that there are no rescuers in the real world."
He climbs onto the bed. The frame bows under his weight.
"It is time for you all to witness the truth." He picks up the duvet and lies down, pulling the cover over his head so that he disappears from view.
We wait.
A feeling of dread and unease seems to fill the lecture theatre, and then…
Look. The door. The handle is turning. The catch is released and the door starts to squeak open.
"Grandma?"
That voice is so young and gentle, so sweet and innocent. This cannot be happening. We can't see her yet but that is clearly the voice of a girl aged around seven or eight. And here we are silent, me, you, and the students, stunned by the atrocity that is unfolding. Dumb by our disbelief and disgust. This cannot be happening. The door opens further and it is the brown picnic hamper we see first, rocking unsteadily on a small and straining arm. And then she enters the room. She's so small and bright eyed and beautiful. The hamper is weighing her down so she grabs hold of the handle with both hands and carries it in front of her, hunched slightly by the weight and kicking it with every other step. She carries it halfway into the theatre and then sets it down. She returns to the door and closes it. Bizarrely enough she doesn't seem to notice the hundred or so students in the room.
With the door closed, quietly I might add for she is considerate of her dear old Gran, Red Riding turns to face the bed. You must be like me, like all these students, wanting to scream out for her to not get any closer. Wanting to tell her to turn and run. But some device that I can only assume is fear seems to prevent us from doing anything. We are passive and ineffective. Merely purveyors. Readers of a book. Viewers of a show. Everything that happens is out of our control. It is preordained and we seem to know it.
"Grandma?" she calls out quietly, "are you sleeping? It's me, Little Red Riding Hood." She treads forward gingerly, tentative of disturbing her Gran in case she is fast asleep. Her mother has taught her to be polite and considerate of others. "I've brought you some cakes that Mummy and I made."
As Little Red steps closer and closer to the bed we can see the bed sheets rise and fall from the Wolf's breathing, but it's also notable that he has vastly reduced his bulk by some unknown contortion because not only has he successfully fitted under the covers to not reveal any of himself, he has managed to look about the size of a little old woman laid beneath the covers instead of a big bad wolf.
Little Red continues forwards, and although we don't want to see this we can't help but look.
"Grrr." The Wolf lets out one low growl.
"My, what a loud snore you have," says Little Red Riding Hood.
This seems to be the Wolf's cue, for he springs up from beneath the covers to show his true self.
Little Red disintegrates into a high-pitched, shrill scream. The Wolf grabs hold of her and raises her off the floor.
"Where's your rescuer this time, little girl?"
He then starts to eat her. He bites the head off first. The motion is so fluid it's like watching a cartoon. He then eats the torso. And then the legs. He chews thoroughly, ensuring there is nothing left to salvage. Her red blood dribbles from his lips and down onto the tweed jacket that is tearing at the seams on his now bloated frame. Once finished he lets out an enormous burp in which a piece of red fabric escapes.
"Excuse me," he says, adjusting the glasses on his snout.
He then starts applauding himself, beckoning the students to copy, which they do slowly and robotically. It's a limp wristed applause but the Wolf is enjoying it.
"Thank you," he beams, bowing proudly.
The clapping dies but the Wolf resurrects it, once again showing the students how he expects them to clap. In this new lacklustre ovation the Wolf starts howling with delight.
My friend, I am sickened.
We all are.
If you look at the students you will notice a change has occurred. No longer are they stricken with terror and horror and disgust at this vulgarity; they are crying. Not hysterically. It is sombre. Honest. Regretful.
"Now isn't this a more believable version of the story?" asks the Wolf. "Doesn't this make you want to be more like me?"
No one answers.
The Wolf waits. He starts to look impatient.
"You know, I'm beginning to feel a little unappreciated," he says. "So far not one of you has said 'thank you'. In fact, not one of you has shown any gratitude towards me or the lesson I have given."
He pauses. He seems to be becoming irritable at the sound of their sobbing.
"STOP!" he barks. "Stop being so weak! Haven't you learnt anything from what I've shown you? Why do you embarrass yourself with this patheticness?"
As he builds in anger his voice starts to sound more and more animal.
"This is supposed to be your enlightenment. The world is cruel, the only way to survive is to be cruel. Be like the Wolf. Take what you want and don't care for others." He is becoming more violent with his annunciation and showering the students with a spray of spittle, pacing across the stage in frustration. And as he becomes more animal like in his rage I begin to fear the outcome. What if he was to lose his restraint and attack the students? Surely if he was to break free of whatever leash has kept his bloodlust from harming them it would be catastrophic. My friend, I think we have witnessed enough horror for a lifetime to not need that. The Wolf himself seems to acknowledge this possibility because he pauses.
He takes a deep breath.
He breathes out slowly.
"You are going to tell people of what I have done today," he says, keeping his mouth tight to restrain his outrage, "and when people learn of the truth, they will thank you. And when they realise the wrongdoing that has been done to me they will undo it so that when the stories of Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs are told in the future they will be told the correct way, with the Wolf victorious, because we now know that the Wolf would never lose. No longer will I be subjected to a lazy, deceitful ending. And you will benefit from this. You will leave here empowered with the wisdom that if you want something then you take it. The truth cannot be contained any longer. I cannot be contained any longer. No writer could ever cheat a copout…"
Mid-speech the Wolf falls. He is walking backwards and has tripped over the cube that once was Grandma. And look, he is falling backwards in the direction of that cleaver he discarded earlier. That cleaver he held at Grandma's throat. A cleaver that seems to be defying the laws of possibility. Do you see? Ordinarily a discarded cleaver will lie harmlessly on the floor with its blade pointing neither up nor down, but sideways. This cleaver, however, is balancing on its side with the blade facing the ceiling. That was until the Wolf tripped however, because the blade is now facing the back of his neck. What are the chances? The sight of the Wolf falling is so hypnotic that it seems to happen in infinite slow motion. His arms go up like they are trying to catch an invisible rope that will hold him. His legs go up like gravity has been reversed and he is going to stand on the ceiling. But the cleaver doesn't move. Instead its blade pierces through the flesh of his neck and bites into the muscle. This is so slow and yet it happens quickly. As the Wolf falls further we can hear the twang! of his nerve endings splitting, but he makes no sound, so in shock is he at his undoing. And I must admit that I am enjoying seeing his demise. As must you be. And the students. As the Wolf falls further the blade cuts a path between his vertebrae and punctures the carotid artery, sealing his doom. A spasm ripples the Wolf's body, but his falling carcass continues, forcing the blade to tear through his larynx before breaking free of the flesh at the front of his throat.
Is it really over?
As the body slumps to the ground real-time kicks in and the Wolf's head rolls to the back of the theatre where it rests. The eyes are beady but lifeless, the ears are pointy but deaf, the teeth are sharp but pointless.
It is over.
The students begin to rise, surprisingly calm, and make their way to the exit. This is bizarre. I'd expected hysteria. I'd expected flocking and racing for freedom. I hadn't expected this. One hundred students stand and leave the room like they've woken at the end of a lecture by Professor Pendlebury. Like they've dreamed what we too have just witnessed. They are unresponsive to the Wolf's bloody demise, like it is a matter of normality. Like decapitation is to be expected. Like this grotesqueness can no longer faze them. Could this mean that the Wolf's lesson has inspired a new perspective for our students? Does this mean he has corrupted them? Or is this the only feasible reaction in the face of such trauma? If the Wolf has influenced the students can we allow them to leave? Shouldn't we all remain until the police come and investigate exactly what just happened? We can't walk away, can we? But then, as I ask these questions I see you're already moving towards the exit. I see you've made your decision. Are you leaving me here to clear this mess? Are you leaving me with the responsibility? And what will you do out there after witnessing what has happened today? Pretend you never saw it? Block it out and hope it doesn't haunt you when you're sleeping? You can't leave. None of us can. We need to talk about this. We need to have an opinion, an understanding. We all sat by and watched. None of us did anything to try and stop these atrocities. Three murders and one accidental death, and we did nothing. To allow this, I ask, doesn't that make us cruel?
I ask this and then you walk out the door without answering.
Kieran Harris
