by Paul Murray
‘The Costigan wing!’ pipes up Trudy.
‘Yes, well –’ the Automator tugs his ear ‘– I don’t know what it would be called. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. My point is, we’ve got to start playing to our strengths, and there’s one strength we have that’s stronger than every other school. Know what that is?’
‘Um…’
‘Exactly, Howard. History. This is the oldest Catholic boys’ school in the country. That gives the name of Seabrook College a certain resonance. Seabrook means something. It stands for a particular set of values, values like heart and discipline. A marketing man might say that what we have here is a product with a strong brand identity.’ He leans against the denuded bookcase, wags his finger at Howard pedagogically. ‘Brands, Howard. Brands rule the world today. People like them. They trust them. And yet, branding is something that this administration has neglected. I’ll give you an example. This year is the school’s 140th anniversary. Perfect opportunity to raise a hooha, get people’s attention. Instead it’s barely been registered.’
‘Maybe they’re waiting for the 150th,’ Howard says.
‘What?’
‘I mean, maybe they want to wait till the 150th anniversary to raise a hoo-ha. You know, as most people would regard it as a bigger deal.’
‘The 150th’s ten years away, Howard. Can’t afford to sit around ten years, not in this game. Anyway, 140 years is just as big a deal as 150. Numerical difference, that’s all. Point is, this is a significant opportunity for brand reinforcement and we’ve almost missed the boat on it. Almost but not completely. We still have the Christmas concert. What I’m thinking is, this year we turn it into a special 140th-anniversary spectacular. Make a real fuss over it. Media coverage, maybe even a live broadcast.’
‘Sounds great,’ Howard agrees dutifully.
‘Doesn’t it? And what I want to do is include some kind of historical overview of the school. Put it in the programme notes, even incorporate it into the show somehow. “140 Years of Triumph”, “Victory through the Ages”, something like that. With, you know, amusing anecdotes from yesteryear, first use of an electric light switch, so forth. People like that sort of thing, Howard, gives them a feeling of oneness with the past.’
‘Sounds great,’ Howard repeats.
‘Great! So you’ll do it?’
‘What? Me?’
‘Outstanding – Trudy, make a note that Howard’s agreed to be our “brand historian” for the concert.’ Restoring himself to his position at the desk, the Automator straightens a sheaf of papers summatively. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by, Howard, I – oh,’ as Trudy leans in and whisperingly points to something on her clipboard. ‘One other thing, Howard. You have a Juster in your second-year class, a Daniel Juster?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Wanted to sound you out about him. He was involved in an incident today in Father Green’s French class, an incident of vomiting.’
‘I heard something about that.’
‘Who is this kid, Howard? Priest asks him a question, he vomits all over the place?’
‘He’s – well, he’s…’ Howard deliberates, summoning Juster’s from an image of thirty bored faces.
‘Apparently he likes to call himself “Slippy”. What’s that about? He a slippery customer, that it?’
‘Actually I think it’s “Skippy”.’
‘ “Skippy”!’ the Automator says derisively. ‘Well, that makes even less sense!’
‘I believe it comes from the, uh, television kangaroo?’
‘Kangaroo?’ the Automator repeats.
‘Yes, you see the boy, ah, Juster, has these buck teeth, and when he speaks he sometimes makes a noise which some of the boys find similar to the noise the kangaroo makes. When it’s talking to humans.’
The Automator is looking at him like he’s speaking in tongues. ‘Okay, Howard. Let’s leave the kangaroos for the minute. What’s his story? Ever had any trouble with him?’
‘No, generally he’s an excellent student. Why? You don’t think he got sick deliberately?’
‘Don’t think anything, Howard. Just want to make sure we’ve got the angles covered. Juster’s rooming with Ruprecht Van Doren. I don’t need to tell you he’s one of our top students. Single-handedly raises the grade average for the year by about six per cent. We don’t want anything happening to him, mixing with the wrong element, what have you.’
‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about as far as Juster’s concerned. Maybe he’s a bit of a dreamer, but…’
‘Dreaming’s not something we encourage here either, Howard. Reality, that’s what we’re all about. Reality; objective, empirical truths. That’s what’s on the exam papers. You go into an exam hall, they don’t want to know what crazy mess of nonsense you dreamed last night. They want hard facts.’
‘I meant,’ Howard struggles, ‘I don’t think he’s any kind of a subversive. If that’s what you’re worried about.’
The Automator relents. ‘You’re probably right, Howard. Probably just ate a bad burger. Still, no point taking chances. That’s why I’d like you to have a word with him.’
‘Me?’ Howard’s heart sinks for the second time in five minutes.
‘Ordinarily, I’d send him for a session with the guidance counsellor, but Father Foley’s out this week having his ears drained. It sounds like you’ve got a pretty good handle on him, and I know the boys relate to you –’
‘I don’t think they do,’ Howard interjects quickly.
‘Of course they do. Young man like you, they see you as someone they can confide in, sort of a big brother figure. It doesn’t have to be anything formal. Just a quick chat. Take his temperature. If he’s got some sort of issue, set him straight. Probably nothing. Still, best to make sure. Vomiting in the classroom is definitely not something we want catching on. Time and a place for vomiting, and the classroom is not it. Think you could teach a class, Howard, with kids vomiting everywhere?’
‘No,’ Howard admits sullenly. ‘Though the way I hear it, it’s Father Green you should be talking to, not Juster.’
‘Mmm.’ The Automator withdraws into his thoughts a moment, spinning a fountain pen through his fingers. ‘Things can get a little close to the knuckle in Jerome’s classes, it’s true.’ Again he pauses, the chair creaking as he shifts his weight backwards; addressing himself to the portrait of his predecessor, he says, ‘To be frank, Howard, could be the best thing for everyone if the Paracletes started taking more of a back seat. No disrespect to any of them, but the truth is that in educational terms they’re outmoded technology. And having them around makes the parents anxious. Not their fault, of course. But pick up a newspaper, every day you see some new horror story, and mud sticks, that’s the tragedy of it.’
It’s true: for ten years or more, a relentless stream of scandals – secret mistresses, embezzlement and, to a degree still almost incomprehensible, child abuse – has eroded the power the Church once wielded over the country almost to nothing. The Paraclete Fathers remain one of the few orders to remain untouched by disgrace – in fact, thanks to their role in one of the top private schools at a time of spectacular wealth creation and even more spectacular conspicuous consumption, they have retained a certain cachet. Nonetheless, once-simple things, such as dropping a child home from choir practice, have been thoroughly removed from the priests’ gift.
‘Flipside of a strong brand is that you have to protect it,’ the Automator says, swivelling back to Howard. ‘You have to be vigilant against ideas or values that are contrary to what the brand is about. This is a precarious time for Seabrook, Howard. That’s why I want to be certain everyone’s singing from the same hymn sheet. We need to make sure, now more than ever, that everything we do, down to the last detail, is being done the Seabrook way.’
‘Okay,’ Howard stammers.
‘Look forward to hearing your feedback on our friend, Howard. And I’m glad we had this little talk. If things pan out
the way I think they will, I’m seeing big things for you here.’
‘Thanks,’ Howard says, getting to his feet. He wonders if he’s supposed to shake hands; but the Automator has already directed his attention elsewhere.
‘Bye, Howard,’ Trudy looks up at him for one demure moment as he trudges out of the office, and makes a tick on her clipboard.
Carl and Barry spend their whole lunchtime down in the junior school playground, trying to find more pills. It is total bullshit. You ask the kids a question and they just look at you, it’s like they speak a different language down here that over the summer Carl and Barry have forgotten. And all of them act mental, so you can’t tell which ones might have prescriptions. After half an hour, Barry’s got exactly one pill, which might just be a mint. He’s really angry. Carl wishes he had not thrown away their pills! He doesn’t remember now why he did it, he doesn’t know why he does things sometimes. He thinks about Lollipop waiting for him this evening and him not coming.
Now the bell goes and the kids run back inside in one big swarmy yell. ‘Fuck it,’ Barry says, and he and Carl begin the trudge back over the rugby pitches towards the senior school. But then they see something.
The boy’s name is Oscar. Last year he was in third class, four below Carl and Barry, but he was already famous for the trouble he got into. Not just messing in class – weird shit, like getting stuck in ventilation shafts, eating chalk, pretending he was an animal and yelping down the corridors. Now, walking along with his bag trailing in the grass behind him, you can see him talking to himself, the fingers of his hands flashing out again and again like little pink explosions. Then he stops, and looks up, and gulps. That’s because Carl and Barry are blocking his way.
‘Hello there,’ Barry says.
‘Hello,’ Oscar answers in a small voice.
Barry tells Oscar politely that he and Carl are doing a science experiment in the senior school using these pills. But they have run out! He shows Oscar the sweets they have brought for anyone who can help them find new pills. Even before he can finish, Oscar is jumping up and down, shouting, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’
‘Shh,’ Barry says, looking over his shoulder. ‘Come this way a second.’ They bring Oscar behind one of the big trees. ‘Do you have them with you?’ Barry says. ‘In your schoolbag?’
‘No,’ Oscar says. ‘My mum gives me them in the morning.’
‘In the morning?’ Barry asks.
‘After my Shreddies,’ Oscar says. ‘But I know where she keeps them! I can reach them if I stand on a chair.’
He is all ready to run off and get them right now! But Barry tells him to wait till after school. ‘You go home and bring us back as many pills as you can. Don’t take them all or your mum will notice. We’ll wait for you over there in the mud-piles, okay? And we’ll give you this whole bag of sweets.’
Oscar nods in excitement. Then he says, ‘I have a friend who gets pills too.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ Barry says. ‘Bring him too. But make sure you come as quick as you can. It’s urgent.’
The kid runs off, his schoolbag bumping along the ground after him. Barry’s eyes are shining with cleverness. ‘Back in business,’ he says.
At 3.45 Carl and Barry go down to the mud-piles, through the trees along the side of the pitches so no one sees them. Trucks dumped the piles here two summers ago, a whole string of them from the long-jump sandpit right up to the back wall of the school. Carl and Barry’s class used to play War on Terror on them every lunchtime until a boy from fifth class split his head open and his parents took the school to court. Now no one is allowed to play on them, or even run in the yard any more.
Oscar waits for them in the very last of the mounds. Another even twitchier boy is with him. Oscar says his name is Rory, his face is a weird fizzy white that reminds Carl of the drink his mom drinks for her stomach. Between them they have twenty-four pills. But there is a problem.
‘We don’t want sweets,’ Oscar says.
‘What?’ Barry says.
‘We don’t want them,’ Oscar says.
‘But you made a deal,’ Barry says.
Oscar just shrugs. Behind him the chalky sick-looking kid folds his arms.
‘Look,’ Barry says, ‘look at all the sweets we have.’ He holds the bag open for them to see. ‘Mars Bars, Sugar Bombs, Gorgo Bars, Stingrays, Milky Moos, Cola Bottles…’
The kids don’t say anything. They know it’s a shit deal. In junior school all anyone does is make trades, for football stickers, lunches, computer games, whatever, you know when someone’s trying to rip you off. Above the black ridge, light is bleeding out of the sky. Carl thinks they should just grab the kids and take the pills from them. But Barry has explained to him already that what they want to establish here is an ONGOING RELATIONSHIP. If you TAKE the pills today, what will you do tomorrow? (Ever since last night when Carl threw away the pills, Barry’s been speaking to him in a SLOW, CAREFUL voice, the same way Carl’s remedial maths teacher does when she’s telling him, Now say if you want to save for a new bike that costs two hundred euro, and you put a hundred euro in the bank, and the RATE OF INTEREST is ten per cent, then it would take you… Carl, it would take you…?)
Barry stomps down to one end of the dugout, then comes back again and takes out his wallet. There is a twenty-euro note in there. He waves it under Oscar’s nose. ‘Twenty euro, and the sweets.’ Oscar doesn’t even look at the money. Across the pitches the clock strikes four. The girls will be arriving soon. ‘What is it you want?’ Barry shouts. ‘How can we do a deal if you won’t say what you want?’
The two small boys look at each other. Then in the distance a banger goes off. Oscar’s face lights up. ‘Fireworks!’ he says.
‘You just thought of that now!’ Barry says.
‘Fireworks!’ the white-faced kid speaks for the first time.
‘Where the fuck are we supposed to get fireworks?’ Barry says. But now the two boys are yapping away about what kind and how many – ‘Bangers – rockets – quartersticks!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Barry says. ‘You win. If you want fireworks, fair enough. But we can’t get them to you till tomorrow. So here’s what we’ll do. You give us the pills now for our experiment, and then tomorrow we’ll meet you here again, same time, same place, with the fireworks.’
‘Ha ha!’ Oscar laughs – actually laughs! ‘No way.’
Barry makes a noise like Gnnnhhhh through his teeth, and Carl can tell he is thinking, Fuck the deal, let’s teach these faggots some respect. But then he turns to Carl and says, ‘Watch them,’ and he pegs it off across the rugby pitches.
‘Where’s your friend gone?’ Oscar asks. Carl says nothing, just folds his arms and tries to look like he knows what’s happening.
‘What’s your science project about?’ the white-faced kid Rory asks.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Carl says. He looks out into the going-dark evening. Maybe Barry won’t come back. Maybe he’s gone to meet Lollipop on his own! This is all a trick, he arranged it with the kids, and –
Panting, Barry clambers back into the dugout. In his hand is a plastic bag. ‘Fireworks,’ he says.
Every kind: Black Holes, Sailor Boys, Spider Bombs and others. Barry fans them out on the ground. ‘You can’t have all of them,’ he says, like a dad in a shop. ‘Pick out three each.’ The boys stare, whispering the names to each other. ‘Today, arseholes. And give me those pills first.’
They hand over the pills without even thinking – the white-faced kid’s in a Smarties box, Oscar’s wrapped in old clingfilm that smells like sandwiches. Barry counts them into Morgan Bellamy’s tube. Then he nods, and the two kids snatch up the fireworks before he can change his mind.
Now Carl and Barry are hurrying back over the pitches. The squishy ground is going hard with cold, the grass and trees are dark like night is spreading up from below.
‘Where did you get all that stuff?’ Carl asks.
‘Firework fairy.’ Barry smiles mysteriously.
He is happy again now. As they walk he tells Carl how it just goes to show, everybody has a price, and often it’s a lot less than you expect. But he does not let Carl carry the pills or even touch them.
There are no lights behind Ed’s. First all Carl sees are the glowing tips of their cigarettes. Then the faces come out of the dark. Five of them: Lollipop, Crinkly-Hair and three others, talking in American-girl accents, waving around their Marlboro Lights. It is strange seeing them here, among the weeds and the cans and the bashed-up supermarket trolleys. The Tower stares over the scraggly trees and bushes like a giant stone face. But no one real is watching.
‘Hey, ladies,’ Barry says, like this is all totally normal, like he has just wandered over to their table at LA Nites. They look back at him without speaking, and as the boys come closer, the three new girls huddle together, their eyes flicking from Barry to Carl and back again.
‘Weren’t you supposed to be here a half-hour ago?’ Crinkly-Hair sounds pissed off.
Rising above the others, Lollipop gazing right at him. Carl feels his dick wake and stir in his pants.
‘We had some trouble with our connection,’ Barry tells her.
‘I thought that was your own personal prescription,’ Crinkly-Hair says.