Skippy Dies: A Novel

by Paul Murray

  Howard, in spite of his best efforts, can only goggle, like a man in a bell jar.

  ‘You’re right – Trudy, cut that whole lion part, it’s too much.’ Trudy assiduously takes a red pen to a printout sitting on her desk. ‘But I’ll tell you this, Howard, whatever else happens, this Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert is going to give the Old Man exactly the send-off he deserves. We’re having the auditions day after tomorrow, though we’ve preselected most of the acts, obviously.’

  Howard is confused. ‘This is a different concert to the 140th…?’

  ‘No, Howard, one and the same, except that now it’s doubly momentous, in that it not only marks a milestone anniversary in the school’s history, but also commemorates the passing of one of its leading lights. The Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert, it has a ring to it, don’t you think? Gives it that extra touch of gravitas.’

  ‘But he isn’t actually dead yet,’ Howard establishes as delicately as he can.

  ‘No, he’s not. No sir, those doctors have another think coming if they believe they’ve got some shrinking violet on their hands here.’

  ‘So by the time the concert comes round… does that not mean he may actually still…’

  ‘Well, in that case we’ll have all the more reason to celebrate, won’t we? Unfortunately, Howard, that is not likely at all, not at all, I’m afraid, according to the latest prognosis. At this point he needs a miracle, poor man. That reminds me, though, how are you getting on with those programme notes? Real surfeit of riches, once you dive into those school records, isn’t there?’

  ‘Oh – absolutely,’ Howard says, picturing the empty notepad sitting under his library books at home. ‘Yes, it’s really coming together…’

  ‘That’s outstanding, Howard, knew I could count on you. Now, you said there was something you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Oh yes… I’m thinking of taking my second-years on a class trip to the museum…’

  ‘Oh really?’ the Automator turning away again to part the louvres of the blind. ‘A class trip, eh?’

  ‘Yes, we’re doing the First World War at the moment and for a while now I’ve been thinking it would be good for the boys to see some of the uniforms and guns and so on. It’s not really treated in the textbook, you see, so this would be a way to bring it to life a little, as opposed to being just dead facts on a page…’

  ‘It’s not treated in the textbook?’

  ‘Not in any depth, no. Hard to believe, I know, but it actually does the whole war in half a page, and it doesn’t mention Ireland’s involvement at all. A field trip would be a way of engaging the boys on a personal level, to show them what their counterparts of ninety years ago would have experienced – actually, I’m sure there were Seabrook boys who went to the Front, we could ev–’

  ‘Yesyesyes,’ the Automator interjects, in what sounds like a distinctly minor tone. ‘I have to say, Howard, departures from the textbook always set alarm bells going in my head. These dead facts on a page, as you call them, are the same ones that your class are going to have to reproduce in their exam papers next year. Engaging the boys is all well and good, but your job first and foremost is to get those facts off the page and into their brains by any means necessary. Not to start confusing them with a whole slew of new facts.’

  ‘I do feel that this is something they’d find particularly beneficial, Greg –’

  ‘Of course you do, but where does it end? Heck of a lot of facts out there, Howard, heck of a lot of history. You wanted to put all that history in one book, it’d be the size of a warehouse and take you a thousand years to read, by which time of course a thousand more years of history would’ve elapsed. Until they invent, first of all, a history-supercomputer that can fit the whole thing on a single chip, and then some way of downloading the information directly into your brain, we have to be selective about what areas we’re going to concentrate on, you see what I’m driving at here?’

  ‘It would just be a half-day trip,’ Howard points out. ‘If we left at lunchtime we’d be back here by four o’clock.’

  ‘Things can happen between lunchtime and four o’clock,’ the Automator pronounces ominously. ‘I can’t help remembering what happened the last time I left you alone in charge of a group of second-years. That’s not the type of scene I want replicated on the streets of our nation’s capital.’

  Howard, notwithstanding that he came up with the idea of the field trip purely as a pretext for asking the Automator about Aurelie, feels his choler rise. ‘I think you’re being a little unfair, Greg,’ struggling to keep his tone polite. ‘That was a freak incident. These are good boys, and I have a decent rapport with them.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Addressing the question to the dusk, ‘That Slippy kid’s in your second-year class, isn’t he?’

  ‘Daniel Juster?’

  ‘That’s right – how’s he doing these days?’

  ‘Good as gold. I’ve had no trouble with him whatever.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ the Automator says softly, peering through the blind like a predator waiting for his prey to step into his trap.

  ‘I really think you’ve got the wrong impression of him, Greg. He’s a very bright boy. A little shy, that’s all.’

  ‘Mm.’ The Automator sounds unconvinced. ‘Howard, come over here a second, would you? Something I’d like to show you.’

  Obediently Howard leaves his chair, and Trudy scoots out of his way so he can join the Acting Principal at the window. Below them, through the narrow aperture of the blind, the twilit yard is deserted save for a sprinkling of cars and, Howard sees now, a single, diminutive figure standing on his own among the shadows. In his grey jumper and slacks he has almost entirely disappeared into the monochrome background, but now, as Howard watches, he pivots his upper body to one side and then, like a spring, uncoils, letting fly something from his hand. It travels only a short distance before wobbling dismally to the ground, where it scrapes to a halt with an ugly skittering noise that Howard realizes has been present on the periphery of his consciousness for some time.

  ‘Know who that is, Howard?’

  ‘Difficult to tell,’ Howard says evasively.

  ‘It’s Juster, Howard. He’s been out there this last half-hour.’ They watch the boy trudge over to the object where it has landed, then throw it back in the direction it came. It fares even worse this time, veering off to the right and rolling away into the bushes, to an audible epithet of dismay from the lone figure outside.

  ‘Any idea what he might be doing?’

  ‘Looks like he’s playing frisbee.’

  ‘He’s playing frisbee by himself, Howard. He’s playing frisbee by himself, in the dark. You ever played frisbee by yourself in the dark?’

  ‘It does look like he needs the practice.’

  ‘Howard, this may seem like a big joke to you. But damn it, you can’t look out that window and tell me that’s normal behaviour. Even watching him is giving me the creeps. Now you’re telling me you want to let him loose in the city? My God, there’s no knowing what kind of stunt he might pull.’ He turns back to the window. ‘Look at him, Howard. He’s up to something. But what? What’s going on inside that head?’ This provokes a thought – ‘Trudy, wasn’t Al Foley supposed to be profiling that kid for us? Damn it, how long can it take for a man to have his ears drained?’

  ‘He should be back in the next couple of days, Greg,’ Trudy says.

  ‘Well, as soon as he is, I want Juster as a top priority.’ He turns round to his underling, staring gloomily at the dusk, and claps him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, Howard. Just can’t do it. Still, I appreciate your initiative. Next time maybe we’ll be able to come to an arrangement. But in the meantime let’s not have any more disparagement of the textbook, all right? Textbook’s on your side. It’s like a map. Stray from the map, take a wrong turn, you’re in Injun territory, friend. Those kids’ll smell it on you in a second and they will take you out, Howard. They will take you out.’ He hits him a h
earty giddy-up slap on the arm. ‘Now, why don’t you get yourself on home? Little lady must be wondering where you are.’

  Howard is so demoralized that he almost leaves without asking the very question he came in for. Then in the doorway it returns to him. ‘Finian Ó Dálaigh’s back,’ he says, in a warbling burlesque of nonchalance.

  The Automator relinquishes the window, still aglow. ‘He sure is. See the size of the stone they took out of him? Doctor said it was the biggest one he’d ever seen. I’ll tell you what, though, Finian Ó Dálaigh could have a cannonball in there, still wouldn’t keep him away from that blackboard. He’s a Seabrook man through and through.’

  Howard shakes his head in wordless admiration, then, as if in afterthought, ‘So, will Aurelie McIntyre be coming back this side of Christmas, or…?’

  ‘Haven’t spoken to her about it yet, Howard, she’s still on holiday to the best of my knowledge. That business at the Hop seems to have shaken her up quite a bit. She asked to extend her break. I agreed. I was just happy she didn’t file for trauma.’

  ‘So she’s still away?’ Howard leaping for this unexpected lifeline.

  ‘I believe so, yes. Apparently what happened was that her fiancé sprung a surprise cruise on her. When she called me they’d just pulled into the Seychelles.’

  The universe silently crumbles around Howard. ‘Her fiancé?’ he repeats, barely audible even to himself.

  ‘Yes, he’d popped the question just the night before. Sounds like quite a production. Woman like that, guess you’d better be ready to spend some money.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘Not that he’s short of it, by the sounds of it. You know him, Howard? Clongowes man, played on their Cup team in his day. Working up in Accenture, doing pretty well, year or two younger than yourself?’

  ‘No, I haven’t met him,’ the dust of Howard’s dreams swirling round him, clogging his throat.

  ‘Anyhow, now that Finian’s back there’s no real need for her here,’ the Automator continues somewhere in the distance. ‘She might come back, do a couple of hours here and there, extracurricular stuff, the environment, so forth. More likely she’ll go back into banking, that’s where I’d put my money. That’s where most people put their money, am I right?’ He shakes his head. ‘Boy oh boy, though. The size of that gallstone. Try teaching with one of those rattling around your spleen, Howard. But he kept soldiering on. I practically had to strap him down to get him to the hospital…’

  Howard makes his exit from the office with small, agonized steps, as if it is he who has just emerged from Intensive Care, wound still gaping in his side.

  ‘So what are you going to do on your date, Skippy?’

  ‘I don’t know… maybe play frisbee for a while, before it gets dark? And then watch a DVD or something?’

  ‘That is the wrong answer,’ Mario says severely. ‘There is only one reason you are going to this house, and that is for full sex with a girl. Do you think the Italian national team of 1982 stopped to play frisbee on their way to winning the World Cup? Do you think Einstein took a break to watch a DVD when he was inventing his famous theory of relatives?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I will tell you, they didn’t. Focus on your objective. Full hardcore sex. Frisbee or whatever can come after that.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going to her house,’ Dennis says. ‘It just seems wrong somehow.’

  ‘Well, she asked me.’

  ‘I know that, it’s just, you know, you, and her – it just, doesn’t it seem wrong somehow?’ addressing this to the others. ‘Like sort of implausible?’

  ‘Maybe a tiny bit,’ Geoff concedes.

  ‘Like, what about Carl?’

  ‘What does Carl have to do with it?’

  ‘Hmm, well, he practically put you in a coma just for sending her some gay Japanese poem. What do you think he’ll do if he finds out you’ve gone to her house? He’ll rip your head off.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Geoff frowns. ‘He probably will rip your head off, Skip.’

  ‘He’ll rip your head off and piss down your neckhole,’ Dennis elaborates. ‘And then he’ll get physical.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with him,’ Skippy says. ‘Anyway, how would he even know about it?’ At this Dennis, who has spent much of the day asking people whether this whole Skippy and Lori thing doesn’t seem really weird, and how it must be a real slap in the face for Carl, clams up abruptly and then goes off to look for Ruprecht.

  Ever since his irradiation on the night of the experiment, Dennis has thrown himself into his new-found admiration of and support for Ruprecht with a gusto that those who know him find almost eerie. He fetches Ruprecht doughnuts when they are working late in the lab, he listens to Ruprecht’s long rambles about maths – he even tows the line in Quartet rehearsals, playing only the notes he is told to, Ruprecht having edited these down by about half.

  He has also played a key role in the attempt to smuggle the pod into the girls’ school. This afternoon, Niall’s sister came through with the map of St Brigid’s, and now the plan – which Ruprecht has codenamed ‘Operation Condor’, in preference, thanks all the same, to Mario’s ‘Operation Mound’, and Dennis’s ‘Operation Immaculate Penetration’ – shifts into the next gear.

  By the looks of it, getting into the girls’ school will be only marginally less difficult than accessing the higher dimensions. The main gates close at five, leaving only a pedestrian entrance that leads right by the window of the gatekeeper’s lodge, home to an infamously vigilant janitor named Brody and also to Brody’s small but bloodthirsty dog, Nipper. Anyone eluding these two will find the front entrance to the school building locked, and the back entrance taking him into the administrative area, comprising the Dean of Boarders’ office, the Principal’s office, the Secretariat and the Prefects’ Lounge – the lion’s den, in short.

  ‘The only realistic point of entry,’ Dennis says, ‘is here, via the fire escape.’ He points to the symbol on the map demarcating the iron staircase. ‘The window at the top brings you directly into the nuns’ quarters. From there, it’s a matter of getting from the second storey to the basement on the other side of the school, while avoiding the nuns, booby-traps set to maim trespassers, hockey-stick-wielding prefects, and so forth. Then all we have to do is get into the locked room with the burial mound under it, reassemble the pod inside, run a lead back over the wall to hook us up to the Cosmic Energy Compressor, and open the portal, this time making sure we get everything on film. Next stop, the Nobel Prize.’

  ‘No more school for us,’ Mario says. ‘We will become global celebrities.’

  ‘Well, I will,’ Ruprecht amends.

  ‘Do you think it’ll work?’ Skippy says.

  Ruprecht does: since that night in the basement, he’s become a total convert to the mysterious power of ancient burial mounds. ‘I’ve been reading up on them on the Internet, and scientifically speaking, there are all sorts of strange phenomena attached to them that have yet to be explained. It’s an unconventional approach, I know. But as Professor Tamashi says, “Science is the realm of the formerly impossible.” ’

  ‘But what happens if the nuns catch you?’

  ‘It’s a chance we have to take,’ Ruprecht says.

  ‘The Condor flies tomorrow night, Skip,’ Dennis says. ‘There’s still room on our team for one more.’

  ‘Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go tomorrow,’ Skippy says. ‘That’s when I’m going to Lori’s house.’

  Another time Skippy might have been jealous of Dennis and his new role at the centre of Ruprecht’s life; tonight, as he lies in bed, he is thinking only of tomorrow – not Dennis, not Carl, not pills or the swim meet or Operation Condor: tomorrow and nothing else. He’s so excited he doesn’t know how he’ll ever get to sleep; but he must do because next thing it’s 6 a.m., and he’s plunging pow! into fresh chlorine.

  The lucky boys who made the cut have extra training all this week, a half-hour every morning b
efore the others start; through the perspex roof the sky is still pitch-dark, it could be midnight. From the side of the pool, Coach claps a rhythm, while they race up and down, up and down, an endless journey over the same short distance. Breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, crawl: Skippy’s arms and legs do the movements by themselves, while he floats somewhere inside his body like a passenger. In flashes, through foam, Garret Dennehy and Siddartha Niland appear in the parallel lanes either side, like fragments of reflections, different Skippys in different worlds.

  Outside the showers, while the others are washing, the team huddles round, arms folded across slippery cold bodies, listening to Coach with serious grown-up expressions. There’s only three days left before the meet!!! He gives them the itinerary and assigns them their buddies for the trip. ‘Daniel, you’ll partner with Antony as before…’ ‘Ha ha, tough shit, Juster!’ ‘Better bring some ear-plugs!’ Antony ‘Air Raid’ Taylor, the loudest snorer in the whole school, who cannot be woken till morning once he falls asleep unless you throw a bucket of water over him.

  ‘Okay, hit the showers. And remember, take care of yourselves over the next few days. No horseplay. I don’t want all that good work going to waste because someone’s pulled a muscle wrestling, or stood on a nail.’

  On a nail, on glass, on acid, on burning coals, or you walk under scaffolding and a girder drops on top of you, or you get burned in a fire, or you’re kidnapped by terrorists? When you think about it there are so many things that could go wrong! But Skippy’s not thinking about it, his brain is full of lori lori lori lori! He can’t think of anything else, through swimming, through breakfast, German, Religion, Art, the thought of her making everything beautifully unreal, like the last days of school, when you’re walking along the edge of June and though class hasn’t ended summer’s creeping into everything like spilled orange juice through the pages of your copybook, summer that’s stronger than school, Lori that’s like a one-girl summer…