by Paul Murray
If there were something there, Father Foley would find it, be it merely a twitch, a blink, a bead of sweat that gave the game away. This boy has no reaction to any of the drugs on the checklist. Still, Father Foley has the distinct sense that he is withholding something. But what?
Returning to his desk, casting about the room for inspiration, he lights on a framed picture from his missionary days – his younger self on an airstrip in the desert, intrepid, golden-locked, with his arm around a black whose name he forgets. That plane in the background Father Foley had actually flown, the pilot letting him take the joystick as they soared over the mountains with their vital consignment of Bibles. He smiles fondly at his handsome avatar; and then his eyes shift from the picture to the cotton buds next to it and his smile fades as he is swamped by unpleasant memories of the last two weeks, being poked and prodded by little Oriental nurses, yapping to each other in whatever it was – poke, poke! do they think everybody’s ears are the same? Can they not appreciate that some men have unusually complicated ear structures?
But then his eyes flick back to the plane. Flying. This business of the lone frisbee-playing. It had left Father Foley with a bad taste in his mouth when he first encountered it in the report; now he thinks he knows why. Coughing gruffly: ‘Tell me, Daniel… have you begun to… feel anything lately?’
He sees the boy’s lips, after a moment of deliberation, begin to move. Did he say thoughts? It sounded like he said something about thoughts. Well, well. The pieces begin to fall into place. The disappeared ambition, the blank stare, the sociopathic attitude, the constant twitching – Puberty, we meet again.
‘Daniel,’ he begins, ‘you have entered that stage of life when you leave childish things behind and enter manhood. This can be a bewildering experience, what with changes in your body, hair appearing in unexpected places, growth spurts, and so forth. Adult sexuality, while one of the most precious gifts bestowed upon us by our Maker, brings with it great responsibility. For when abused, it can plunge a man into mortal danger. I am speaking of impure acts.
‘These acts may present themselves at first quite innocently. Something to fill an idle moment, perhaps introduced to you by a friend. But believe you me, there is nothing innocent about them. It is a slippery slope, a slippery slope indeed. I have seen good, upstanding men brought to their knees by these disgusting activities. Not merely falling grades. I am speaking of shame, disgrace, exile. Decent families’ names blackened for generations. Most deadly of all, the risk to your immortal soul.’
From the boy’s saucer-eyed stare, Father Foley knows he is on the right track.
‘Fortunately, God, in his wisdom, has supplied us with the means to avoid these deadly traps of the spirit, in the form of the wonderful gift of sport. Mens sana in corpore sano, as the Romans had it. You don’t build an empire like the Roman Empire without knowing a thing or two. Of course, they wouldn’t have known about rugby, but I think we can assume that if the sport had been invented then, they would have been playing it night and day. It’s amazing how many of life’s problems simply disappear after a rousing game of rugby.’ He steeples his fingers, gazes at the boy benignly. ‘You don’t play rugby, do you, Daniel,’ he says. The boy shakes his head. Textbook case, absolutely tex– wait, he’s saying something. Good God, child, you’ll never get anywhere speaking into your chest like that. What is it? ‘Winning? Well, yes, here in Seabrook we’ve had our fair share of trophies. But I like to say, it’s not the win– what? Women? That’s absolutely the last thing you should be thinking about, take my advice and just stay away –’
That isn’t it either, though. The boy is gesticulating and gurning, he is barking out the same word again and ag– oh, wait, swimming, that’s what it is. He’s on the swimming team. No – more dumbshow and protestation – no, he isn’t on the swimming team.
‘Well, which is it, lad, for goodness’ sake?’
At the top of his voice the boy announces that he has quit the swimming team.
‘You quit it?’ Father Foley repeats. This fellow takes the biscuit! When did anyone ever get anywhere by quitting, pray? Did the Romans quit, halfway through their empire? Did Our Lord quit, on his way up Calvary with the Cross? Clearly it is time that someone took a firm hand with this young man. ‘Well, the first thing we need to do is unquit you,’ he says, and raising his voice over the anticipated caterwaul of protest, ‘no buts! It’s time that we stopped this rot.’
Well! If the boy doesn’t jump right out of his chair and start shouting at Father Foley! A long stream of speech, by the looks of it not short on emotion, bellowed at the very top of his lungs. In all his days as a professional educator, Father Foley has never seen the like! But by golly, he knows how to shout too! He’s not going to be hectored in his own office! Getting to his feet he yells over him, ‘It’s for your own good! It’s for your own good, so sit down this instant and stop… stop… crying.’ Because a positive flood is now coursing down the boy’s cheeks and flying onto the desk and carpet! ‘Sit down, sit down!’
At last the boy obeys, still leaking tears. Dear, dear, is this the pass they have come to? One might expect this kind of display over in St Brigid’s, but from a Seabrook man? Father Foley swivels his chair, massaging his temples, intermittently peeping over in the hope that the boy has stopped.
‘Daniel, let me be perfectly blunt,’ he says, when the worst of it appears to be past. ‘The Acting Principal has some serious reservations regarding your future at this school. The fact is that not every boy is cut out for Seabrook, and it benefits neither school nor student to persist with a relationship that is simply not meant to be.’ This shuts him up all right: the very tears seem to freeze on his cheeks. ‘Now, before making a decision, dragging parents into it and whatnot, the Acting Principal has asked for my thoughts on the matter. My report to him will have a bearing on any decision he makes.’ The sonorous weight of those words – report, bearing, decision, adult words, the words of a man of responsibility – please him, and he continues with a renewed sense of purpose. ‘It seems to me that you have a lot of promise, if these marks are anything to go by. I feel that if you can conquer these demons of yours, you may yet have something to contribute to Seabrook life. However, I cannot in good conscience recommend you unless I see some evidence that you are at least attempting to get back on track.’
He picks up the pen again, twiddling it through his fingers as the boy recommences his silent crying. ‘This business of leaving the swimming team – I can’t say it speaks in your favour. At the same time, I am not sure that as a sport swimming gives quite the dose of team spirit that you need. Also, the chlorinated water, I have found, plays havoc with the ears. If you are determined to swim so be it, but my preference would be that you give rugby another try. Have a think about it over the weekend and we can discuss it on Monday. Perhaps I will have a word with Mr Roche and see what he thinks. In the meantime, we need to show your Acting Principal that you’re willing to make an effort. I know Father Green is looking for volunteers for his hampers.’ In fact Jerome is so starved for volunteers that he’s been making noises in the Residence about the priests joining in! ‘I suggest you speak to him without delay. Spending some time with the less fortunate may bring home to you just how good you have it here in Seabrook.’
The boy considers this while staring at his shoes. Then, raising his head, he looks for what seems like a long time at the priest with reddened eyes; and then he says – what is it he says? Father Foley can’t quite make it out. But the sense is clear.
‘You’re welcome,’ Father Foley says.
The boy remains a moment stiffly where he is; then leaves his chair, and the office, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
Noiselessly: it takes a moment for this to intrude on Father Foley’s thoughts. That door used to make the most infuriating squeal. He was constantly after that shirker of a janitor to come and oil the hinges. Now he rises from his desk and potters over to it. Open: close. Open: close. Not
a peep. Hmm. He must have attended to it while Father Foley was away having his treatment. Open: close.
Returning to his seat, Father Foley folds his hands behind his head, leans back and spends a number of minutes surveying in satisfaction the silenced door.
‘Volunteering?’ Alone with him in the classroom the priest seems to buzz with some antic energy – as though, while he stands there quite still, he has four phantom limbs flailing invisibly around him, a spectral spider.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, of course I’m always happy to have a fresh pair of hands – yes, indeed…’ The tinkling politeness belied by the black burning eyes, like smouldering holes in space. ‘Many hands make light work, don’t they…’
Skippy hovers without replying, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence.
‘Excellent, excellent… well, I’m planning a run this weekend, as it happens, so why don’t you come to the office, let me see, after school tomorrow, shall we say at 4.30?’
After school tomorrow is when he’s meeting Lori!
But packing hampers can’t take all night, can it?
Anyway, what choice does he have.
‘Yes, Father.’
He turns to go, but is called back. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Juster?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘You look like you have been… crying.’
‘No, Father.’
‘No?’ The skewering eyes. ‘Well then.’ His hand lifts to ruffle Skippy’s hair, the dead fingers like a mummy’s or something stuffed. ‘Carry on, Mr Juster, carry on.’
He bustles back to the blackboard; Skippy leaves him humming to himself, scrubbing at the ghostly traces of French verbs and nouns as if they were stains on his soul.
After lunch in the Ref they go to Ed’s with Ruprecht. He has found no volunteers for Operation Falcon, and is resigned to recovering the pod on his own.
‘Will you go in the fire escape like last time?’
Ruprecht shakes his head. ‘Too risky,’ he says, with a mouth full of doughnut. ‘The pod could be anywhere by now. What I need is a cover story that’ll not only get me inside, but also let me walk around without arousing suspicion.’
Brows are furrowed. ‘Why don’t you pretend you’re an exterminator?’ Geoff suggests. ‘Tell the nuns you’re an exterminator on the trail of a mouse. That way you could go around the whole school, and you’d be by yourself because the nuns’d be scared of mice.’
‘Isn’t he on the small side for being an exterminator?’ Niall points out.
‘He could be a midget exterminator,’ Geoff says.
‘Where am I going to find a midget exterminator costume?’ Ruprecht says.
Geoff concedes that this might prove difficult.
‘How about a midget TV repairman?’ Mario suggests.
‘Or a midget plumber?’
‘I’d like to get away from the whole midget thing,’ Ruprecht says.
‘The answer is obvious: vibrator salesman,’ Mario says. ‘Not only will the nuns let you in, but I bet you sell your whole stock.’
‘Hey, Skip, what did Cloth-Ears want to talk to you about?’ Dennis says.
‘Nothing. Careers stuff. It was pretty pointless.’
‘Oh, you’re so lying,’ Dennis says.
Skippy looks up with a start.
Dennis leans over the table, flickering his fingers in a web. ‘He wants to take you away from Father Green, doesn’t he? He wants you all to himself…’
‘Ha ha,’ Skippy says, but he gets up to go.
On the way back to school he tries calling her again. He pretends to himself it’s to tell her about the hampers. But really he just wants to hear her voice. Something has started to feel wrong: it’s like being in a car that’s gradually going faster and faster, and though to everyone around it still looks totally normal, you know that the brakes have been cut. She doesn’t answer; he leaves a message on her voicemail, asking her to call him back.
Overnight a new cold sets in, the kind that permeates your bones while you sleep and, once arrived, will not leave again till spring. Armadas of leaves set sail with every fresh gust of wind; fingers are blue on the straps of bags and satchels; and the school-doors in the distance appear, uncharacteristically, as a blessed haven, to be hastened towards.
‘No training today?’ Ruprecht asks, surprised to find Skippy only getting up now. No, no training – no getting up before dawn, no stripping off in an icy-cold changing room, no punishing your body till every muscle aches before you’ve even had breakfast. Instead there is an extra hour of dreams, and you arrive at the Ref still cloudy with sleep to –
‘Hey, Juster, what’s the fucking story?’ Siddartha comes rushing up with Duane Grehan in tow.
‘What story?’ Skippy like he doesn’t already know.
‘You missed fucking training again.’ Beneath his freckles Siddartha is pink with anger. ‘The race is tomorrow, shithead, why weren’t you at training?’
Skippy doesn’t say anything, just hangs in the breeze that seems to have sprung up around him in the corridor, austere and silent.
‘This is total fucking bullshit,’ Siddartha seethes. ‘Coach never should have picked you. You’re his little bum-chum, that’s the only reason.’ From behind him, Duane gazes at Skippy with expressionless eyes. ‘Asshole,’ says Siddartha, by way of a parting shot.
‘You didn’t go to training?’ Geoff says, when the other two are gone.
‘I didn’t feel like it,’ Skippy says vaguely.
‘Oh,’ Geoff says, and doesn’t say anything else.
*
In the shopping mall at lunch break a huge silver-needled Christmas tree has been installed, making the people rising and descending on the escalators around it look like tiny decoration-angels in anoraks and polar fleeces.
‘Where are you going with your girlfriend tonight, Skip?’
‘I’m not sure – maybe to the cinema? She’s going to call me.’
‘Cinema is good,’ Mario says approvingly. ‘I have been on many dates in the cinema – but I have not seen very many films!’
‘Because I was having sex,’ he adds a moment later, in case the others haven’t understood. ‘In the cinema.’
Yesterday she never called back. In the Study Hall carved into the desk a new graffiti: CARL CAME IN THE GIRLS HAND BEFORE SHE EVEN TUCHED HIS PENIS.
But now, as if to squash these doubts, Skippy’s pocket starts to bleep. It must be her! He hurries out the door of the video-game shop and fumbles open his phone. No, it’s just Dad. ‘Hi, Dad.’ He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
‘Hi, D. Just thought I’d give you a call, see how you were set up for the big race tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘How do you feel? Are you excited?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
Skippy shrugs, then realizes Dad can’t see it, and instead says, ‘No, I am.’
‘Okay,’ Dad says. In the background Skippy can hear the printer whirr and telephones ringing. There is a long strange pause: Dad takes a deep breath in through his nose. ‘Listen, Danny,’ he says. ‘We had a phone call last night.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He stiffens, turns a little to the fluted wall.
‘Yeah, from Mr Roche, your swimming coach.’
Skippy stops dead.
‘Yeah,’ Dad muses, like he’s thinking over a crossword clue, but you can hear his voice stretched taut like it’s on a rack. ‘He told me you’d quit the team.’
Frozen by the wall next to the kitchen spoils shop.
‘Danny?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I was pretty surprised to hear that, I have to say. I mean, I know how much you were looking forward to this race.’
‘Oh, well…’
‘Oh well what?’
‘I’ve been getting a bit tired of it lately.’
‘You have?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Of swimming?’
‘Yeah.’
They circle each other through an imaginary space that is not mall or office: in Skippy’s head it is a clearing in a winter forest, with sun clinging to the trunks of bare trees.
‘Well, that comes as a surprise,’ Dad says slowly. ‘Because you’ve always loved to swim, ever since you were a tiny tot.’
Pan-pipe ‘Away in a Manger’ descends like nerve-gas from the speakers above. All of a sudden Skippy feels a great weight tugging on him, tugging on the whole mall, pulling it downward towards a single point.
‘Your coach was surprised too. He says you’re a natural. Phenomenal natural ability, that’s how he put it.’
Dad pauses but Skippy doesn’t say anything. He knows what is coming and there is no way to stop it. Around him the walls of the mall begin to tremble.
‘He wondered if it might be him, if he’d been too hard on you in training. Well, I told him you’d never said anything like that to me.’
Screws twist from their sockets, girders creak.
‘He said you’d mentioned personal reasons.’
Everything is vibrating, like the shopping mall is one big tuning fork.
‘Danny, I told him about your mum.’
Skippy closes his eyes.
‘I had to, Danny. I had to.’
Windows exploding, huge reefs of masonry descending from above, the walls of the mall tumbling in on themselves.
The Game blown all over the road.
‘I know we had our pact and everything. But I’ve often wondered whether I’d done right by you there, sport. I mean, in a school there are people, there’s a framework in place to help you deal with exactly these kinds of things. I should’ve told you – I don’t know, I just…’ Dad’s hands dropping hopelessly to his sides, the two of them, Skippy and Dad, falling to the ground, shot in the head. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down, son. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Danny.’