Skippy Dies (16 page)

The conversation that followed was desultory: was the boy feeling better? He was. Did he accept Father Green’s apology for
losing his temper? He did. But Father Green had already learned a profound lesson: that despair too is a sin, and a most insidious
one, because it obscures those instances of God’s grace that are among us, and leads us into solipsism and hardness of heart.
He had allowed himself to be clouded by pessimism, curdled by rage, but God in his mercy had given him a chance to atone.
And the nature of his penance is clear: he must help this boy. For here is one who may be helped, who may yet be saved from
the depredations of his time – subtly, of course, obliquely, an invisible hand gently steering him towards goodness. One could
still do that, couldn’t one, one could still take a boy under one’s wing? And in saving him – Father Green’s mind is racing
now – might he not thereby rediscover his own lost path? Might this boy not be the Lot who saves, for Father Green, the profaned
city in which he is lost? Even as he asks the question, he hears his heart respond unequivocally, yes! Yes, Jerome, yes!

Was that a – laugh? Did he hear someone laughing, out there in the dark? One of the boys, no doubt – he leaps for the door.
But outside there is nothing; only a prickling silence that mocks his paranoia. He holds his head. Late, Jerome, it is late.
At this hour one labours merely under illusions.

He turns out the light, sets off back through the school towards the Residence. As he goes he imagines the trials that might
afflict a youngster, and how best a concerned friend might help to tease these out. He ignores the curious sense he has that
someone is following him. Just another of these irritating tics that have plagued him these last few weeks.

But he knows who it is.

Next morning Skippy’s recovered from his mystery illness, and though initially he’s followed wherever he goes by a chorus
of fake barfing, it’s not long before he’s bumped from the limelight by new and bigger stories. It appears that at some point
after the final bell yesterday, someone broke into Simon Mooney’s locker and took all his fireworks from inside it. Simon
Mooney is staggering white-faced from group to group, asking people if they have any information, but no one does; after all
his gloating yesterday it’s debatable whether they’d give it to him even if they did.

The other big news is Miss McIntyre’s announcement in Geography class today of a possible field trip to Glendalough to see
the U-shaped valley. This causes quite a stir. A U-shaped valley, made by a glacier! With
her
!

There was a time not so long ago when few people would have been much moved by the prospect of a U or any other shape of valley.
Prior to Mr Ó Dálaigh’s departure for a gallstone operation, the only fact of interest anyone can remember learning in Geography
is that there is a town in Turkey called Batman (pop. 131,986; chief industries: oil, food production). But all that changed
when Miss McIntyre arrived on the scene. It’s like simply by pointing to things she can make them come alive – make them dance
and sparkle, like the brooms and cups and so on in
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
– and now the boys can’t understand how they ever found geographical features boring. This new-found interest in the world
around them isn’t confined to the classroom either. Under her tutelage, previously non-committal boys, boys who could barely
be brought to look at anything unmediated by an electronic screen, have been transformed into Taliban-like ecological zealots.
They write furious letters to the directors of
polluting companies; they excoriate mothers for driving the half-mile to the shops to buy one (solitary) filo pastry roll;
they ruthlessly make away with anything recyclable that is left out of sight for even a moment (unopened cans of Coke, homework)
and berate comrades over inefficient use of deodorant spray. Ruprecht, of course, says that these kind of piecemeal measures
won’t have any effect, and that even if much more drastic action were taken, which it probably won’t be, Earth has more than
likely gone past the point at which the environmental devastation of the last two centuries can still be reversed. But this
falls on deaf ears.

‘M-maybe she’ll take us to the U-shaped valley and then we’ll never come back here,’ flushes Victor Hero.

‘She can make
ice
seem warm,’ Bob Shambles says dreamily.

But the biggest news of all comes just before lunchtime, when the boys emerge from History class to find that a rash of posters
has appeared all over Our Lady’s Hall.

‘HALLOWE’EN HOP’

END OF TERM SECOND-YEAR MIXER WITH ST BRIGID’S

SOFT-DRINK REFRESHMENTS

ALL PROCEEDS TO CHARITY

Beneath these words is a crudely executed graphic of a Frankenstein’s monster jiving, soft drink in hand, beside an old record-player.

‘What the hell is a Hop?’ Mario says.

‘I think it’s like a dance,’ Niall says, frowning. ‘A kind of dance, from days of Yore?’

‘Or a dance for one-legged people?’ Geoff surmises.

‘It’s a Hallowe’en disco for the second-years from the two schools,’ Dennis says. ‘My brother told me about it.’

‘A disco?’ Skippy says.

‘They do it every year,’ Dennis says. ‘Everyone dresses up.’

‘Holy shit,’ Mario says.

‘This is excellent!’ says Niall.

‘A
ghoul
for every boy,’ Geoff says in his zombie voice.

Up and down the corridor boys are excitably making the same discovery, much to the chagrin of the Automator, who snaps at
them to quit stalling and get to class, then realizes it’s lunchtime.

‘I’d better buy some condoms,’ Mario says. ‘This Hop will be a serious beavershoot.’

‘It’s going to be
Spook
-tacular!’ Geoff says in the voice.

‘Will you stop that?’ says Dennis.

‘Juster!’ Someone’s calling Skippy. It’s Howard the Coward, hailing him from across the hall. What can he want?

‘I wonder how many condoms I will need?’ Mario ponders as Skippy trudges away. ‘Probably I should get a couple of boxes, to
be on the safe side.’

‘Make no
bones
about it –’

‘God damn it, Geoff –’

‘We’re going to have a
wail
of a time!’

Leaving the Automator’s office yesterday evening, Howard had little intention of following through on his promise to talk
to Daniel Juster. The Acting Principal loved to issue orders, but that was usually as far as his interest extended, meaning
that if Howard could just keep out of his way for the next couple of days, there was a good chance he’d forget their entire
conversation. This seemed to Howard, who didn’t see why he should be lumbered with extra work, to be the best course of action
– until this morning, when a very strange thing had happened.

He’d stayed up late the night before to finish
Goodbye to All That
, and in his second-year class today he decided to begin with a brief excerpt from the book before wrapping up the First World
War and moving on to the Easter Rising. Graves’s account bore little resemblance to the barren history textbook. It fluoresced
with imagery – the skeletons in the craters in no man’s land, picked clean by the rats; a wood full of German corpses, whose
overcoats Graves brings back to his trench for blankets; the officers-vs-sergeants cricket game, with a rafter for a bat,
a rag
tied with string for a ball, and as a wicket, a parrot’s cage, ‘with the clean, dry corpse of a parrot inside’: every page
contained some nightblack gem.

After reading aloud for a couple of minutes, Howard became aware of an unusual silence. Instantly he was on his guard. A silent
classroom, in his experience, meant one of two things: either everyone had fallen asleep, or they had planned some sort of
a trap and were waiting for him to stumble into it. When he scanned the desks, though, the boys appeared fully conscious,
and there was no hint of impending attack. It dawned on him that this must be what is known as an
attentive
silence. Attempting to conceal his surprise, fearful of breaking the spell, he continued reading.

The book held their attention right up to the end; when the bell went, Howard had the giddying sensation of actually having
imparted knowledge
. It was an unexpectedly replete and heartening sort of feeling – so much so that when he spies Juster now, examining a poster
for the Hallowe’en Hop, instead of turning in the other direction he decides to call him over. He watches the boy shuffle
across the hall, and readies an avuncular smile.

‘I just wanted a quick chat,’ he reassures him. ‘You don’t need to look so freaked out.’ As he speaks the words, it strikes
Howard that the Automator made a shrewd move, picking him to talk to the youngster; certainly he’s going to be more on his
wavelength than some septuagenarian priest. ‘I hear you tossed your cookies in French class yesterday,’ he says.

‘I what?’ Juster says.

‘You threw up. You got sick.’

The ends of the boy’s mouth turn down.

‘I just wanted to see if you were feeling better.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, you’re feeling better?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You and Father Green have buried the hatchet?’

Juster nods.

‘He can be a tough old buzzard, but I wouldn’t take anything he says to heart,’ Howard says. The boy makes no response. Frankly
he does not seem to Howard all that appreciative of his interest – but kids often hide their vulnerability behind this kind
of attitude, he reminds himself, you have to give them space, let them come to you. ‘And how are things generally? How are
you doing?’

‘Fine,’ Juster suddenly looks wary, as if Howard is trying to catch him out somehow.

‘Your schoolwork going okay? Not finding it too hard this year?’ The boy shakes his head. ‘Your family’s doing well? Your
parents?’ He nods. Howard searches around for another question. ‘How about swimming? I hear that’s going great.’ The boy nods
again, pale brows furrowed apprehensively like he’s playing chess with Death for his soul. Howard begins to get exasperated.
This is like pulling hen’s teeth. Still, he ought to put in another minute, just in case Greg does ask about it. ‘You know,
I was talking to your swimming coach yesterday,’ he says. ‘He told me some really –’

But the words die away on his lips, as he is caught in a smile as sudden and bright and paralysing as a prison searchlight…
Miss McIntyre has appeared beside them; the smile is, evidently, for him. He hears himself speak to her, without knowing what
he says. God, those eyes! Just looking into them is like being kissed – or, no, like being magicked off to another world,
where it’s just the two of them alone, the rest of the universe mere tinselled scenery, orbiting in a slow waltz around them
–

‘Uh, sir?’ Howard is returned to reality by a small voice tugging at him. He turns and stares at the owner as though he’s
never seen him before in his life.

‘Oh – I’m so sorry!’ Miss McIntyre brings a hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t realize you boys were in the middle of something.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he assures her hastily, then returns to address Juster. ‘Daniel, you’d better head off to your next class.’

‘It’s lunchtime.’

‘Well, to your lunch, then. We can finish this later in the week.’

‘Right,’ Juster says dubiously.

‘Good man,’ Howard says. ‘Okay, well, off you go so.’ Juster obligingly stumps off down the corridor. ‘We’ll catch up later
in the week,’ Howard calls after him. ‘And have a good talk, okay?’ He turns back to bask in the lovely light of Aurelie McIntyre.

‘Sorry,’ she repeats gaily. ‘I didn’t see him there, or I wouldn’t have interrupted you.’

‘No no, don’t worry, it was nothing,’ Howard assures her. ‘He had a little run-in with Jerome Green yesterday. Greg asked
me to have a word with him, make sure he was all right.’

‘I think he’s in my Geography class,’ she comments, adding, ‘He’s so
small
!’

‘Usually he’d be sent to the guidance counsellor, but Greg thought he’d prefer to speak to someone younger,’ Howard elaborates.
‘You know, that he could relate to.’

She absorbs this thoughtfully, or mock-thoughtfully: many of her gestures, he’s noticed, have this disconcerting hint of unseriousness,
of artificiality, as though she has lifted them for her own amusement from some antiquated sitcom. How to get to the real
Aurelie?

‘Oh, here, I meant to say to you –’ he chucks her arm ‘– I took your advice and got that Robert Graves book. I was reading
it to my class just now. You were right, they loved it!’

‘I told you.’ She smiles.

‘It gives the war a whole new dimension, you know, hearing from someone right there in the thick of it. They really connected
with it.’

‘Maybe it reminds them of school,’ she suggests. ‘Didn’t someone describe the trenches as ninety-nine per cent boredom and
one per cent terror?’

‘I don’t know about boredom. God, the chaos of it, the brutality. And it’s so
vivid
. I’d definitely be interested in reading his poetry, if only to see how he can go from describing, you know, people getting
their guts blown out, to writing about love.’

‘Maybe it’s not that much of a leap,’ she says.

‘You don’t think?’

‘Have you ever actually
been
in love?’ she says teasingly.

‘Yes, of course,’ Howard professes, flustered. ‘I just meant, in terms of
writing
, that stylistically it must be quite a, a jump from one to the other…’

‘Mm-hmm.’ She is doing the thing with her tongue, examining her upper lip with the very tip.

‘Listen,’ he says, ‘we sort of got off on the wrong foot the other day.’

‘Did we?’

‘Well, I mean…’ He is dimly conscious of boys streaming by them on either side. ‘You know you told me you weren’t going to,
ah, to do a certain thing with me?’

‘I told you I wasn’t going to sleep with you.’

‘Yes, that’s right…’ feeling himself flushing deeply. ‘Well, I just wanted… I hoped I hadn’t given the impression – I mean,
I just wanted to tell you that I wasn’t, you know, I wasn’t intending to, ah, do that with you either.’