Skippy Dies (31 page)

‘Did you let him in?’

‘No, it was after the curfew so I turned him away.’

‘Then I don’t see what he has to do with our situation, Howard, if you didn’t let him in.’

‘Well, what if he didn’t go home? What if he, you know, if he decided to take revenge – sneak in and… and do this?’

The Automator stares at the floor for a long time. Trudy gazes at him, her pen poised over the page for the moment he recommences
speaking. ‘You say you sent Carl away at what time?’

‘Around nine.’

‘And you left for the Geography Room at what time?’

‘Maybe… half past nine?’

‘So, would he have had time to go home, load up on dope and come back here in that time,’ the Automator muses. ‘Yes, he would.
But that’s assuming he knew you’d go off on your little excursion and leave the hall unsupervised, which he didn’t. Even if
he had the mickey with him from the get-go, would he have hung around outside on the off-chance he’d somehow get in? For a
half-hour? In the rain? The boy’s wild, but he’s not a masochist. No, this smells to me like an inside job. Someone watching
you all night, waiting for his opportunity. He doesn’t need much time. A few seconds, that’s all it takes. The moment you
step outside, he makes his move. Maybe even before you step outside. Either way, he makes the drop, then he’s out of there,
home free.’

‘But there’s no proof it was Juster,’ Howard argues, knowing that it is futile. ‘I mean, it could have been anyone in that
room, couldn’t it?’

‘Well, sure, it could have been anyone. It could have been mischievous
pixies. It could have been the Man in the Moon. But all the available facts are pointing to this kid Juster.’

‘But why –’

‘Exactly, Howard! Why? That’s what we have to get to the bottom of.’ He taps the ballpoint pen against his teeth. ‘You get
any change out of him when you talked to him?’

‘Well… uh…’

‘You
did
talk to him?’

‘Of course, yes…’

‘And? He give anything away? You get any kind of a fix on where he’s coming from?’

Howard claws frantically through his memory of his encounter with Skippy, but cannot remember a single thing the boy said;
only Miss McIntyre’s hand on his arm, her perfume in his nostrils, her teasing smile. ‘Well, uh… he largely just seemed like
a fairly normal young…’

‘Maybe you should just tell me verbatim what he said to you – Trudy, are you getting this?’

‘Yes, Greg.’ Trudy’s pen hovers expectantly over the pad.

‘Hmm…’ Howard frowns effortfully. ‘Well, the thing is, it was less of an actual formal conversation, and more a sort of a…
letting him know the door was open? So that if in the future he had any problems, he could –’

‘
If
he had…?’ the Automator splutters. He bangs his palm on the desk, as though to jog himself back into motion. ‘Jesus H Christ,
Howard, we
know
he has problems! Any kid throws up all over his pals in French class, yes, he has problems! The whole point is that you were
supposed to find out what those problems
were
! To avoid exactly the kind of scenario we’re looking at now!’ He sinks heavily into one of the new swivel-chairs, pressing
the peak of his steepled fingers to his forehead, and issues a sigh that sounds like a sheet of flame crisping everything
in its path.

‘Well, why don’t I go back to him?’ Howard says hastily. ‘I’ll talk to him again, and this time I promise I’ll find out what’s
wrong with him.’

‘Too late for that,’ the Automator mumbles into his hand. Then, spinning in the chair, ‘Time to send in the big guns – Trudy,
make an appointment for Juster with the guidance counsellor, as soon as he gets back. Father Foley’ll get to the bottom of
this.’ He gets up and goes to the window, his back to Howard, his hand on the beaded cord of the Venetian blind.

‘Have you had a chance to, ah, speak to Juster?’ Howard asks huskily.

‘We did have a very brief chat last night, while you were at your janitorial duties,’ the answer comes, dripping with false
brightness. ‘Found him upstairs brushing his teeth. All innocence. Told me he hadn’t been feeling well, so he’d gone out for
a walk. The door was open, he said, so he thought it was all right. Didn’t know anything about anything.’ The light greys
as the louvres of the blind close, and brightens as they part again. ‘A nice little walk, all on his own, in the middle of
winter, dressed like a goddamn hobbit. Kid might as well have given me the finger. The bitch of it is, I’ve got no one to
gainsay him. No one can remember a single thing that happened. Some kind of anterograde amnesia brought on by the mickey,
maybe. Or maybe this Slippy of yours got to them first.’

For a long moment there is only the dimming and brightening of light, the blind pulley squeaking in the Automator’s hand.
And then: ‘I might as well tell you that this collective memory loss has probably saved your ass as well.’

Howard starts. Squeak, squeak, goes the pulley. Trudy’s attentions are fixed deferentially on the manila pad, as though this
part of the conversation is not for her ears. Impassive, the Automator’s silhouette fades and resolves. Howard begins to speak
but stops, feels his shirt cling clammily to his back.

‘You like fish, Howard?’ The Acting Principal leaves the window abruptly and crosses the floor to the aquarium.

‘Do I
like
them?’ Howard stammers.

‘Old man used to sit up here half the day, watching the damn fish float around. Never saw the point of them myself. Fundamentally
useless creatures.’ Crouching down, he snaps his fingers at one of the brilliant shapes that float tranquilly inside the tank.
‘Look at that. No idea what’s going on. In this office twenty-four seven, doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall.’ Turning
to Howard again: ‘You know the difference between humans and fish, Howard?’

‘They have gills?’

‘That’s one difference. But there’s another difference, a more important difference. See if you can spot it. Come on, take
a look.’ Obediently Howard rises from his chair and studies the variously sized fish in their heated limbo. He can hear the
Automator breathing behind him. The fish flap their fins, placid and inscrutable.

‘I can’t see it, Greg,’ he says eventually.

‘Of course you can’t. Teamwork, Howard. That’s what the difference is. Fish aren’t team players. Look at them. There’s no
system at work there. They’re not even talking to each other. How are they going to get anything done, you may ask? Answer:
they’re not. What you see right there is fish at the height of their game. I’ve been watching them for a month now and that’s
pretty much as far as it goes.’

‘Right.’ Howard feels like he is being assailed from all sides by an invisible enemy.

‘Might ask yourself what place they have in an educational institution. They don’t seem to have much to teach us. And by the
same token, we don’t have much to teach them. Can’t educate a fish, Howard. Can’t
mould
a fish. Mammals, your dogs, cats, beavers, even mice, they can be trained. They know how to play ball. They’re willing to
play their part and work towards the greater good. Fish are different. They’re intransigent. Loners, solipsists.’ He taps
on the glass, again to no response; and then he says, ‘You screwed up last night, Howard. I don’t know how much, maybe I’ll
never know. But it’s opened my eyes.’

Howard flushes. From the desk, he catches Trudy gazing at him with an expression of profound pity and compassion; quickly
she reverts to the manila pad.

‘I had you pegged for a team player. Now I’m wondering if you aren’t more like one of these fish. You’d like to just float
around on your own in the water, daydreaming. No law against that, you’ll say. True enough. But a fish isn’t much use to us
here in Seabrook College. At Seabrook College, we’re interested in getting things done. We have goals to achieve, goals of
academic and sporting excellence. We work together, we think things through. We’re mammals, Howard. Mammals, not fish.’

‘I’m a mammal, Greg,’ Howard hastens to assure him.

‘Can’t just say you’re a mammal, Howard. Being a mammal is about what you
do
. It’s reflected in the smallest of your actions. And the feeling I’m getting from you is that you haven’t decided either
way.’ He straightens up, looks Howard in the eye. ‘Over the course of this mid-term break I want you to have a good hard think
about where you’re going. Because either you start acting like a mammal and become part of the team. Or else maybe it’s time
you found a new aquarium. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Greg.’
Clear
might be the wrong word; but Howard understands that he will walk out of the office with his job intact. A wave of relief
rides through him as the spectre of a long, explanatory conversation with Halley recedes, for now, into the distance.

‘Okay, get out of here.’ The Automator goes to his desk and lifts the sheet of paper with the list of names.

‘Good morning, Acting Principal’s office,’ Trudy says to the phone, and Howard thinks he detects a thankfulness in her voice
too.

Brian ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast is still perched on the edge of the bench outside the office with the same expression of incipient
doom. ‘Hasn’t the Dean spoken to you already?’ Howard says.

‘He told me to wait,’ Jeekers says quaveringly.

Howard bends down, puts his hands on his thighs. ‘What happened last night?’ he asks in a lowered voice. ‘Did you see who
got to the punch?’

The boy does not respond: he merely gazes back at him blankly,
lips pressed together, as if Howard has uttered a string of nonsensical words.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Howard says. ‘See you next week.’ And he clatters away down the stairs.

As soon as you open the door you can tell something’s wrong. It looks like just an ordinary room but then you notice smoke
coming up from the floor – you jump back just in time as the black tail slices up through the flagstones, and then the Demon
comes billowing out of the hole! It rises in a cloud until it’s almost taken up the whole room, coiled above you like a shroud
of smog over a city, and already everything around you is on fire! Even with the amulet your energy is starting to plummet,
you have no idea how to fight it – all you can do is raise your shield, dive forward with the Sword of Songs –

Danny? You in there, pal?

Yeah, come on in.

Dad comes through the door. What’re you up to, sport? Oh, you brought the machine back, did you?

Yeah, I didn’t want to leave it in school.

What’s the game? Is this a new one?

Hopeland
.

Hopeland
, still? Didn’t you get that last Christmas?

It’s hard. But I’ve nearly finished it.

Good for you! But, dinner’s ready, so…

Oh, okay… Skippy hits Pause and gets up from the floor.

In the kitchen pouring a glass of water at the sink. The condensation makes the garden look like it’s disappearing in fog.
Dad takes two smoking pieces of meat from the grill and puts them on plates. Okay! he says. Chicken à la Dad.

Smells great.

Well – Dad spoons out rice from the rice-cooker, then sauce from a saucepan – I guess we’re working on the principle that
whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. He laughs. Then he stops laughing.

Back at home, with the two of them together all day, the Game Skippy and Dad are playing becomes a lot harder. With it right
there in the room with them it would be so easy to let something slip! So what they have done is invent a code. The way you
use this code is to replace almost all words with the word
great
. A typical coded conversation might go like this:

So how’s the swimming, sport?

Oh, great, it’s going great.

That’s great! When’s the next meet?

It’s in Ballinasloe, in two weeks?

That’s the semi-final, right?

Yeah, it’ll be harder than last time but Coach thinks we’ve got a great shot.

Did he say that? Wow – great! That’s great!

By now they are real pros, no one who was listening in on them would ever think there was anything wrong. Sometimes because
they are so good at it Skippy almost even likes the Game. It’s like a very precious, very fragile cargo that he and Dad are
carrying through the jungle; or it’s a house and they’re creeping through it like spies late at night. But sometimes it is
like the air is made of glass and he has waited so long for it to shatter that he starts wanting it to shatter! He wants to
scream and shout so it falls to a million pieces! Does Dad feel that way too? He wonders sometimes, but of course it would
be against the rules of the Game to ask him.

He doesn’t know how you are supposed to win the Game.

The clock ticks on the wall. Skippy listens to Dad’s knife scrape against the plate, the chicken exploding between his teeth.
He looks at the scrape-shaped film of brown sauce on the plate. Dad chews and says, How about we give your sister a call?

Okay, Skippy says.

But immediately he worries. Nina is really bad at the Game. There are too many rules, she is too small to understand them,
she keeps crying or saying things.

Tonight, after she’s talked to Dad, she tells Skippy she wants to
talk to Mummy. Hey, what do you call a girl in an ambulance? Skippy says. Ni-na, Ni-na, Ni-na! Normally she thinks this is
funny. But tonight she doesn’t. I want to talk to Mummy, she says.

You can’t, he says.

Why not?

She’s asleep, Skippy says, looking at Dad. Dad is gazing at the plug socket by the back door.

Wake her up.

I can’t wake her up.

Why not?

You know why not.

I want Mummy.

Skippy is getting angry. Why can she not understand the Game? Why does she think she’s outside the rules? Stop being an asshole,
he says.

What? Nina says. Beside him, Dad stirs to life.

Asshole, you’re an asshole! Skippy shouts.

Nina starts to cry, which makes him even angrier, because even from Aunt Greta’s she is ruining the entire Game! But you have
got to hand it to Dad, he always stays cool. Shh shh, he says, putting a hand on Skippy’s shoulder. Let me have another quick
word with her, there, will you, sport? Skippy passes him the handset.