Skippy Dies (51 page)

‘Your family don’t fart?’ Trevor turns on him.

‘Well, they mostly wouldn’t set them on fire –’

‘That’s the beauty of what I do, you see,’ Trevor interjects, eyes a-glimmer, already lost in his own myth. ‘Turning tedious
bodily functions into a magical encounter with the elements – it’s what the whole world dreams of…’

Beside him, Brian ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast listens to this green with anxiety. Thanks to this ridiculous business with the pods
and the mounds, the Quartet is severely under-rehearsed; as if that weren’t enough, it seems the old friction between Ruprecht
and Dennis has broken out again, worse than ever. Ruprecht has told Jeekers not to worry, that the piece is so easy it can’t
possibly go wrong – but he isn’t the one who’ll have to face Jeekers’s parents if they don’t get into the concert.

‘Next!’ The door swings open and Gaspard Delacroix, creator and sole performer of
The Little Sparrow: Gaspard Delacroix Sings the Songs of Edith Piaf
, flounces out, tugging off his fright-wig and muttering about
philistines
. Patrick ‘Da Knowledge’ Noonan and Eoin ‘MC Sexecutioner’ Flynn exchange a single nervous glance; then, with a deep breath,
they put on their showbiz faces and troop inside.

The gym is totally empty, save for a single classroom-type desk set right in the middle of the floor, behind which sit the
Automator and Father Laughton, the concert’s musical director;
Trudy, the Acting Principal’s wife, stands to one side with her clipboard.

The boys mount the stage, gold chains clinking, and spend the next few moments slouching back and forth, mumbling mysteriously
to themselves. Then, to an enormous, naked drumbeat that explodes from Sexecutioner’s ghettoblaster to rock the entire hall,
they begin to bounce around the boards, making inscrutable hand signals, their vast trousers flapping about them like sails,
and Knowledge grabs the mike: ‘I got X-ray EYES, but she’s wearin lead PANTS, so I got to get her BOOTY wi–’

‘Next!’ The judgement issues summarily from the review panel before Sexecutioner has even a chance to drop his first
motherfucker
. For a moment, the boys remain rooted to the spot in ungangsta-like attitudes of woundedness, mocked by the drumbeat that
is still thumping around them; then, unplugging the ghettoblaster, they clamber down and make the walk of shame to the exit.

‘What in God’s name was that?’ the Automator says as soon as they have left.

Trudy peers down at her clipboard. ‘ “Original material.” ’

‘Our old friend original material,’ the Automator says grimly. ‘I’ve had some plumbing mishaps that sounded a little like
those guys.’

‘It did have a certain rough-hewn vitality,’ Father Laughton moderates.

‘I’ve said it before, Padre, this concert’s not about rough-hewn. It’s not about “doing your best”. I want
professionalism
. I want
pizazz
. I want this concert to put the Seabrook name out there, tell the world what we’re all about.’

‘Education?’

‘Quality, damn it. A brand right at the top of the upper end of the market. God knows that’s not going to be easy. I’ve given
serious thought to bussing in other kids, talented kids, just so we don’t have to drop the curtain after half an hour –’

‘I’m not sure that would be quite in the, ah, spirit,’ mutters Father Laughton.

‘Just a thought, Padre, just a thought. Speaking of which, though, had a couple of other ideas I wanted to run by you. First
one: thought we might stick Brother Jonas in there somewhere – you know, representing Africa, various peoples the Paracletes
have helped over there, bright future they can have if everyone rows in, sort of thing.’

‘Mmm, mmm,’ Father Laughton’s bowed head turning from cherry-pink to a florid magenta.

‘Maybe wear traditional dress, say a few words of gratitude in his tribe’s language. I want to remind people of this school’s
long and continuing history of charitable work.’

‘Is the, ah, is the money from the concert going to Africa?’

‘Well, we haven’t decided exactly how it’s going to be allocated. That 1865 wing isn’t going to rebuild itself. But anyway
that’s one idea. The other one’s this: Father, what comes to mind when you hear this word?’ The Automator pauses dramatically,
then with a shimmer of fingers pronounces, ‘DVD.’

Father Laughton blinks. ‘DVD?’

‘Memorial concert’s all about remembering, right? What better way to remember than with a special-edition commemorative DVD?
Let me break it down for you. You put on an event like this, you’re going to get parents coming along with their cameras wanting
to film it. Psychology of the twenty-first-century crowd: people like to capture the spectacle, own it. Call it a side-effect
of late capitalism, call it an attempt to stave off the ineffable transience of life. Point is, at these precious moments
they all want to get little Junior down on tape. So what I’m thinking here is, we beat them to the punch. We film the entire
thing, and so instead of a shaky hand-held recording complete with Aunt Nelly coughing and rustling sweets beside him, Junior’s
dad can have a professionally edited, digitally enhanced DVD, his to own for ev– yes, yes, carry on.’ This last is addressed
to Trevor Hickey, who has been hovering on the stage with a glazed expression these past few minutes, and now hurriedly begins
his speech: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the feat of daredevilry you are about to
see will shock and amaze you. Fire, man’s oldest and most indefatigable foe…’

‘I’ve made a few inquiries, couple of old boys working in the business, they’re telling me we can get the discs printed for
about fifty cents a pop. Packaging, probably work something out there too. Main outlay’s going to be the recording – lighting,
camera hire, sound desk, labour. But whatever we spend, we’ll make back ten times over. Think about it, DVD like that, it’s
the perfect Christmas gift. Every uncle and grandmother and third cousin twice removed’ll be getting a copy of it.’

‘The Ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus believed that the universe was made of fire,’ Trevor says.

‘And they’ll be glad to, because not only will they be getting white-knuckle rock’n’roll by classically trained musicians,
French horn playing of the very highest calibre, a patriotic ballad in our national language, Irish, and more, all on the
same unique historic bill, but with the proceeds they’ll also be investing in Seabrook’s future – actually, that’s pretty
good, make a note of that, Trudy,
a piece of history, an investment in the fut
– Jesus God, what the hell is that kid doing? What the hell are you doing, God damn it!’

Trevor Hickey’s startled face emerges from behind the eclipse of his rump, which is facing the hall with a match poised at
its business end. Showmanship deserting him, he begins to babble out his speech again: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the feat of
daredevilry you’re about to witness will shock and amaze you –’

‘The hell it will –’ In what seems a single bound the Automator is on stage, seizing Trevor Hickey bodily and hauling him
down the steps. ‘My office, nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he bellows after him as he hurls the boy out the door. ‘If you
need someone to light a fire under your arse, then by golly you’ve found your man. A week’s detention, let’s see how that
shocks and amazes you.’

Brick-coloured, dusting his hands, he returns to the table. ‘See, this is the kind of thing we’re up against. Is that the
way we want to commemorate Des Furlong? Is that the way we thank the man
for forty-two
years
serving the Holy Paraclete Fathers? With some joker lighting his farts on stage?’

‘No,’ Father Laughton remonstrates, ‘no, of course not –’

‘You’re darn right it’s not.’ The Automator, simmering, reinstates himself at the desk. ‘This is going to be a night of quality
musical entertainment if I have to sing every damn song myself. Now, who’s next? Ah!’ He brightens as the Van Doren Quartet
troop through the door. ‘What is it they’re playing again, Father?’

‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D,’ Father Laughton says, adding, after a moment of internal debate, ‘You might recognize it from the
current advertisement for the Citroën Osprey.’

The Automator nods. ‘Quality,’ he comments, settling back in his seat.

The Quartet seems a little unsettled at first: some kind of interchange appears to be ongoing between French horn and bassoon,
and the viola is looking positively unwell. But a note from the triangle brings them to order, and Ruprecht – after telling
the bas-soon quite audibly, ‘Play quietly’ – leads the foursome into the soothing circulations of the Canon. As it unspools,
the slow descending harmony repeating and elaborating, a beatific peace invests Father Laughton’s pink, pointy face, and beside
him, perhaps unconsciously, the Automator murmurs, ‘Citroën Osprey… mile for mile, that’s one of the top-performing cars in
its class.’

THE AMULET… IT SAVED ME
.

Djed on the riverbank, kneeling by the rushes. Below, the princess’s eyes glow up at him from the water’s surface, the river
passing beneath her translucent image, making her ripple and dazzle. The tiny harp of the amulet, with the power to turn a
demon’s flames into warm pacific chords of music, dangles between them, over his knees, twisting lullaby-slow like a leaf
in the memory of a strong wind.

YOUR HEART IS WHAT SAVED YOU, DJED
.

Her words are carried to the surface in bubbles, one word held in each, rising in sequence to recompose her sentence. She’s
projecting herself from the demonic prison where she is frozen in ice – she has just enough magic left to do that. Within
the pale image of her face his reflection is just visible, as if they are turning into each other.

It’s night. On the horizon, a half-day’s ride away, the shadow of the castle has gone from the mountainside. After you kill
the Fire Demon the walls fall and the whole valley blooms, not just with flowers and ferns and grass and trees but mice, bats,
worms, frogs, swans and ducks, deer and horses, appearing from the corner of your eye, all in a moment, in a silver brake
of light where the cloud has ebbed and the moon fights through.

YOU ARE COMING TO THE END OF YOUR QUEST, DJED! THERE IS ONLY ONE FOE LEFT TO FIGHT!
Her eyes shimmer with the river, quicken then dwindle like shooting stars.
BUT IT WILL BE THE HARDEST BATTLE OF ALL. I WISH THAT I COULD BE BY YOUR SIDE FOR IT
. She raises her face entreatingly.
BUT DJED… A HEART IS A DOOR INTO ANOTHER WORLD, AND ONCE YOU OPEN IT, IT IS NEVER TRULY CLOSED. SO ALTHOUGH YOU MAY NOT SEE
ME… I’M ALWAYS THERE WITH YOU
.

And somehow her hologram comes to life here, the frail image detaching itself from the surface of the water, the pale hand
rising outward to touch his cheek…

Wait, to touch
his
cheek?

Aftershock jolts through him where he sits on the dorm-room floor, sparking icily down his arms to pulse in his fingertips.

What just happened?

GOODBYE, DJED. GOOD LUCK
. The princess is already serenely back on the water, surveying him from her swirl of floating golden hair. He gathers himself
as best he can, closes his mouth, grips the controller once more; her long sad eyes hold his a moment; then slowly she dissolves,
into the darkness.

The very next moment there is a knock at the door. Head spinning, Skippy goes to answer it.

Coach is standing there, filling the doorway.

Daniel, he says. Just wanted a quick word.

His face is not angry, it does not have any expression. In his hand is a piece of white folded paper.

Can I come in?

From the Rec Room the pock, pock of the table-tennis table and a rerun of
Saved by the Bell
on TV. Then the door closes with Coach on the inside.

He is too big for the room, it looks wrong. His head revolves slowly to take in the beds, the desks, the books, the computer.
Through his eyes everything must look small and breakable, toy things in a child’s game.

You weren’t at training this morning, Coach says.

Skippy looks at the floor.

You can’t afford to be missing sessions this close to the meet, Daniel. We only have two more days to prepare. Were you not
feeling well? Was that it? Were you sick?

Floor floor floor floor.

Coach’s body creaks and rearranges. I got this today, Daniel. The sound of paper unfolding, like the blade of a guillotine
coming down.

Dear Mr Roche, I regret to tell you that because of personal reasons I will no longer be able to come to swimming training
or to go to meets. I apologize for any inconvenience, yours sincerely, Daniel Juster.

The paper folds closed again. Coach’s fingers press and re-press it along the seams, back and forth.

Did you write this letter, Daniel?

I’m not angry at you. Frankly I’m more confused than anything. But did you write it?

Okay, unless you say otherwise right now I’m going to assume you wrote this letter.

Okay. Well, at least we’ve established that much. Now the question becomes why. Why, Daniel? After so much preparation, after
all that
work
? With only three days to go till the race? Why would you do this to your team-mates? Why would you do it to yourself? I mean
the sheer –

Sorry, I’m sorry. I promise, I’m not angry, I just, you can understand, can’t you, how frustrating it is for me, for one of
my best athletes to drop out at the last minute without so much as an explanation?

Footsteps patter up the hall outside; Coach turns and waits till they go by. Then he sees the X on the calendar. That cross
there, that’s to mark the day of the meet?

When you wrote that up there, you were intending to come to the meet. That wasn’t so long ago. Okay, what we need to establish
is what happened between then and now for you to want to write this letter.

I need an explanation, Daniel. If this is your decision I’ll respect that, but you have to give me some kind of explanation.
You owe me that much, at least.