Skippy Dies (53 page)

‘Drugs!’ Spinning around, he jabs a finger in the boy’s face, who, caught off guard, jumps in his seat.

‘I want you to look at me,’ Father Foley commands, ‘and tell me if you’ve encountered any of the following substances.’ The
boy nods timorously. Father Foley reads from the Department of Education leaflet. ‘Cannabis, also known as ganja, hash, hash
joints.’ He peers at the boy. Nothing. ‘Marijuana, grass, weed, mary-jane.’ No. ‘Speed, whiz, Billy Whiz, crank. Ketamin,
Special K.’ What in God’s name is Special K doing here? ‘Cocaine, coke, Charlie, snort, blow. Heroin, horse, shit, junk, China
White, the White Lady.’

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.