Skippy Dies: A Novel

By four o’clock – except for the small gaggle that scurries back and forth between the Art Room and the Sports Hall, arms heaped with dyed-black netting, papier-mâché skulls, partially eviscerated pumpkins with craft knives still jutting from their flanks – the school is utterly deserted. Or so it appears; beneath the superficial emptiness, the air groans with the freight of anticipation: the silence shrieks, the space trembles, crammed with previsions so feverish and intense that they begin to threaten to flicker into being, there in the depopulated hallways. Meanwhile, above the old stone campus, sombre grey clouds gather, laden and growling with pent-up energies of their own.

Upstairs, although the sun has not yet quite set – and although, of course, for the rest of the world it does not officially fall for another five days – Hallowe’en is in full swing. The Gothic environs of the Junior Rec Room abound with bedsheet ghosts, plastic-fanged vampires, rubicund Osama bin Ladens and robed Jedi. Frankenstein’s Monster applies contusions to Victor Hero (deceased); two incompletely wrapped mummies quarrel over the last roll of toilet paper; the Scarlet Pimpernel hatches a plan with the Green Goblin to buy drink with the Goblin’s big brother’s fake ID. Here and there older boarders from the higher years, still waiting around for lifts home, look on scornfully and make sarcastic remarks. But the boys barely hear, being too caught up in the moment, and in their costumes, where they feel curiously at home – seeming to inhabit them in a way quite different to the awkward relationships they have with their school uniforms.

Now, as the sun’s last rays glimmer out, the air momentarily shivers – tightening, drawing in on itself, as though experiencing a chill. Through the window the first car-headlights sweep up the avenue; a caravan of others wink in the distance beyond the tennis courts. An elf and what looks like a pint-sized science teacher bustle out of their dorm room to call on another three doors down.

‘Yes?’ Dennis quarter-opening the door.

‘Are you nearly ready?’

‘I am, but I’m waiting for Niall.’

Strolling up the corridor, clicking his fingers, Mario appears in a dark brown leather jacket, a pair of impenetrably black sunglasses and a glistening patina of hairgel.

‘Are you bitches hot to trot? It’s about to start.’

‘Who are you supposed to be, the Fonz?’

‘I am going as the famous stud, Mario Bianchi,’ Mario says, with a snap of his gum.

Dennis just rolls his eyes.

‘What in God’s name is that smell?’ Ruprecht covers his nose with a tweedy sleeve.

‘That, my friend, is aftershave. Some day, if you ever start shaving and you stop being a gay, you will maybe use it yourself.’

‘It smells like you’ve been pickled,’ Ruprecht says.

Mario chews his gum, unperturbed, runs a hand through his slimy hair. ‘So what are we waiting for?’

‘Niall,’ Dennis says, still keeping himself semi-concealed behind the door.

Mario turns his attention to Skippy, panning slowly up from his runners, fitted out with tiny wings, to his crepe-paper hunting hat, which sports a long speckled feather. ‘Who are you? Wait, let me guess… you’re that faggy elf, from that gay game of yours?’

Skippy’s been working on his costume for the last three nights, and it does look impressively elvish. Over a green tanktop (one of several) of Ruprecht’s that has shrunk in the wash, he’s slung a quiver of glo-stick Arrows of Light; a plywood-and-tinfoil Sword of Songs hangs from his belt in a scabbard made from tennis-racket grip, alongside a rolled-up map of Hopeland (authentic parchment effect: soak an ordinary sheet of paper in strong coffee, then put it in the oven at 200 degrees).

Ruprecht’s outfit is decidedly more prosaic – slacks, tie, horn-rimmed spectacles and a brown tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that is too long and insufficiently wide.

‘Uh, Von Boring, did anyone explain to you that you’re supposed to wear a costume…?’

Ruprecht blinks in surprise. ‘I’m Hideo Tamashi,’ he says.

Mario looks blank.

‘Professor Emeritus of Physics at Stanford? Revolutionized the entire field of cosmology? Probably the most important scientist since Einstein?’

‘Oh, that Hideo Tamashi,’ Mario says.

Dennis shakes his head. ‘I have to hand it to you, Skippy, Blowjob, I didn’t think you could possibly look any nerdier than you already are. But this is something really special.’

‘What about you, Dennis?’ Skippy says. ‘Who are you going as?’

Without replying, Dennis steps out into the hall and perfoms a 360 in a rumpled charcoal-grey suit. A neat row of ballpoint pens pokes from his shirt pocket and a Seabrook pin from his tie. ‘Can’t you tell? Let me give you a clue…’ With two hands he rubs vigorously at his face and hair, emerging flushed and bellicose, and in a stentorian voice bellows, ‘Come on, you slackjaws, show some moxie! I’m not running a kindergarten here! Ship up or shape out! My way or the highway!’ His eyes flick eagerly over the faces of the others, in whom realization is just beginning to twitch… ‘Well, actually, the costume’s not quite finished – I mean it’s only half of the costume,’ he says cryptically, then, craning his neck, calls into the room behind him, ‘are you nearly ready in there?’

‘I’m ready,’ Niall’s voice, sounding singularly dejected, returns.

‘Behold, gentlemen…’ The door at last swings open, and Dennis steps aside with a ringmasterly bow to reveal, in the middle of the room, Niall in a disastrous floral pinafore, a blonde wig and high heels. The dress has been enhanced by two balloons up top and a cushion in the belly area; Niall, underneath a lurid layer of enthusiastically applied make-up, wears an expression of profound suffering and humiliation.

It takes a moment for the others to realize the full genius of this double-act, then the first giggles emerge, transmuting swiftly into guffaws.

‘What are you clowns laughing at?’ Dennis barks. ‘Laughing’s for chumps! Take a note, Trudy –’ resignedly, Niall reaches into his handbag and produces a clipboard. ‘Van Doren – suspension! Juster – expulsion! The wop I want served up on a pizza! No, wait – a calzone! God damn it, Trudy, why the hell are you writing so slowly, you’re not pregnant again, are you?’

‘No master, sorry master,’ Niall cringes in falsetto.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Dennis claps him on the back, sending a rugby ball tumbling from between Niall’s legs, swaddled in a blue and gold Seabrook jersey.

‘If he finds out about this you are so dead,’ Skippy says. ‘You’re deader than dead.’

‘Juster, when I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,’ Dennis continues, then turns to the band of masquers who’ve halted on their way downstairs to mill around the doorway. ‘Fix that hair! Close that mind! Repeat after me! Page me the second the old man croaks it! Now, are you boys ready? A Seabrook boy is always ready. Ready to work. Ready to play. Ready to listen to his teachers, especially the greatest educator of them all, Jesus. As Jesus said to me once, Greg, what’s your secret? And I said, Jesus – study your notes! Get to class! Shave that beard! You show up to your first day on the job dressed like a hippie, of course they’re going to crucify you, I don’t care whose son you are…’

In this fashion, the faux Acting Principal and his ersatz wife leave the room and are ushered to the head of the crowd to lead the procession downstairs, the laughter of the other boys ringing around them and split more or less equally between admiration of their bravado and gleeful anticipation of the moment they get caught.

‘Wait – I just have to get something –’ The cavalcade’s already tripped away unhearing, down the spiral staircase. Back in his room, Skippy flips over the pillow and hovers there.

He hasn’t taken a pill in days and days. It’s partly because the last time he took one he threw up on Kevin Wong; but it’s mostly because of seeing her, because the feelings he’s had ever since he saw her have chased away the feelings he was having before – maybe not chased them away entirely, but to somewhere deep underground, where you can barely hear them whispering and growling. He’s still freaking out – today, especially, he hasn’t been able to eat and every time he thinks of Frisbee Girl, which is every second, his heart starts going a trillion miles an hour – but it’s a different kind of freaking out. It’s not like being attacked by his own brain, joined forces with the stuff around him so he has to cover his head. It’s not the moments gathered against him, throwing him from one to the other. Instead everything follows on from everything else, the way it does in a story, and the air around him is turbulent and pure and cold, like standing under a waterfall. Can there be such a thing as happy terror? All Skippy knows is that he doesn’t feel like blocking it out. Just to be on the safe side, though, he slips the tube into his quiver; then he runs off after the others, as they twist through the narrow dark-panelled corridors of the Tower and out into the Quad where they stop and catch their breath…

Night has fallen, utterly black, moon and stars inked out by storm-clouds that seem, even now, still to be arriving on the scene; the air is full of staticky rain that doesn’t fall but hangs, tingling, waiting for you to walk into it. That’s not all it’s full of. From the leaf-strewn laneway leading down to Ed’s Doughnut House, from the avenue that snakes past the priests’ residence to the back gate by St Brigid’s, from the road by the tennis court that goes to the main entrance, costumed forms are arriving, many of them – among the cowboys, devils, giant spiders, rugby internationals, Jasons and Freddys, corpses in various states of decay – costumed female forms. The car park is a riot of bare legs, flashing silver in headlights as they debouch from Saabs, Audis, SUVs; and as soon as these latter have gone, coats are shrugged off to reveal equally bare arms, bare mid-riffs and as much cleavage as they can get away with.

It seems the girls have by and large played down creativity in favour of the opportunity to dress slutty. Naughty nurses sashay up with kinky cowgirls; a pneumatic Lara Croft in thigh-high boots carries the nacreous tail-fin of a mermaid who for one heart-stopping moment appears naked from the waist up, till you realize she’s wearing a fleshtone leotard; S&M cop, porno-Cleopatra, four woozy princesses tripping arm-in-arm in princess heels up the bumpy laneway; two Catwomen, already arching their backs at each other, a host of BETHanis in various guises familiar from the videos – all flocking to join the line that extends down the steps from the doors of the Sports Hall through which music swirls and colours glint like promises…

The boarders, attempting to take this in, are for a moment reluctant to move: it’s as though they’ve stumbled upon Xanadu, right here in their own school, and they fear they might somehow shatter the illusion, scatter this heady dream to the four winds… Then, as a man, they think better of it, and hurry down to join the queue.

At the top of the steps the Automator is delivering his last-minute instructions to Howard the Coward and Miss McIntyre: ‘It is now seven forty-five. At eight-thirty I want these doors closed. There is to be ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE after eight-thirty, under any circumstances. Prior to ten-thirty p.m., no one is to leave except with your permission. Once they leave, there is NO READMITTANCE. Anyone behaving in a disruptive or inappropriate fashion, I want their parents called immediately. And anyone –’ he raises his voice here ‘– found to be in possession or under the influence of alcohol or controlled substances of any kind is to be punished with immediate suspension, pending full investigation by the School Board.’

He casts a searing gaze over the line of suddenly terrified-looking youngsters frozen silently on the hall steps, holding their alcoholic breath.

‘Good,’ he pronounces. Already late for his fundraising dinner at Seabrook Rugby Club, he takes his leave of the chaperones and strides down the line in the direction of the car park; then, a little distance past the tail of the queue, he stops. Scratching his head, he turns and slowly retraces his steps, as if he is not quite sure what he is looking for, until he arrives at Dennis and Niall.

A silence falls over the assembled masquers. Smoothing down his red tie, adjusting his charcoal blazer, the Automator stares at Dennis through narrowed eyes. Dennis, identically attired, hums nervously to himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the reptilian neck of Max Brady in front of him. Giggles begin to escape up and down the line. The effect, for anyone looking on, which everyone is, is akin to that of the Automator staring into a fairground mirror. His gaze flicks over to Niall, then back to Dennis. He begins to say something, then stops; after a full minute of naked staring, in which Dennis comes close to tears, he grunts, turns on his heel and continues on his way.

They listen to his footsteps echo off to the car park, the car door chunks open and closed and the motor starts; and then, as it revs off into the night, there is a mighty cheer.

‘You are all suspended!’ Acting Principal Dennis Hoey cries. ‘Hallowe’en is banned! Study your navels! Cut those notes!’ Niall shakes his head and silently thanks God, whom he has promised never to listen to Dennis again.

The doors are opened, and the line progresses swiftly forward. But before the party can begin, there remains one last trial to get through – the Sports Hall antechamber where, seated alone at a table, Father Green is taking entrance money. The light here is sterile and unforgivingly bright, reducing them, no matter how glamorous or outlandish their attire, once more to children; as they shuffle by him to drop their crumpled fives into the bucket, the priest thanks them in an impersonal, excessively courteous tone, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the almost universally sacrilegious costumes, not to mention the acres of goosepimpled flesh – still, the transaction leaves them with a strange chill of ignominy, and they hurry away as quickly as they –

‘Oh, Mr Juster…’

Skippy reluctantly turns back from the door. What is the problem? Didn’t he see him put in his money? The priest’s lashes, long and surprisingly feminine, waft upwards, uncloaking the coal-black stare.

‘You appear to be losing a wing…?’ He extends a knotted finger.

Looking down, Skippy sees that the feathers have come unpinned from the ankle of one dragonskin boot. He bends quickly and adjusts it, then mumbling his thanks hastens into the hall.

The others have disappeared; everything is dark, and Skippy stumbles around for what seems like an age, bumping his way through witches, mutants, trolls and terrorists, unable to make out anyone he knows. Every available inch of space has been covered with black cloth, decorated in turn with crescents, stars, mystical runes. Black balloons float overhead like lost souls, ropey black webs drip from the eaves, mutilated mannequins climb out of the walls, and over the DJ booth, where Wallace Willis – lead guitarist with Shadowfax, Seabrook College’s number one rock band – is spinning the discs, a gap-toothed pumpkin exults as though presiding over the bacchanal. When his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Skippy finds he can identify most of the male half of the revellers. That Zeus over there, in cotton-wool beard and bathrobe, is Odysseas Antopopopolous; the IRA man in camouflage gear and balaclava can only be Muiris de Bhaldraithe. But some of them still defy him. That eerie Death, for instance, face lost beneath the hood of his robe, standing six and a half feet tall at least, who is he? And eerier still, the pink rabbit jitterbugging feverishly over beside Vincent Bailey and Hector O’Looney? And these girls – can they really be the same ones he sees every day, queuing up in Texaco for cigarettes and phone credit? Have they secretly, all this time, been this? If it weren’t for the worn-down lines of the basketball court underfoot, the only trace of the hall’s previous incarnation, Skippy’d think he’d somehow wandered into the wrong place…

‘Hallo, Skippy,’ a sepulchral voice says. ‘Happy Holiday of the Dead.’

‘Thanks, Geoff.’

‘Isn’t this incredible?’

‘It’s pretty amazing…’

‘Would you like some fruit punch?’

‘Okay.’

Elf follows zombie to the table where ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast is ladling punch from a huge vat prepared by Monstro from the ends of various cans of fruit concentrate. Dennis is there too, with Ruprecht; the former has just suspended Jeekers for his gay costume (eighties tennis ace Mats Wilander) and then expelled him for not ensuring there is booze in the punch. A moment later Niall bursts onto them. ‘Hey everybody, Mario just got turned down by a girl!’

‘I was not turned down, you faggot who is dressed as a woman,’ Mario snaps, arriving behind him. ‘I told you, she is a diabetic and she must go and take her insulin.’

‘I saw the whole thing!’ says Niall with an unrepentant air of jubilation. ‘Wiiiipeouuuuut.’

‘Keep laughing, Mr Funny, and when this bitch comes back from taking her insulin you are going to look pretty silly.’

‘Well, even if she doesn’t…’ Geoff begins consolingly.

‘She will.’

‘Yes, but even if she doesn’t, there are plenty of other ladies here anyway.’

‘And most of them are drunk,’ Dennis adds.

‘Fascinating,’ Ruprecht muses to Skippy. ‘The whole thing seems to work on a similar principle to a supercollider. You know, two streams of opposingly charged particles accelerated till they’re just under the speed of light, and then crashed into each other? Only here alcohol, accentuated secondary sexual characteristics and primitive “rock and roll” beats take the place of velocity.’

Skippy has gone to replenish his punch. Ruprecht sighs quietly, and looks at his watch.

Patrick ‘Da Knowledge’ Noonan and Eoin ‘MC Sexecutioner’ Flynn pimp-roll by, plastic Uzis tucked under their arms, the faint frisson of tension still detectable between them, the aftermath of a heated debate earlier today over who was going to come as Tupac, which debate Patrick won, meaning Eoin is now waddling along in a fat suit, dressed as Biggie Smalls. The squalling riff from Cream’s ‘Layla’ blasts from the speakers; in the DJ booth, Wallace Willis nods to himself: oh yes. ‘Flubber’ Cooke, who has come in his supermarket shelf-stacking uniform, explains to a sexy nun that while it’s part of his costume the trolley is actually company property, so although he’d like to let her ride in it, he can’t. Mr Fallon, the history teacher, drifts along the periphery with his hands in his pockets and a melancholy air.

‘I’d like to say a few words about bullying,’ Dennis, in an authentic sheen of perspiration, is declaiming to anyone who’ll listen. ‘Here at Seabrook, we simply will not tolerate bullying of a second-rate nature. Bullying must meet the same standards of excellence we expect everywhere else. If you need help with your bullying, please do not hesitate to speak to me or Father Green or Mrs Timony or Mr Kilduff or…’

And then, grabbing his arm, Geoff Sproke says, ‘Hey, Skippy, look! Isn’t that your girlfriend over there?’

‘Skippy?’

‘… uh, Skippy?’

‘Hey, we’re going to need a new Skippy over here!’

It’s just like in a film. The music dims to nothing, voices fade out, everything melts away, leaving only her. She is talking with her friends, dressed in a long white dress, a slender tiara woven into her dark hair. She seems to glow like she is lit from within, and even though he is looking right at her, Skippy can’t believe how beautiful she is. He looks right at her, and he still can’t believe it.

‘Hubba hubba,’ Mario says. ‘Like a steak on a barbecue, this bitch is smokin’. It is lucky for you that you have first dibs, Juster, otherwise she would be the prime candidate for some of Mario’s Special Sauce.’

‘Keep an eye on him, Skip,’ says Dennis. ‘Never trust an Italian. The Nazis did that, and look where it got them.’

‘You’re not going to throw up again, are you?’ Ruprecht asks.

‘I can’t believe she’s here,’ Skippy whispers dazedly.

‘Skippy, old pal,’ Dennis claps a hand on his shoulder, ‘it doesn’t make any difference whether she’s here or not. As far as you’re concerned, she’s on the North Pole. She’s on the moon.’

‘What’s the deal with her costume?’ Niall wonders. ‘She looks sort of like one of the elves from Lord of the Rings.’

‘Or the girl from Labyrinth?’

‘You clowns, she’s obviously Queen Amidala from Phantom Menace.’

‘Oh, right, you mean in that scene in Phantom Menace where she wears a tiara in her hair? The special magical scene that doesn’t exist? That scene?’

But Skippy doesn’t think she looks like Queen Amidala, or the girl from Labyrinth, or anyone else. He has seen beautiful girls before, in films, on the Internet, in pictures pinned to locker doors and dorm rooms; but the beauty this girl has is something bigger, something beyond, with infinitely more sides to it – it’s like a mountain with an impossible shape that he keeps trying to climb and falling off, finding himself lying on his back in the snow…

‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ Geoff announces, arriving back on the scene with Titch Fitzpatrick. ‘Frisbee Girl’s true identity is about to be revealed!’

Titch, in a red Formula One jumpsuit crowded with company logos, clearly has other fish to fry tonight: from every side, girls wave and pout and send him amorous gazes. ‘Where is she, then?’ he says impatiently.

‘Over there,’ Geoff points with a decomposing finger. ‘Near the DJ booth?’

Titch presses his lips together, and rising onto his tiptoes cranes his head over in the direction Geoff is pointing. Inside, Skippy squirms. Finding out her name! This is becoming real! Is that what he wants? He can’t even tell –

She is with three other girls – a GI Jane with sharp, intelligent features and bouncy curls, a scuba driver in a tight-fitting wetsuit and an overweight girl in some kind of incredibly voluminous Victorian-type ballgown that keeps slipping down her shoulders. The four of them are huddled together, conferring, Frisbee Girl’s eyes darting repeatedly from the dancefloor to the door, like she’s watching out for someone.

‘Lori Wakeham, Janine Forrest, Shannan Fitzpatrick, KellyAnn Doheny,’ Titch reels off the names in a bored voice. ‘I presume you’re talking about Lori Wakeham, she’s the one in the white dress.’

Lori.

‘Who is she?’ Geoff asks.

‘Uh, Lori Wakeham? Did I not just say that?’

‘No, I mean, you know, what’s her story?’

Titch shrugs. ‘Just your typical Foxrock princess.’

‘She going out with anybody?’ Mario says.

‘Dunno,’ Titch says indifferently. ‘I’ve seen her with people at LA Nites. I don’t know if she’s got a boyfriend. She acts a bit like no one’s good enough for her.’

‘Frigid,’ Mario comments.

‘So basically you’re saying Skipford here is wasting his time, right, T-dog?’ Dennis interprets. ‘You’re saying that Skippy fancying her is like some kind of slime or ooze fancying, you know, Gisele. It’s like some sort of disgusting slime or algae seeping over to Gisele and telling her to get her coat.’

‘That’s not what he’s saying,’ Geoff objects. ‘He’s just saying she acts like no one’s good enough for her. But that’s because she hasn’t met Skippy yet.’

‘What’s so great about Skippy? No offence, Skippy.’

‘Well, okay, he’s a very good swimmer? And he’s – he’s nearly finished Hopeland?’

‘Actually,’ Titch remembers, ‘I did see her with Carl a couple of times last week.’

Instantly, as if it’s been sucked into some awful vacuum, all conversation ceases.

‘I saw them together in the mall,’ Titch says obliviously, ‘and once outside Texaco. I don’t know if they’re going out. I can ask around if you want.’

‘Good idea, you ask Carl, and if he comes over and smashes Skippy’s face in, we’ll know she’s spoken for.’ Just then, as though sensing the eyes on her, the fat girl in the unfortunate dress turns and squints in their direction; next thing they know, Titch has bolted into the crowd.

‘Sorry, dude,’ Niall commiserates. Skippy is gazing at the floor as if counting the fragments of his shattered life.

‘I think you should go and talk to her anyway,’ counsels Ruprecht.

‘You fat moron, didn’t you hear what he said?’ Dennis rebuts. ‘He said he’d seen her with Carl. Carl is the key word there. It means get the hell out of the way, or start digging your own grave.’

‘He only said he’d seen her with Carl,’ Ruprecht corrects him. ‘There could be any number of explanations for that.’

‘Oh sure, maybe they’re in stamp club together.’

‘Let’s just stop talking about it,’ Skippy says desolately.

‘But Carl,’ Ruprecht says. ‘Why would anybody want to go out with Carl?’

‘Because that’s what girls do, you idiot,’ Dennis returns. ‘The more of an asshole a guy is, the more girls he’s got lining up to give him blowjobs. That is a scientific fact.’

‘You can’t just say something is a scientific fact,’ Ruprecht rejoins.

‘I just did, fatass. And what do you know about it anyway? Who the hell ever gave you a blowjob?’

‘Your mother,’ Geoff prompts sotto voce.

‘Your mother,’ Ruprecht says to Dennis.

‘Stepmother,’ Dennis corrects sulkily.

‘Ruprecht has a point though,’ Niall says. ‘Like, is Carl even here?’

‘Can we just stop talking about it?’ Skippy remonstrates.

‘No, but, if they were together, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?’

‘It seems to me that the only way of establishing the truth is for Skippy to go and talk to this girl,’ Ruprecht repeats.

‘Would you all just fucking shut up?’ Skippy interjects. ‘Just fucking shut up about it, why can’t you.’

Surprised, they fall silent, and remain so a moment. Then Mario, with some remark about beavers, turns and plunges quixotically into the dancefloor; Dennis and Niall follow after him, already chuckling. Ruprecht pats Skippy on the shoulder, and directs another surreptitious glance at his watch. Skippy looks over at Lori. The other two girls are both speaking to her; she nods without seeming to be listening, thumb jabbing frenetically at her phone. He wishes he’d never told anyone about her, never found out anything about her, that he could have gone on just watching her through the telescope. Now, just like Dennis said, even though she’s right here, she’s on the other side of the world. ‘Don’t give up yet, Skippy,’ Geoff’s voice sounds in his ear. ‘Strange things happen at Hallowe’en…’ And at that very moment, in the middle of the twin lead-guitar break in ‘Hotel California’, one of Wallace Willis’s all-time favourite solos, the music cuts out and the lights too, and in the interregnum of darkness there is a fierce peal of thunder, like some huge, amorphous black animal snarling right over their heads. Everybody cheers. Skippy’s hand tightens on his sword.