Skippy Dies: A Novel

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.

Hi, honey… I know, he’s, but… no, it’s not nice, but listen, I forgot to ask you something, did you get the present Mummy sent you? I know, but she’s asleep, but did you get it? Oh well, I bet it’ll come tomorrow… What? I can’t tell you, she wants it to be a surprise… shh, I know… well, you can have fun with Aunt Greta too, can’t you?

While Dad is talking, Skippy gives Dogley his dinner. He breaks brown gristly lumps into the bowl. Chomp, chomp, goes Dogley, his head down. Afterwards Dad turns on the football. From the corner of his eye Skippy watches him watching the white dot zip over the green field between the different-coloured men, his face emptied out, his hand plucking emptily at the arm of the armchair, rolling together little balls of fuzz then pulling them free.

At the station the tube of pills fell out of his coat as he was getting into the car. What’s this, sport? Oh yeah, they’re travel pills Coach gave me. Travel pills? Yeah, um, because coming back after the swim meet that time I felt really crap? Hmm, you don’t normally get carsick. Yeah, it was weird. Could have been just the excitement, I suppose. Yeah, probably. Or you swallowed too much water! Yeah!

They burst through the front door in a flurry of bags and laughter, but thinking back on it now Skippy can’t remember what they were laughing about, or if they were laughing at anything. Inside the stairs were everywhere. They angled upwards and around and in upon themselves. Dad stood at the foot of them. Why not go up and tell Mum you’re here? Skippy hesitated and examined Dad’s face, it was like a face torn out of a magazine. Go on, she’s been expecting you all day. Okay. Skippy climbed the thousands of angling stairs, towards the door that waited at the top.

YOU HAVE DEFEATED THE FIRE DEMON, DJED! It’s the owl, the one you cut out of the spiderweb in the Mournful Woods! BUT THERE IS NOT A SECOND TO SPARE! WITH EVERY HOUR, MIND-ELORE GROWS MORE POWERFUL. IN HIS VILE LABORATORY, DEEP UNDERGROUND IN THE SOUTHERN LANDS, HE LABOURS NIGHT AND DAY TO CREATE HIS FOUL MONSTERS. SOON, HE WILL HAVE RAISED SUCH AN ARMY THAT HE WILL BE INVINCIBLE! YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN STOP HIM! YOU ARE OUR LAST HOPE! The owl’s head swivels to the left, and when it returns to you its tawny eyes are full of tears. THE REALM IS DYING, DJED. THE EARTH HAS TURNED TO POISON, THE RIVERS AND LAKES TO ICE, THE AIR TO FIRE THAT CHOKES ALL WHO BREATHE IT. THE DOOM WE FACE IS DARKER THAN ANYTHING WE IMAGINED. SOON HOPELAND ITSELF WILL BE NO MORE, AND MINDELORE WILL CROWN HIMSELF KING OF THE NOTHINGNESS THAT REMAINS. SAVE THE PRINCESS, DJED! MAKE HASTE!

Doing push-ups in your room. Posters all around you, footballers, rappers, superheroes, bands. Swimming star Michael Phelps, the youngest man ever to break a world record (aged fifteen years, nine months). The Star Wars duvet and all your old toys on the shelves, Lego, Boglins, Zoids. You feel like you’re camped out in the room of another boy. You feel like the replacement boy they’ve got in after something awful happened. You move through the house as if you’ve been programmed with information about it.

The kitchen radio pops and frazzles every time you cross its path.

The magpies chatter like machine-guns, their claws scrape on the shed’s tin roof.

The drain refilled every morning with worn-out grey hairs.

Dad holds the book but never turns the page.

And the door stays closed all day.

You got a sec, Danny? I need to talk to you about something.

Sure thing, Dad.

This came this morning. Dad waves a pink slip of paper in his left hand. It’s Skippy’s mid-term progress card.

Oh.

Yeah, we need to have a talk about it. I mean, we should probably have a talk anyway, shouldn’t we.

They sit down at the table. Dad grips the underside of his chair and turns it diagonally so he’s facing Skippy. This close, he seems very big, a bear crammed into a kitchen chair. His breath smells of whiskey. Skippy sits very still and peeks sideways at the card lying next to them on the table. A line of C’s and D’s, and at the bottom in someone’s slapdash grown-up writing, probably the Automator’s, Disappointing – must try harder.

First of all – is there anything you’d like to say about these grades, Danny?

Well… no… I mean, they’re disappointing.

No, I mean, I’m wondering if there’s some reason, like if they gave the tests that time when you were sick?

No. Dad’s eyes pour into his. He tries to think of something else to say. I’m sorry, he says. I suppose I’ll just have to try harder.

Dad exhales. It’s the wrong answer. What I’m wondering is… he says. Obviously what I’m wondering is, are you having difficulty concentrating at the moment? Are you finding it hard to focus on this stuff?

Hmm. Skippy makes a carefully-thinking-it-over face. No, not really. No, I wouldn’t say so.

You haven’t found you’ve got too much on your mind to…?

No – Skippy sounds like he’s surprised by the question. No, nothing like that.

And yet these grades are way down.

Skippy looks at Dogley, telepathically trying to call him over.

You’re not on trial here, sport. I’m just trying to find out, you know…

Skippy takes a deep breath. Well, maybe it’s just taking me a while to settle into senior school. I think I just need to settle in more, and try harder.

Dad stares at him. The sour tang of whiskey, the metallic hum of the refrigerator. That’s it?

Mm-hmm, Skippy nods firmly.

Dad sighs and looks off to the left. Danny… in certain situations… well, let me put it this way, in my own work, personally speaking, I can find it difficult at the moment to, to care about what I’m doing. I was wondering if you felt that at all.

Skippy’s eyes smart with tears. What is Dad trying to do here? Why is he trying to catch him out? He does not reply, blinks at him to say, What?

It’s not the grades that bother me, sport – Dad doesn’t notice – it’s more the thought that you might be feeling like… His clasped hands dip between his knees like the head of a dead bird; then in a new voice, he says, I suppose what I’m thinking is, maybe we made a mistake in our original plan. Maybe we didn’t foresee quite how – how long it would take for things to pan out. Don’t you think it might make more sense if we arranged for some kind of – if I spoke to your Mr Costigan and said to him, Well, here’s our situation, just so you’re aware.

Dad, what are you doing? What about the Game! Don’t you know what happens when you talk about it? Don’t you remember what happened last time?

I know you said you didn’t want to do that. And obviously I’m going to respect that decision. I’m just wondering if it’s something you’ve thought about since. Just as something that might take the pressure off you a little bit?

Skippy keeps his mouth tight shut, slowly shakes his head.

You’re sure? Dad’s eyebrow raised, pleading.

Skippy nods, just as slowly.

Dad drags his hands over his face. I just hate to think of you, off at Seabrook… I mean… we want you to be happy, if you can, Danny, that’s what we want.

I am happy, Dad.

Sure. Okay. I know that.

Hold tight to your chair, wait for it to end. The pills in the drawer in your room.

Okay. Dad throws his hands up. I guess we’ll just see how it goes, then. He smiles mirthlessly. End of interrogation, he says.

You get up to go. Inside you feel cold, hollow, like a ruined castle with the wind gusting through it whhhhssssshhhhhhhwhhhhhhhhhhshhhhhhhhhh.

Hey – I was thinking of going for a swim tomorrow after work, down to the pool, you interested?

Hmm… no, I’m okay, thanks.

You don’t need to practise for the race?

No, Coach said it wasn’t so important.

Really?

Yeah, actually he said we should take a break from it. I might take Dogley for a walk. Come on, boy. He swings the collar and lead over him and Dogley reluctantly rises from his bed.

Nights are the worst. Outside the fireworks explode like cluster bombs; through the walls the cries are like missiles screaming into your heart. But in the secret compartment of memory where Frisbee Girl is waiting, everything’s just like it was. Her hands, her hair, her eyes, her voice, singing her secret song – the moment picks you up and swirls you into it; you lose yourself again in her sideways-8s, and everything real fades away to a dream.