Skippy Dies: A Novel

‘Greg? Do you have a minute?’

‘Why, Howard!’ The Automator turns from his window where he’s peering out at the yard. ‘What are you still doing here?’

‘Uh, yes, I had a –’

‘Scared to go home, that it?’

‘No, actually, I was correcting some, uh –’

‘Just pulling your leg, Howard, come on in. Always welcome in these parts. On the pale side there, buddy, you feeling all right?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely, I just wanted to ask you about some – oh, I’m sorry, has there been some bad news?’

‘News? Oh, you mean this?’ The Automator glances down at the black armband adorning his shirtsleeve. ‘No, no – well, that is to say, yes, as a matter of fact there has been some news, Howard, and while it’s not as bad as it might have been, it’s still not what you could call good. Old Man’s taken a turn for the worse. Doctors say he could slip off at any minute. In fact, they don’t really understand how he’s still alive.’

‘Oh…’ Howard bows his head solemnly, trying to think of an appropriate platitude.

‘I wouldn’t give up on him yet, though. If Desmond Furlong goes down, you can bet it’s not going to be without one heck of a fight.’ He raises his chin, looks sternly into the middle distance. ‘In the jungle there are many animals, Howard. Macaws, parakeets, flamingos, those are just the birds. Then you’ve got your rhinos, orang-utans, tapirs, various kinds of reptile, you name it. But there is only one beast that gets to be called the King of the Jungle, and that beast is the lion. Lion doesn’t get where he is by grubbing for ants or swinging from tree to tree. He lives life on his own terms. He sticks to his guns. When he acts, it’s with one hundred per cent decisiveness and self-belief. That’s why year after year, when the animals get together to crown their king, they always pick the lion. Because it’s those values that mark out a leader, not how good you are at sucking sap out of a tree trunk or using sonar to navigate at night. Desmond Furlong was just such a lion.’ He pauses. ‘What do you think, Howard? Too much?’

Howard, in spite of his best efforts, can only goggle, like a man in a bell jar.

‘You’re right – Trudy, cut that whole lion part, it’s too much.’ Trudy assiduously takes a red pen to a printout sitting on her desk. ‘But I’ll tell you this, Howard, whatever else happens, this Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert is going to give the Old Man exactly the send-off he deserves. We’re having the auditions day after tomorrow, though we’ve preselected most of the acts, obviously.’

Howard is confused. ‘This is a different concert to the 140th…?’

‘No, Howard, one and the same, except that now it’s doubly momentous, in that it not only marks a milestone anniversary in the school’s history, but also commemorates the passing of one of its leading lights. The Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert, it has a ring to it, don’t you think? Gives it that extra touch of gravitas.’

‘But he isn’t actually dead yet,’ Howard establishes as delicately as he can.

‘No, he’s not. No sir, those doctors have another think coming if they believe they’ve got some shrinking violet on their hands here.’

‘So by the time the concert comes round… does that not mean he may actually still…’

‘Well, in that case we’ll have all the more reason to celebrate, won’t we? Unfortunately, Howard, that is not likely at all, not at all, I’m afraid, according to the latest prognosis. At this point he needs a miracle, poor man. That reminds me, though, how are you getting on with those programme notes? Real surfeit of riches, once you dive into those school records, isn’t there?’

‘Oh – absolutely,’ Howard says, picturing the empty notepad sitting under his library books at home. ‘Yes, it’s really coming together…’

‘That’s outstanding, Howard, knew I could count on you. Now, you said there was something you wanted to ask me?’

‘Oh yes… I’m thinking of taking my second-years on a class trip to the museum…’

‘Oh really?’ the Automator turning away again to part the louvres of the blind. ‘A class trip, eh?’

‘Yes, we’re doing the First World War at the moment and for a while now I’ve been thinking it would be good for the boys to see some of the uniforms and guns and so on. It’s not really treated in the textbook, you see, so this would be a way to bring it to life a little, as opposed to being just dead facts on a page…’

‘It’s not treated in the textbook?’

‘Not in any depth, no. Hard to believe, I know, but it actually does the whole war in half a page, and it doesn’t mention Ireland’s involvement at all. A field trip would be a way of engaging the boys on a personal level, to show them what their counterparts of ninety years ago would have experienced – actually, I’m sure there were Seabrook boys who went to the Front, we could ev–’

‘Yesyesyes,’ the Automator interjects, in what sounds like a distinctly minor tone. ‘I have to say, Howard, departures from the textbook always set alarm bells going in my head. These dead facts on a page, as you call them, are the same ones that your class are going to have to reproduce in their exam papers next year. Engaging the boys is all well and good, but your job first and foremost is to get those facts off the page and into their brains by any means necessary. Not to start confusing them with a whole slew of new facts.’

‘I do feel that this is something they’d find particularly beneficial, Greg –’

‘Of course you do, but where does it end? Heck of a lot of facts out there, Howard, heck of a lot of history. You wanted to put all that history in one book, it’d be the size of a warehouse and take you a thousand years to read, by which time of course a thousand more years of history would’ve elapsed. Until they invent, first of all, a history-supercomputer that can fit the whole thing on a single chip, and then some way of downloading the information directly into your brain, we have to be selective about what areas we’re going to concentrate on, you see what I’m driving at here?’

‘It would just be a half-day trip,’ Howard points out. ‘If we left at lunchtime we’d be back here by four o’clock.’

‘Things can happen between lunchtime and four o’clock,’ the Automator pronounces ominously. ‘I can’t help remembering what happened the last time I left you alone in charge of a group of second-years. That’s not the type of scene I want replicated on the streets of our nation’s capital.’

Howard, notwithstanding that he came up with the idea of the field trip purely as a pretext for asking the Automator about Aurelie, feels his choler rise. ‘I think you’re being a little unfair, Greg,’ struggling to keep his tone polite. ‘That was a freak incident. These are good boys, and I have a decent rapport with them.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Addressing the question to the dusk, ‘That Slippy kid’s in your second-year class, isn’t he?’

‘Daniel Juster?’

‘That’s right – how’s he doing these days?’

‘Good as gold. I’ve had no trouble with him whatever.’

‘I’ll bet,’ the Automator says softly, peering through the blind like a predator waiting for his prey to step into his trap.

‘I really think you’ve got the wrong impression of him, Greg. He’s a very bright boy. A little shy, that’s all.’

‘Mm.’ The Automator sounds unconvinced. ‘Howard, come over here a second, would you? Something I’d like to show you.’

Obediently Howard leaves his chair, and Trudy scoots out of his way so he can join the Acting Principal at the window. Below them, through the narrow aperture of the blind, the twilit yard is deserted save for a sprinkling of cars and, Howard sees now, a single, diminutive figure standing on his own among the shadows. In his grey jumper and slacks he has almost entirely disappeared into the monochrome background, but now, as Howard watches, he pivots his upper body to one side and then, like a spring, uncoils, letting fly something from his hand. It travels only a short distance before wobbling dismally to the ground, where it scrapes to a halt with an ugly skittering noise that Howard realizes has been present on the periphery of his consciousness for some time.

‘Know who that is, Howard?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ Howard says evasively.

‘It’s Juster, Howard. He’s been out there this last half-hour.’ They watch the boy trudge over to the object where it has landed, then throw it back in the direction it came. It fares even worse this time, veering off to the right and rolling away into the bushes, to an audible epithet of dismay from the lone figure outside.

‘Any idea what he might be doing?’

‘Looks like he’s playing frisbee.’

‘He’s playing frisbee by himself, Howard. He’s playing frisbee by himself, in the dark. You ever played frisbee by yourself in the dark?’

‘It does look like he needs the practice.’

‘Howard, this may seem like a big joke to you. But damn it, you can’t look out that window and tell me that’s normal behaviour. Even watching him is giving me the creeps. Now you’re telling me you want to let him loose in the city? My God, there’s no knowing what kind of stunt he might pull.’ He turns back to the window. ‘Look at him, Howard. He’s up to something. But what? What’s going on inside that head?’ This provokes a thought – ‘Trudy, wasn’t Al Foley supposed to be profiling that kid for us? Damn it, how long can it take for a man to have his ears drained?’

‘He should be back in the next couple of days, Greg,’ Trudy says.

‘Well, as soon as he is, I want Juster as a top priority.’ He turns round to his underling, staring gloomily at the dusk, and claps him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, Howard. Just can’t do it. Still, I appreciate your initiative. Next time maybe we’ll be able to come to an arrangement. But in the meantime let’s not have any more disparagement of the textbook, all right? Textbook’s on your side. It’s like a map. Stray from the map, take a wrong turn, you’re in Injun territory, friend. Those kids’ll smell it on you in a second and they will take you out, Howard. They will take you out.’ He hits him a hearty giddy-up slap on the arm. ‘Now, why don’t you get yourself on home? Little lady must be wondering where you are.’

Howard is so demoralized that he almost leaves without asking the very question he came in for. Then in the doorway it returns to him. ‘Finian Ó Dálaigh’s back,’ he says, in a warbling burlesque of nonchalance.

The Automator relinquishes the window, still aglow. ‘He sure is. See the size of the stone they took out of him? Doctor said it was the biggest one he’d ever seen. I’ll tell you what, though, Finian Ó Dálaigh could have a cannonball in there, still wouldn’t keep him away from that blackboard. He’s a Seabrook man through and through.’

Howard shakes his head in wordless admiration, then, as if in afterthought, ‘So, will Aurelie McIntyre be coming back this side of Christmas, or…?’

‘Haven’t spoken to her about it yet, Howard, she’s still on holiday to the best of my knowledge. That business at the Hop seems to have shaken her up quite a bit. She asked to extend her break. I agreed. I was just happy she didn’t file for trauma.’

‘So she’s still away?’ Howard leaping for this unexpected lifeline.

‘I believe so, yes. Apparently what happened was that her fiancé sprung a surprise cruise on her. When she called me they’d just pulled into the Seychelles.’

The universe silently crumbles around Howard. ‘Her fiancé?’ he repeats, barely audible even to himself.

‘Yes, he’d popped the question just the night before. Sounds like quite a production. Woman like that, guess you’d better be ready to spend some money.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘Not that he’s short of it, by the sounds of it. You know him, Howard? Clongowes man, played on their Cup team in his day. Working up in Accenture, doing pretty well, year or two younger than yourself?’

‘No, I haven’t met him,’ the dust of Howard’s dreams swirling round him, clogging his throat.

‘Anyhow, now that Finian’s back there’s no real need for her here,’ the Automator continues somewhere in the distance. ‘She might come back, do a couple of hours here and there, extracurricular stuff, the environment, so forth. More likely she’ll go back into banking, that’s where I’d put my money. That’s where most people put their money, am I right?’ He shakes his head. ‘Boy oh boy, though. The size of that gallstone. Try teaching with one of those rattling around your spleen, Howard. But he kept soldiering on. I practically had to strap him down to get him to the hospital…’

Howard makes his exit from the office with small, agonized steps, as if it is he who has just emerged from Intensive Care, wound still gaping in his side.