Skippy Dies: A Novel

On Thursday morning the programme for the concert goes up on the noticeboard. The Van Doren Quartet are there, to Jeekers’s inordinate relief; he peels away, wiping the sweat from his brow.

‘Did we get in?’ Eoin ‘MC Sexecutioner’ Flynn asks anxiously, stuck at the back of the crowd examining the board.

Patrick ‘Da Knowledge’ Noonan scans the list again, then, scowling, turns away. ‘No.’

‘We didn’t?’ Eoin is shocked.

‘What did you expect, man?’ Patrick throws up his hands at him. ‘Take a look at the programme, it’s wall-to-wall Whitey!’

‘Hey, Skip, what’s that chit with your name on it?’

‘What’s what?’ Even standing on tiptoes, Skippy still can’t see the board.

‘Hold on…’ Geoff reaches over the collected heads and passes back to Skippy a miniature white envelope with the school crest on it.

‘I’m being sent for Guidance Counselling.’ Skippy studies the card. ‘With Father Foley.’

At the name, hands are cupped and brought to ears. ‘Father Who?’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘Speak up there, young man!’

‘Why are they sending me for Counselling?’

‘They’ve found you out, Skippy,’ Dennis taunts, wiggling his fingers in his face. ‘They know.’

‘Could be they suspect about Condor,’ Ruprecht frowns. ‘Skippy, if anyone asks, I was with you all night, helping you with your maths. Keep calm. They can’t prove anything.’

Can’t they? All through German class his worry mounts. Have they found out about him and Lori? Maybe they don’t like people having girlfriends? He sends her a text just to say hi, but she doesn’t reply.

‘Nicht makes a verb negative,’ the teacher says. ‘Ich brauche nicht, I do not need. Ich liebe nicht, I do not love. Let’s look at the textbook. Was hast du heute nicht gekauft, Uwe? Ich habe ein Schnitzel für meine Mutter nicht gekauft. What did you not buy today, Uwe? I did not buy a Schnitzel for my mother.’

‘I’ve got a Schnitzel for his mother.’

‘Mario, your Schnitzel wouldn’t feed a mouse.’

I do not go I do not eat I do not see I do not hear

He raises his hand, presents the chit to be excused.

Father Ignatius Foley sits with a pen braced horizontally between his index fingertips, contemplating the youth bunched on the other side of his desk. After protracted and unpleasant ear surgery, he has returned from convalescence to find a stack of emergency cases awaiting his attention, and this lad is top of the heap. A pale fellow of slight build, he looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth; in his file, however, you will find Attitudinal Problems, Inattention, Disruptive Tendencies, Vomiting in Class and Playing Frisbee Alone. Trouble comes in every shape and size – when you’ve been counselling youngsters for as long as Ignatius Foley, you’ll know that.

‘Do you know why you’re here, boy?’ Father Foley gives him the full benefit of his stentorian baritone voice. The boy shrinks a bit, stares at his thumbs, mumbles something. Father Foley’s eyes narrow. He knows all right. There’s a wiliness beneath that guileless countenance, the look of someone who’ll try and wriggle around the rules. Well, he won’t find much wriggle room in here.

But first the folded hands, the kindly, avuncular smile. Put him at his ease. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Daniel. No one’s “out to get you”. Your Acting Principal has simply noticed a dip in your grades recently, and asked me to take a look to see if I can help.’ Father Foley rises from his chair. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me in your own words why you think your grades have gone down.’

As the boy launches into the usual prevaricatory flim-flam, Father Foley, slowly circumnavigating the room, peers into the file again. The case is somewhat unusual; this boy does not seem one of the baffled imbeciles that typically washes up in his office. His marks are excellent, or rather were excellent until quite recently – you could almost pinpoint the day they began their steep decline. Father Foley’s got a hunch, and when you’ve been in this business for as long as he has, you learn to trust your hunches.

‘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.