Skippy Dies: A Novel

The intervening days between the ‘Tragic Event’, as it’s become known, and the funeral mass in Seabrook parish church are a dreamlike mixture of chaos and odd, affectless serenity, like watching a riot on television with the sound turned down. Classes are suspended, and in the ensuing vacuum reality too seems on hold, the boundaries and precepts that ordinarily govern the schoolday, that had seemed until now like fundamental laws of the universe, simply no longer there: the ringing of the bell at three-quarter-hour intervals just a meaningless sound, the corridors full of people wandering around like drones in some computer simulation.

As if to compound the weirdness, parents keep bursting through the double-doors at every hour and charging up the stairs to besiege the Acting Principal. From their expressions, blending the implacable determination of the irate customer with a touching, infant-like helplessness, one might think these parents, many of whose sons are not even in the same year as Daniel Juster, to be more upset than anyone else. And maybe they are; maybe for them, Howard thinks, Seabrook College really is a bulwark of tradition, stability, constancy, all of the things it says in the brochure, and so in spite, no doubt, of their best intentions, they can’t help viewing the Tragic Event, the suicide of this boy they do not know, as a hostile act, a kind of vandalism, a swear-word wantonly scratched into the sleek black paint of their lives. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’ they ask, over and over, wringing their hands; and the Automator tells them the same thing he tells the newspapermen and women that appear at the school gates, outside the doors, skulking down Our Lady’s Hall – that the school is conducting a full investigation, that he will not rest until an explanation is found, but that the number one priority for all of them now must be the care and reassurance of the boys.

On the day of the service, the school chapel being deemed too small for the purpose, the entire year of two hundred boys, accompanied by Howard and five other teachers, makes its way crocodile-fashion down the perimeter path and out the gates to Seabrook village. Ordinarily, this type of operation would be a logistical nightmare; today they march the mile to the parish church with barely a sound. The boys’ faces have the same pasty, just-scrubbed, vaguely otter-like look they have when they’ve just got out of bed, and they flinch as they cross the church threshold – as if the coffin were not sitting there inertly between the aisles but hanging over them like a rod of untold power, a splinter of something supermassive and implacable that’s come spinning down like that inscrutable black slab in 2001 from somewhere dread and ulterior to call time on their flimsy Wendy-house lives.

Just before the mass begins a contingent of girls from St Brigid’s is led in by a nun. Heads turn and a restrained but audible murmur of displeasure indicates that the girl at the heart of the affair is among them. Howard identifies her from the newspaper pictures – though slighter than she looked there, and younger, hardly more than a child, delicate features rhythmically appearing and disappearing behind a veil of black hair. The story going around is that Juster, improbable as it seems, had some kind of romantic entanglement with this girl, which on the fateful night, less improbably, came to an end. She certainly has a face custom-made for heartbreak; still, Howard struggles to reconcile this melodrama with the nondescript boy who sat in the middle row of his History class.

The organ sounds and the boys rise in unison: Tiernan Marsh leads the choir into the hymn that opens all Seabrook College ceremonies, ‘Here I Am, Lord’. While they sing, Howard surreptitiously scans the rows of young faces, staring deliberately ahead, muscles tensed against any expression of emotion; the hymn is so beautiful, though, and the choir’s voice so sweet, that even as he watches, the fault-lines spread, eyes redden, heads drop. At the end of one bench he sees tears coursing down Tom Roche’s cheeks; it is shocking, like seeing your dad cry. Turning away he finds himself looking right into Father Green’s eyes. He bows his head hastily, and they sit again.

Father Foley says mass with his lips too close to the microphone; the loudspeakers pop with every plosive, making the boys wince. ‘How telling it is,’ he says in his sermon, shaking his illustrious golden-locked head, ‘that Daniel’s short life should come to its end in a restaurant devoted to doughnuts. For in some ways, is our modern way of life not comparable to one of these doughnuts? “Junk food” that satisfies only temporarily, that offers a “quick fix”, but has, at the centre of it, a hole? Is that not, indeed, the shape of any society that has lost touch with God? At Seabrook College we strive to fill this hole with tradition, with spiritual education, with healthy outdoor activity and with love. Today, the report card that our Holy Father has given us tells us that we must try harder. Daniel is united with Him now. But for the other boys, and for ourselves too, we must learn to be more watchful, more vigilant, against the forces of darkness, in the many alluring guises those forces have learned to hide themselves…’

A photographer is waiting on the steps after the service. As the doors open he springs into position, but before he can snap a single shot, Tom Roche has charged over to accost him. The man half-rises, hands wheeling, arguing his case; Tom does not listen, keeps jostling him backwards till the photographer loses his footing and stumbles down the steps. The Automator places a discreet hand on Tom’s shoulder, but the man is already on his way, complaining bitterly about censorship.

After the cemetery, there is a reception in the school. The St Brigid’s girls are whisked away by their guardians, but many of the second-years come back for weak tea and drooping, plasticky hamand-cheese sandwiches, served from a trestle table in Our Lady’s Hall. The slim man in the dark suit talking to one of the priests is Juster’s father; he looks exhausted, wrung-out, like he’s spent the last seven days in a spin-cycle. His wife is washed up against him, clinging lifelessly to his arm like seaweed, with no pretence of listening to the priest’s small talk. Howard searches about for Farley, wondering how long he has to wait before he can politely leave. Then: ‘Ah, Howard, there you are,’ a voice says at his ear. ‘Someone I’d like you to meet.’ Before he can protest or escape, the Automator has steered him right up to the bereaved parents.

They greet the stuttering interloper without pleasure; on hearing his name, however, Juster’s father’s face quite changes – opens, in a curiously literal way, making him seem younger, recalling his son. ‘The history teacher,’ he says.

‘That’s right.’ Howard is not sure how to pitch his smile.

‘Daniel used to talk about your class. You’re doing the First World War at the moment.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Howard burbles gratefully, seizing on it as if for a life-belt but then unable to find the words to advance the conversation.

‘He was telling me about it just the other day. As a matter of fact he had a great-grandfather who fought in the war, on my wife’s side – isn’t that right, honey?’

Juster’s mother’s lips briefly approximate a smile; then she pinches her husband’s sleeve and he leans over so she can bring a cupped hand to his ear. He nods and, extending the smile and bowing to Howard and the others, she withdraws and makes her way down the hall. ‘My wife is very sick,’ he says, almost in passing; then, in a more meditative tone, ‘Yes, his name was Molloy, William Henry Molloy. He served in Gallipoli, though, not on the Western Front. I think Sinead still has some bits and pieces belonging to him somewhere in the house. Would they be of interest to you? I could dig them out for you, if you like.’

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble…’

‘No trouble, no trouble…’ The man drifts off, tracing a thumbnail along his lower lip, then, resurfacing, says quite conversationally, ‘He didn’t want me to tell anyone about his mum – I don’t suppose he mentioned her to you, did he?’ He flashes ringed eyes at Howard, who takes a moment to realize that they are talking about Juster again. Stiffly, he shakes his head.

‘Kids are so secretive at that age – I don’t need to tell you that, I’m sure.’ The man smiles softly at Howard. ‘Do you have children yourself?’

‘Not yet,’ Howard says, visited as he speaks by an image of his empty house, the floor covered with pizza boxes and unfinished games of sudoku.

‘They have definite opinions on how things should be done.’ He smiles the weird faraway smile again. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to him, of course, I realize that now. I should have told someone to keep an eye on him. He needn’t have known. I was just so distracted. You know, an illness like that becomes such a marathon, the endless waiting for test results, for the next round of treatment. And at the back of my mind I suppose I was thinking the same thing he was, that if we all just sat tight maybe the whole thing would disappear. I didn’t think about the pressure it was putting him under, coping with it all alone. Now it’s too late.’

He trails off, lifts the spoon to stir his tea, replaces it without raising the cup to his lips, while Howard flails about for some words of consolation. ‘But Mr Costigan tells me –’ it is the other man who speaks first, addressing Howard with a resolute air ‘– that you talked to Daniel on a couple of occasions. I wanted to thank you for that. I’m glad he knew there was somewhere he could go.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The words whistle faintly through Howard’s lips, like his mouth has been shot full of novocaine; he reaches out to shake the hand the man extends, as inside he feels his body turn to ashes. Then, gratefully, he steps aside, as Tom approaches to pay his respects, his handsome, lean-jawed face heavy with compassion.

Juster’s mother is waiting in the car outside, and it is not long before her husband, thanking the faculty again, leaves to join her. Shortly afterwards the caterers begin to stow the dirty crockery.

The crowd has dissipated, and the remnant that continues to the Ferry is made up of teachers alone. The mood they bring in with them is broody and mean, and drinking at three o’clock the worst thing for it. In an hour everyone is tipsy and unstable. The women, most of whom are mothers, dab at tears; emergent sunlight streams through the window and blares from the hideous floral carpet, combining with the beer to make Howard’s head ache. He wants to go home but is locked into a corner by Farley, who’s drinking double whiskeys and has embarked on a long, bitter diatribe that has no real subject but keeps coming back to Father Foley’s sermon. ‘He’s supposed to be a man of God, and he gets up there and spouts this stupid, vacuous – I mean, did he think for a second about how people might feel?’

‘I didn’t think it was that bad,’ Howard says blandly. ‘I mean, no worse than you’d expect.’

‘For God’s sake, life is like a doughnut? Has the poor kid not undergone enough without being dragged in to star as a metaphor for modern society?’

‘Well, he did have a point,’ Howard says. ‘I agree it may not have been tasteful…’

‘Juster didn’t die from eating a doughnut, Howard. He died from a fucking giant overdose of painkillers.’

‘I know that, but the stuff about junk food, and the world we’re handing down to these kids…’

‘I’m not denying that for one second. It’s a shitty fucking world, no question, and right from the off these kids are in the crosshairs, being told to buy this, buy that, lose weight, dress like a hooker, get bigger muscles – by grown men, Howard, it’s grown men and women doing this, I mean the cynicism of it is unbelievable, but my point is, my point –’ he stalls, head veering in vague circles like an errant compass needle ‘– that fool, that silly old man, and the Automator and all of them, they carry on like it’s outside, all the bad stuff is outside, and we’re this embattled force protecting them from it, when it’s us too, Howard, when we’re filling them with our own brand of bullshit, about tradition and whatever, setting them up to take their places at the top of the shitheap like this is some noble thing, when it’s all just money, and who they are is incidental, they’re just the means of allowing Seabrook to keep being fucking Seabrook –’

‘I don’t see what this has got to do with Juster,’ Howard says quietly, aware of how loud Farley has got.

‘No one cares, Howard, that’s what it’s got to do with him! If someone had been looking out for that kid this wouldn’t have happened, I guarantee you – I guarantee you,’ over Howard’s mumbled protests, ‘but no one was, because no one cares, instead we just pay lip-service to caring, like we pay lip-service to charity and all those Christian values we supposedly stand for while we’re slumped in front of our incredibly high-resolution plasma TVs, or we’re driving off to our holiday homes in our SUVs. Like, don’t you think it’s a fucking joke, calling that a Christian life? Do you think fucking Jesus would have driven around in an SUV?’

‘Here,’ Tom interjects roughly. They look up: he is glaring at them intently through reddened, bleary eyes; a rash of sweat glistens across his forehead.

‘What?’ Farley says, pointedly.

‘I don’t know what you’re shiteing on about,’ Tom says, ‘but leave Jesus out of it.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it, is why. Show some respect.’

‘Show some respect is just another way of telling people to keep their mouths shut,’ Farley says.

‘Okay, keep your mouth shut.’

‘See, that’s exactly the kind of thing I mean,’ Farley ripostes, the whole room looking at him now, ‘we spend all our time congratulating ourselves on what a great school we are, we go into class every day and fill the kids’ heads up with crap, but you try to say anything about what the world’s actually genuinely like and someone’ll tell you to keep your mouth shut and show some respect –’

‘You know what your problem is, Farley?’ Tom raises his voice.

‘I don’t know, Tom –’ Farley raising his own right back ‘– what’s my problem? Enlighten me.’

‘Your problem is you’re a knocker. You’re a typical fucking Irish knocker. While decent people are putting their heads down and getting on with the job and doing the best that they can, you hop about like a little bird, picking away at everything, chipping away at everyone’s morale, because you’re too spineless and selfish to try and make a difference –’

‘You’re totally right, Tom, you’re absolutely right, I am spineless, I am a spineless selfish useless person, and I don’t do anything to try and make a difference, but you know what, neither do you, and neither does anyone in this fucking place beyond the bare minimum, instead we just look after ourselves and the people like us, because we know that otherwise things might actually change –’

‘Take it easy,’ Howard tells him, and when this has no effect, appeals to Tom, ‘He’s had a lot to drink.’

‘Fuck off, Fallon, you’re worse than he is.’

‘Things might change,’ Farley repeats, standing now with his arms outstretched, ‘we might even have to let strangers into our little treehouse. Poor people! Foreign people! How would you like that, Tom? How would you like to see your precious school full of knackers and refugees?’

‘At least it’d be better than faggots like you,’ Tom rejoins.

‘Boys, please,’ pleads Miss McSorley.

‘Oh right, I’m a faggot now, am I?’ Farley inquires.

‘Come on now, lads,’ Slattery weighs in. ‘This isn’t the time or the place.’

‘I think you’re the faggot,’ Farley says.

‘Say that once more and I’ll knock you down,’ Tom promises.

‘I think you’re an arse-crazy homo, you’re a flaming mincing fudgepacking queen, and all you think of from one end of the day to the next is boys in their pretty little swimming togs –’

Tom lunges at Farley but several men intervene to hold him back and his punch fails to connect. It seems to waken Farley, however; he stares at Tom, his mouth open in surprise.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Howard tugs at his arm.

While Tom wrestles with his captors, he hustles Farley out of the pub. The street outside is wintry and monochrome. Above, a blood-red sun flares through the clouds, like a last live coal uncovered among the cinderwork of the dying seasons. When they are a safe distance away, he turns on him. ‘What the fuck are you doing? What was the point of that?’

‘I don’t know, Howard.’ Farley looks off bleakly at the sea. ‘It’s just, they’re just kids, you know? And the people who’re supposed to be looking after them, and teaching them about maturity and responsibility, we’re worse than they are.’

Howard pushes him away, grinds his teeth. They walk down to the main road, where after five minutes Howard manages to pluck a taxi from the traffic. He declines Farley’s invitation to come back to his apartment and drink more.

At home there are no messages on his answering machine. He picks up Graves and numbly turns the pages. We no longer saw the war as one between trade-rivals: its continuance seemed merely a sacrifice of the idealistic younger generation to the stupidity and self-protective alarm of the elder.

If someone had been looking out for that kid this wouldn’t have happened.

According to the papers, Howard was the last adult to see Daniel Juster alive. Alive, in the rear-view mirror, merging with the dusk, as if he stood on the threshold right at that moment, a dark door Howard couldn’t perceive. But how was he supposed to know? And even if he had known, what was he supposed to have done? Bring him home with him? Ditch his car and go and play with him, in the freezing cold car park? That would somehow have made everything all right? Throwing around a frisbee like he was fourteen years old? When was the last time he even played frisbee?

But then thinking about it he realizes he remembers the last time quite clearly; and with a disarming vividness finds himself not so much in the grip of a memory as slipped back to that very time, to the shape and feel of being fourteen – the taste of apple-flavoured bubblegum in his mouth, the humiliation of a spot on his chin, the unending turmoil of that endless struggle to stay afloat in a roiling sea of emotions, and the thousands of hours spent out on the gravel, determined to master an utterly valueless skill – the frisbee, the yoyo, the Hacky Sack, the Boomering – in the unshakeable belief that in this lay his salvation. Half of him battling to become visible, the other half just wanting to disappear. God, how had he ever endured it?

A knock at the front door. Howard has lost track of time, but knows that it’s late: hoping against hope – Halley! – he springs out of his chair to turn the latch. He ducks just in time to dodge the fist that comes flying out of the darkness.