Skippy Dies: A Novel

That afternoon the news is all over the school that Ruprecht Van Doren and his quartet have been restored to the concert programme. Master of Ceremonies Titch Fitzpatrick actually saw it happen, having been in the Jubilee Hall rehearsing his material when Ruprecht and the others walked in. Contrary to some reports, there were no tears, or explanations, or even an apology, hardly; Ruprecht just said they were ready to play again, if there was still a place for them. Still a place? Connie was all over him like a spray-tan. It was like that story in the Bible where the bloke comes back from wherever and they have a huge feast even though the bloke’s a bit of a waster.

Don’t get him wrong, Titch is a huge fan of Ruprecht’s French-horn playing. But after everything that’s happened, you have to wonder about the wisdom of letting him just waltz back in like that. Not to get on his high horse or anything, but in Titch’s opinion Ruprecht hasn’t displayed the kind of attitude that this 140th Anniversary Concert is all about. More importantly, how can the Quartet possibly be ready in time? The concert is on tomorrow! Tomorrow!

No point mentioning these reservations to Connie, he’s skipping around the place like he’s fallen in love. That’s why Titch has taken it upon himself, in his capacity as Master of Ceremonies, to have a little sneak preview of the Quartet’s performance. And guess what, the noise coming from behind that rehearsal room door does not sound like classical music. Or, some of it does? But those parts keep getting drowned out by other parts that sound like the Death Star exploding. And even as he watches, concealed within an alcove, Mario and Niall stagger by, hefting a) a computer and b) some sort of satellite dish…?

The whole thing is fishier than a mermaid’s twat. Titch decides to take the matter directly to the top, i.e. Mr Costigan.

‘Actually quite busy here, Fitzpatrick –’

‘Yes, sir, but it’s important.’ He explains his misgivings about the Quartet’s readmittance, and the strange noises he heard outside the rehearsal room –

‘Death Star? Fitzpatrick, what in God’s name are you –’ Then the phone goes. ‘Costigan – well, well, Jack Flaherty, you old son of a gun! How are ya, big guy? How’s everything in petrochemicals? A little bird told me you guys were running out… ha ha, of course not, listen here, we’re throwing a little shindig over here Saturday…’ The chair swivels away. Titch stands there jilted a moment before becoming aware that Brother Jonas is staring at him from the other side of the room.

‘What is troubling you, my child?’ he says, in his soft muggy African voice.

Titch takes one look at the little black man, and another at the Acting Principal, gabbing away with his feet on the desk. He smiles. ‘Nothing, Brother, it’s not important.’ Then he leaves the office. If they want to ignore their own Master of Ceremonies, they deserve everything they get.

It was Jeekers, not Dennis, whom Geoff thought they would have the hardest time getting back on board; privately he wondered if Ruprecht might be better off not mentioning the whole seance-experiment end of things, Jeekers generally being quite straitlaced and not such a seance-experiment sort of fellow, especially with his parents looking on. But to Geoff’s surprise, Jeekers agreed straight away, to all of it – actually he even seemed glad about the clandestine element, as if he had been waiting for just such a secret enterprise to burrow himself away in. That doesn’t mean the rehearsals are plain sailing.

‘It just doesn’t sound right.’

The three subordinate members of the Van Doren Quartet lower their instruments for the nth time with pained expressions. ‘It sounds like it’s always sounded. What do you want it to sound like?’

That’s just it: Ruprecht doesn’t know. He stares blearily at his notes. Symbols mathematical and musical chitter back at him meaninglessly, like glyphic fleas hopping about the page. They have been in here for what seems like years, playing Pachelbel over and over and over, until they can hear it even when they have stopped; so that when Geoff starts in again about how he wishes he could work out what the hell it reminded him of, Dennis gives him short shrift: ‘You idiot, it reminds you of itself. It reminds you of the nine squillion times you’ve heard it before.’

‘I don’t think that’s it.’

‘Trust me.’

‘All right.’ Ruprecht taps his baton on the Oscillator. ‘Let’s try it again.’

They try it again. In Geoff’s opinion – which he will accept as triangle-player is not worth all that much, certainly not as much as Jeekers’s or Dennis’s – they sound pretty good, especially considering their fortnight-long hiatus, and that Ruprecht’s French horn looks like it was run over by a truck. The sweet-sad notes slide circling slowly around them, derr… derr… derr… derr… bom… bom – darn it, Dennis is wrong, it’s not itself it reminds him of! But what the hell is it? It’s driving him mad – oh wait, here’s his triangle part – (ping).

‘Stop, stop –’ Ruprecht, who has been playing with an ear cocked and his brow so parodically furrowed his forehead resembles a concertina, holds up his hand.

‘What?’ Dennis beginning to fray at the edges. ‘What is it this time?’

‘It’s like there’s something missing,’ Ruprecht says wretchedly, seizing at his hair.

The room is a latticework of sidelong glances. Time is running out.

Derr… derr… derr… derr… Geoff thinks.

‘Maybe,’ Jeekers says slowly, ‘we should just play it the old way.’

Bom… bom… bom… BOM…

‘Because we’ll still know it’s for Skippy, and, you know, there’s going to be a presentation –’

‘It’s BETHani!’ Geoff exclaims. Everyone turns to look at him. ‘Oh, sorry. I just realized what Pachelthing reminds me of. That BETHani song? You know, the one Skippy used to play? After he went to see the girl? If you listen to it, it’s actually the same tune. Sorry,’ he says again, as from every direction stares bore into him, and then, ‘what?’