Skippy Dies (29 page)
Authors: Paul Murray
How do you know that?
Everything freezes – the sky, the cars – You just… look like you would be?
I like frisbee, she agrees. But I’d love to be a singer, like a really
brilliant singer. Maybe you should go on one of those shows? you say. I always get stage-fright, she says. She holds her arms,
she looks up into the sky. It would just be nice to do something that made me feel special. You stop, you stare at her. You
don’t feel special?
Now she looks back at you. She smiles.
Most
of the time I don’t feel special.
Your brain goes,
Holy shit You have to kiss her!!!
I should probably go home, she says.
PROF TAMASHI:
Our initial concept of the eleventh dimension was as a tranquil place, through which these membranes, these universes, floated
gently, like clouds on a summer’s day. It was a mystery to us how something like the Big Bang might have occurred from that
scenario. And then one day I was speaking to my brother on the phone. We were recalling how as boys our father would take
us to the harbour in Yokohama. My brother was very interested in ships at that time and it was common for US destroyers to
dock there. These ships were huge, perhaps two hundred feet tall and in length equivalent to two or three city-blocks. But
on one occasion we visited the docks and we saw a destroyer that had itself been half-destroyed. The whole front of the ship
had been completely crushed, like a car that has hit a telegraph pole at high speed. What could have done that on the open
seas? When we asked, we were told that it had been hit by a wave – one wave, which came out of nowhere, crushed in the bow
and smashed everything right back to the bridge, causing more damage than all the weapons on the ship fired at once. At sea,
rogue waves like that are known as ‘white waves’. I asked myself, what if these ‘white waves’ exist in the higher dimensions
too? What if the eleventh dimension was not a serene place, but a place of storms, with entire universes ripping through it
like huge turbulent waves? Imagine the kind of cataclysm you’d have if one of these white-wave universes collided into another
universe. I believe that the Big Bang is the aftermath of just such an encounter. Two membranes, two universes, smash into
each other; the energy released is the Big Bang, which produces our universe. In this model,
the problem of the singularity disappears. Universes may be colliding all the time, producing an infinite number of Big Bangs.
You are walking up the woodland avenue hand-in-hand. Above you the galaxies explode like slow fireworks. Beside you Lori is
singing, a
BETHani
song,
If I had three wishes I would give away two, Cos I only need one, cos I only want you
, her voice sweet and fragile like a bird’s. You turn up one road and down another, each one quieter and darker than the one
before, the houses hidden behind walls and ivy. You are silent, listening to her sing, trying to think of something to make
her not go home.
Tell me something, Daniel, she says after a while. Why are guys such assholes?
You think for a little bit. I don’t know, you say.
I don’t mean you, she says. You’re not an asshole.
Thanks, you say. No, really.
I mean it, she says.
You stop outside a tall arched gate. Through the railings you can see a light set back among the trees. This is my house,
she says.
Right, you say.
Do I look all right? she says. Like I don’t look…?
You look perfect, you say.
Will you be okay getting back?
Sure.
Okay. She taps a code into the intercom and the gates glide open to receive her. The moon is out, everything is silver, the
cars in the distance go down the dual carriageway like breaths. You have no idea how to get from here to where you are kissing
her, it is a chasm with no bridge across. Goodnight, then, she says.
Goodnight, you say with a dry mouth. With every second the chasm grows wider and your heart sinks lower as slowly you wake
from her spell to the reality that this is over and soon everything that happened, her hand in your hand, the swings the park
the doughnuts, all of it will be gone into the past and
and then she is kissing you, her arms are wrapped around you,
her mouth minty and soft. You are so stunned that it takes you a moment to remember to kiss her back. You put your arms around
her waist and push your lips against hers.
Have you ever kissed anyone before? she says.
Yes, you say, though only your mother and various aunts and not like this at all, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because she
is kissing you again, the tip of her tongue tracing sideways-8s on the tip of yours, sending you spinning and the whole sky
and universe with you, and when she pulls away everything is still swimming, everywhere you look there are stars.
Okay, she says again.
Okay, you say through the dizziness and smiles and stars. So many stars, everywhere you look! They are coming from her, that’s
what’s happening, swarming up out of her like friendly silver hornets, like they must have come spilling out of nothing when
the Big Bang banged. Goodnight, Daniel, Lori says, as the gates close like arms around her, scooping her into them.
Goodnight, you say, not moving, smiling at the stars everywhere
Heartland
People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent
illusion
.
Albert Einstein
The phone rings shortly after dawn, the bland electronic tinkle exploding the quiet of the bedroom like a bomb blast. Howard,
though he’s been waiting for it all night, doesn’t move; instead, deferring the moment until there is absolutely no way out,
he lies with his eyes closed, listening to Halley’s murmurous protest, the rustling crash of the sheets as she reaches over
to the dresser. ‘Hello… yes, Greg…’ Her voice burrs with sleep, like her mouth is full of leaves. ‘No, that’s fine… no, sure,
I’ll just get him for you…’ The bed creaks as she rolls back to him. ‘It’s for you,’ she says. He opens his eyes to meet hers,
just awoken, incandescently blue and bright, quizzing him.
‘Thanks,’ he says, taking the phone from her and turning away with it. ‘Hello?’
‘Howard?’ the voice crackles tersely in his ear.
‘Greg!’ He tries to sound like this is a pleasant surprise.
‘Howard, I want you in my office in exactly one hour.’
‘Of course,’ Howard says smilingly, and continues to smile as the line goes dead in his ear. ‘See you then.’ He swings his
legs out of the bed and begins to put on his clothes, attempting to comport himself as though nothing is out of the ordinary.
Halley props herself on her elbows, squinting against the day.
‘Are you going
out
?’ she says. In the morning light her bare breasts are like silver apples, the fruit of a fairy-tale land already disappearing
out of his reach…
‘Oh, yeah, did I not say? I promised I’d go and talk to Greg about the programme notes for this concert of his.’
‘But it’s Saturday.’ She rubs her nose. ‘And it’s the
holidays
.’
Howard shrugs woodenly. ‘You know what he’s like. Everything has to be just right.’
‘Okay,’ she yawns, drawing the covers back up over her, claiming his abandoned share too. Her voice is muffled by eiderdown:
‘I think it’s good the way you’re taking part in school activities more.’
‘Yeah, well, you get out what you put in, don’t you.’ Howard buttons up his coat. ‘I shouldn’t be too long. Keep a spot for
me.’ He winks at her as he passes through the door, realizing as he does so that this is the first time he has winked in the
whole span of their relationship.
The roads are eerily deserted, as though they have been cleared by decree to hasten his journey. A single car – Greg’s – waits
in the school car park; inside, the empty classrooms and corridors seem nothing more than an elaborate façade, a huge, byzantine
foyer to the single occupied room. Mounting the stairs, every footstep clangorously echoing, Howard feels like some unfortunate
in a Greek myth sent to do battle with the Minotaur.
Outside the Principal’s Office, on the bench known to generations as Death Row, Howard finds the lone figure of Brian ‘Jeekers’
Prendergast. He is chewing his nails and has a stranded look about him, as though he’s been here for centuries, some minor
fixture in a legend.
‘Mr Costigan in there?’ Howard points to the door; but before the boy can even reply, a voice comes booming from within, ‘Get
in here, Howard.’
Howard finds the Automator poised pugilistically in the dead centre of the room, as though ready to defend it against all
comers. He is in his weekend wear – pale blue cotton shirt with a yellow sweater slung over the shoulders, beige slacks and
brown Hush Puppies; it looks totally incongruous, like Godzilla in sweatpants.
‘I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment, may I take a message?’ Trudy, phone trapped between cheek and shoulder, leans
and writes a name at the end of a list of names on the desk. ‘Yes… we think a tummy bug is going round… Thank you, he’ll call
you later this morning…’
‘Damn it,’ the Automator mutters, pacing back and forth, scratching his jaw, and then, raising his voice, ‘Well, damn it,
Howard, sit down, man.’
Obediently, Howard seats himself on the other side of the desk from Trudy. The transformation in train on his last visit is
now nearly complete: the high-backed African chairs have been replaced by ergonomic office models, and the aquarium by the
door, where the multicoloured fish continue serenely to drift, oblivious to the changes, is now the only reminder of the room’s
previous incumbent.
‘Would you like anything, Howard?’ Trudy whispers solicitously. ‘Tea? Coffee? Juice?’
‘Damn it, Trudy, don’t offer him juice! We have a very serious situation here!’
‘Yes, dear,’ she apologizes, setting down the phone, which immediately begins to ring again. ‘Hello, Acting Principal’s office?’
‘Damn it,’ the Automator repeats preparatorily, like a chain-saw warming up, and then, in a louder voice, ‘Howard, what the
hell? I mean – what in the name of God?’
‘I –’ Howard begins.
‘In all my days as an educator, never once, not
once
have I witnessed anything that comes
close
to what I saw last night. Not
once
. Damn it – damn it, I put you in
charge
! Didn’t I give you strict instructions as to – I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, one of those instructions wasn’t to let the
thing descend into a Roman orgy, was it?’
‘N–’
‘You’re damn right it wasn’t! And yet here we are with
this
on our hands – ’ he points to the phone ‘– parents ringing me all morning, wanting to know why little Johnny came home from
an official supervised school Hop covered in puke and even more slack-jawed than usual! What do you think I should tell them,
Howard? “You should have seen the shape he was in a half-hour before?” God damn it, do you have any clue what kind of a mess
you’ve dropped us into here? I mean, what the hell happened in there?’
‘I…’
‘You don’t know, of course, nobody knows, it’s the Bermuda Triangle. Well, let me tell you something, Howard,
some
body knows, and when I find out, believe me, heads are going to roll. Because if those people –’ pointing to the phone again
‘– my God, if they had any idea what actually happened…’ He grasps at his hair, pacing back and forth distractedly like a
deranged pastel-clad robot, then, taking a deep breath, comes to a stop in front of Howard. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I suppose we’re
not going to get anywhere by flying off the handle. I’m not trying to pin this whole thing on you. All I’m looking for is
an explanation. So you just tell me, in your own words, exactly what you saw last night.’ He folds his arms and settles back
against the sideboard, a vein twitching furiously in his forehead.
Twelve hours ago, Howard was lying supine on the teacher’s desk in the Geography Room. From the wall the happy miners of the
Rhine-Ruhr Valley grinned down at him, and looking back up at them, his head tilting back into empty space, Howard was half-dreaming
he’d fallen down a mineshaft – or was it a trench, could they be soldiers, faces blackened for night-patrol…? On top of him
lay Miss McIntyre, her hands folded into him, her hair spilling over the floodplain of his chest, the borders of their bodies
porous, liquid, indeterminate. The storm thundered at the window; intermittently, the room lit up with flashes of lightning
so quick you couldn’t be sure you hadn’t imagined them; the last dregs of satiety buzzed through his blood like fortified
wine. And then, with a sharp intake of breath, he felt her body stiffen against his, and before he could ask her what was
wrong, he felt it too, the same irrefutable chill.
The drumbeat hit them as soon as they left the room, still scrabbling for buttons and zippers, and grew louder with every
breathless hastening step down the deserted halls. Outside the door to the gym they found Wallace Willis, the Hop DJ, trembling
from head to foot, with a look of grubby tearstained distress,
like he’d spent three days locked in a drain. ‘They’re playing the wrong
songs
,’ was all that he would say.
