Skippy Dies (78 page)

Inside Lala are the pills she bought from Carl with her kisses. Now they will be kisses to herself, kisses to say, I love
you, Lori. Who else would kiss her, with the taste of death on her breath all the time? The real taste underneath everything
and now she can taste it all the time. But soon she will never have to taste anything again. The Plan is ready – the new Plan,
her
Plan – the singing girls on their way. They will come singing,
Lori, Lori
on the wind, and she will dance away, graceful as a ballerina – hey, can she hear them now? Is there someone calling her
name? Someone right under her window? But when she pulls back the curtain, the figure she sees below is not a girl. And he
is definitely not thin.

Howard is amazed how quickly he loses track of things without the clanging school bell to chop his day into forty-minute portions.
Darkness seems to fall shortly after he’s got out of bed; he finds himself increasingly dependent on the TV for any sense
of reality, and whenever there is a power cut he experiences, in that first second of darkness before his eyesight adjusts,
a terror that it is he, in fact, who has been switched off.

Yesterday Finian Ó Dálaigh had appeared at his door with a card signed by the whole Seabrook faculty. At first Howard thought
it was for him, a gesture of support. It wasn’t, of course; it was for Tom Roche. There was going to be a presentation during
the concert, an award for his years of dedicated service to Seabrook. ‘I didn’t think you should be left out,’ Ó Dálaigh said
considerately. ‘Thank you,’ Howard said. He wrote his name on a blank space in the interior; after some deliberation, he left
it at that.

A presentation for his years of dedicated service to Seabrook. Today, on the way home from the supermarket with a bootful
of discount beer, Howard stopped his car outside the police station. He sat there for five full minutes, in the cold. Then
he pulled out again and drove home.

He starts drinking early, and as the fatal hour of the concert approaches, combines it with a half-hearted sally against the
creeping entropy that has been taking over the house. He doesn’t get far; before long, he’s hunkered on the floor with a boxful
of Halley-memorabilia – photographs, cinema stubs, museum plans from foreign cities, all spread out in front of him. This
has been happening a lot lately. The feebler his grip on the present, the more vivid the past – which for so long he has let
disappear behind
him, a frothing wake swallowed in the cold endless ocean of a world’s lived lives – seems to become; this sense is only amplified
when the power goes and he has to light a candle to supplement the waning daylight. He doesn’t mind – on the contrary, he
feels like he could happily spend the rest of his life here, revisiting city-breaks, holidays, friends’ parties. He only wishes
he had Halley with him, so he could say,
Hey, look at this one, do you remember such and such?
And hear her reply,
Yes, yes, that’s how it was
.

And then at the back of a cupboard he finds the camera – the magical summer camera, the one she was reviewing a couple of
months ago. With a sense of exhilaration, knowing that it contains actual moving images of her, he switches it on; and moments
later, there she is, that day in the kitchen, with a cigarette in her hand and the light falling across her. His heart leaps,
watching her shimmer at him from the screen; and then sinks, as the little scene disintegrates, inexplicably and inexorably,
into a fight. He plays the clip again with numb fingers, watching their conversation unravel, listening to her tell him to
forget it, to put that thing away. Even on the tiny screen the sadness etched into her face is unmistakeable. You did that,
Howard.

Everything clangs like bells inside his head. He switches off the camera and sets it down. He scoops up the photographs and
stubs and tickets, but the box slips from his grip and the contents, all those days so carefully misremembered, scatter across
the floor like orphans escaped from an ogre’s cellar. He lets out a roar, he bends again to pick them up, but this time manages
to scorch his elbow on the candle. Fuck it! Fuck! Grinding his teeth in rage, he flattens his hand and thrusts it palm-down
into the flame. He holds it there for as long as he is able, and then for a little while more, until all thoughts have been
seared from his head, and then still more. Tears run down his cheeks, lightning bolts flash beneath his eyelids. The pain
is astonishing, like a new world underneath this one, raw and vivid and shivering. The air fills with the smell of cooking
meat. Finally, with a cry, he pulls his hand away and staggers to the bathroom.

His whole hand is inert; it feels like an alien substance, a lump of fire or of pure pain grafted onto the end of his arm.
When he runs cold water over it, it’s like his whole body has been hit by something – like a knight lanced in a joust, or
two waves clashing, matter and antimatter. One forgets quite how painful pain is, how literal and unironic. He stands there
sobbing, the water drilling into his flesh, the agony shrill in his ear like an alarm. His mind, however, suspended above
the scene, is suddenly crystal-clear.

The car park has been decked out with blue-and-gold fairy lights – nice touch, Trudy’s idea. From the top of the steps to
the Sports Hall, Acting Principal Greg Costigan watches the guests arrive, proceeding from their cars in dinner jackets and
long elegant gowns, the yard’s schoolday soundtrack of high-pitched expletives replaced with a stately, dignified murmur.
They can see him too, framed in the glowing threshold of the Hall, waiting to greet them like, he supposes, the captain, the
captain of a ship. The good ship
Seabrook
.

Looking out on all this magnificence and decorum, the word that comes unavoidably to mind is
vindicated
. Greg would be the first to admit it has not exactly been plain sailing here in the SS
Seabrook
these last few months. The Juster episode, discipline issues, poor rugby performances – in uncertain times like these, most
men in his position would have been inclined to keep their heads down, weather the storm, not attempt a high-profile, high-risk
venture like this. But Greg is not the kind of Acting Principal who shrinks from adversity. A bold gesture was what was needed
to stop the rot – something big and showy and extravagant, to rally the shareholders and generally boost confidence. Because
a school, as well as being like a ship, is also like a market, and when the market is confident it doesn’t actually matter
what small technical hitches might be going on behind the scenes.

And, thus far at least, that decision has been one hundred per cent borne out and vindicated. An atmosphere of excellence,
the kind that cannot be bought, pervades the hall tonight. Sprinkled in among the parents – it’s a full house, by the way,
bearing out and vindicating his decision re ticket pricing – is a sort of Best of Seabrook, some of the leading lights of
the last thirty years:
sportsmen, captains of industry, media personalities, basically the cream of Irish society. A hell of a turnout, and a testimony
to that special bond Seabrook creates – as Greg explains to Frank Hart, class of ’68, scrum-half for Ireland 1971–78, now
in property development and a millionaire several times over. ‘Doesn’t matter whether you graduated five years ago or fifty-five.
You’ll always be part of the family. In today’s modern world, that’s a rare and precious thing.’

‘Father Furlong coming tonight?’ Hart inquires.

‘I wish, Frank, I wish. Because in a way this night is for him, a tribute to him and his predecessors and the great gift of
education they have given to so many generations of Irish boys. Unfortunately, he’s not yet well enough to leave the hospital,
which is a real shame.’

‘Leaves the stage clear for you, though,’ quips Hart.

Greg laughs artificially. ‘Those would be some hard shoes to fill,’ he says.

Of course, Frank Hart is totally right; this 140th Anniversary Concert marks the changing of the guard. Surely by now even
the Paracletes must recognize their time is up. You can’t get away with hiding behind a crucifix these days: whoever steps
into Desmond Furlong’s small and somewhat effeminate shoes will have to be able to reckon with the realities of twenty-first-century
life. Could Desmond Furlong have organized a 140th Anniversary Concert to be broadcast live to the whole country? Let alone
faced down a potential scandal that might have destroyed the entire school? Somehow Greg thinks sitting in a traditional African
chair watching fish swim around might not have been quite enough this time. And the Paracletes know it.

So this is in some ways a sad occasion – he segues in his imagination into a kind of acceptance speech, delivered to a hall
much the size of this one, similarly filled with notables – marking as it does the passing of an era. But in other ways it
is a joyful one: because it proves that although the Paracletes may be gone, for all intents and purposes, their values will
live on. Maybe the men
upholding them will wear a suit and tie instead of a dog collar; maybe they will carry a laptop instead of a Bible, and maybe
‘common business model’, not ‘God’, will be the name of the bridge they use to bring communities together. But although appearances
may change, the values themselves remain the same – the Seabrook values of faith, decency, various others.

Yes indeed, as he surveys the scene – the towering sound system, the radio engineer at work behind the desk, the first (of
two) cameramen panning over the audience, the majestic banners and pennants (actually sourced outside the school at the last
minute, the Art Department’s offerings having been disappointingly slip-shod – frayed hems, uneven lettering, misspelling
of ‘Christ’ as ‘Chrit’, etc.), the audience members perusing with interest the gold-trimmed, white-and-blue envelopes left
on their seats, which contain exciting news of a forthcoming Seabrook-affiliated credit card – Greg is thinking that tonight
will have done him no harm at all, no harm at all. Now he only has to keep his eyes peeled and make sure nothing goes –

‘Ha ha, look what the cat dragged in –’ in an instant Greg has slipped through the crowd to pounce on the rumpled figure arguing
with the ticket-checker on the door. ‘Howard, fantastic to see you, what can I do for you?’

Howard blinks up at him, mouth ajar. ‘Uh, yeah, I wanted to come and see the show…?’

‘He doesn’t have a ticket,’ the boy on the door says sullenly.

‘Oh, gee, that’s a real shame, because – Jesus Christ, Howard, what the hell happened to your hand?’ The erstwhile history
teacher’s hand is swathed in about a quarter-mile of not very clean bandage. He starts babbling something about an accident
incurred while cooking a Chinese stir-fry, addressing himself to Greg’s midriff.

‘Have you taken it to a doctor?’ the Acting Principal interrupts.

‘Well, no, not yet,’ Howard says, still avoiding eye contact. He’s up to something, Greg thinks. You spend your day with teenage
boys, you learn to detect the signs of a plot pretty quickly.

‘Looks like it needs medical attention. If I were you, I’d take it to a doctor, pronto.’

‘Yes, but…’ Howard mumbles, ‘but I didn’t want to miss the show.’

Greg makes a gesture of frustration with his fist. ‘Well, darn it, Howard, that’s a real shame, because the thing is we’re
totally sold out.’

Howard gapes at him helplessly. Waves of booze radiate from him. ‘You couldn’t… I mean…’

There’s no way Greg would let him anywhere near this concert even if he didn’t look like he’d spent the last three days drunk
in a ditch. ‘I’d love to, Howard –’ he puts his arm around Howard’s shoulder and steers him out of the way of the real guests,
who are beginning to whisper and point ‘– I truly would, but we’re already turning people away here.’

‘It’s just –’ Greg can practically hear the motors in the man’s clogged brain ‘– just after, you know, working on the programme,
I sort of, I feel a sort of a personal… personal wish to…’

‘I thoroughly understand that, Howard. I thoroughly understand that.’ Brother Jonas has appeared at his elbow; Greg nods at
him meaningfully. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we get you some nice fresh air outside, and we can talk about it there?’

‘Okay,’ Howard says dismally, then checks himself. ‘Or actually, I wonder if I could have a quick word with Tom?’

‘With Tom?’ Greg smiles solicitously. ‘Now what would you have to say to Tom?’

‘Just wanted to wish him luck? For the future?’

‘That’s very kind of you, Howard, and I’ll be happy to pass that message on. We’re just about to start here though, so I think
it would be better if –’

‘Okay, but… maybe just a quick…’

‘No, I don’t think that would be a good –’

‘I can see him right over – Tom! T– aagh!’

‘Howard? You all right, Howard?’

‘I – ah – uh –’

‘Just take a second to get your breathing back – that’s it, nice fresh air…’

‘Anything wrong there, Greg?’ calls Oliver Taggart, class of ’82, from the steps of the Hall.

‘Ha ha, Olly, you old son of a gun – no, just a little, a little stage fright, that’s all…’

With Brother Jonas’s help, Greg encourages Howard a little further into the bushy shadows of the Quad. ‘Sorry, buddy, just
caught you a little awkwardly, must have accidentally brushed against that hand…’ Howard pants and burbles to himself. The
man’s clearly having some kind of meltdown. Could be a good thing. Maybe he’ll go the whole hog, give up teaching and spare
Greg a major headache. Damn hard to actually fire somebody these days. ‘How you doing there, feeling better? Tell you what,
Howard. I’m sorry you can’t catch it live, but in view of your contribution, I’m going to send you a complimentary DVD of
the concert, on the house, what do you say to that?’

Howard gurgles dispiritedly.

‘Attaboy. You take yourself home now and have a nice rest. Brother Jonas will see you to the gate. Enjoy your time off.’

Whatever he had planned, Howard now admits defeat and stumbles off into the night, the brother following a few steps behind.
Greg keeps smiling and waving till he’s safely out of sight. Then he tells Gary Toolan on the door to alert him
immediately
should Howard reappear. What a headcase. Darn it, if there were any justice in the world it would be Howard being sent off
to Timbuktu, not Tom Roche.