by Paul Murray
‘Well… uh…’
‘You did talk to him?’
‘Of course, yes…’
‘And? He give anything away? You get any kind of a fix on where he’s coming from?’
Howard claws frantically through his memory of his encounter with Skippy, but cannot remember a single thing the boy said; only Miss McIntyre’s hand on his arm, her perfume in his nostrils, her teasing smile. ‘Well, uh… he largely just seemed like a fairly normal young…’
‘Maybe you should just tell me verbatim what he said to you – Trudy, are you getting this?’
‘Yes, Greg.’ Trudy’s pen hovers expectantly over the pad.
‘Hmm…’ Howard frowns effortfully. ‘Well, the thing is, it was less of an actual formal conversation, and more a sort of a… letting him know the door was open? So that if in the future he had any problems, he could –’
‘If he had…?’ the Automator splutters. He bangs his palm on the desk, as though to jog himself back into motion. ‘Jesus H Christ, Howard, we know he has problems! Any kid throws up all over his pals in French class, yes, he has problems! The whole point is that you were supposed to find out what those problems were! To avoid exactly the kind of scenario we’re looking at now!’ He sinks heavily into one of the new swivel-chairs, pressing the peak of his steepled fingers to his forehead, and issues a sigh that sounds like a sheet of flame crisping everything in its path.
‘Well, why don’t I go back to him?’ Howard says hastily. ‘I’ll talk to him again, and this time I promise I’ll find out what’s wrong with him.’
‘Too late for that,’ the Automator mumbles into his hand. Then, spinning in the chair, ‘Time to send in the big guns – Trudy, make an appointment for Juster with the guidance counsellor, as soon as he gets back. Father Foley’ll get to the bottom of this.’ He gets up and goes to the window, his back to Howard, his hand on the beaded cord of the Venetian blind.
‘Have you had a chance to, ah, speak to Juster?’ Howard asks huskily.
‘We did have a very brief chat last night, while you were at your janitorial duties,’ the answer comes, dripping with false brightness. ‘Found him upstairs brushing his teeth. All innocence. Told me he hadn’t been feeling well, so he’d gone out for a walk. The door was open, he said, so he thought it was all right. Didn’t know anything about anything.’ The light greys as the louvres of the blind close, and brightens as they part again. ‘A nice little walk, all on his own, in the middle of winter, dressed like a goddamn hobbit. Kid might as well have given me the finger. The bitch of it is, I’ve got no one to gainsay him. No one can remember a single thing that happened. Some kind of anterograde amnesia brought on by the mickey, maybe. Or maybe this Slippy of yours got to them first.’
For a long moment there is only the dimming and brightening of light, the blind pulley squeaking in the Automator’s hand. And then: ‘I might as well tell you that this collective memory loss has probably saved your ass as well.’
Howard starts. Squeak, squeak, goes the pulley. Trudy’s attentions are fixed deferentially on the manila pad, as though this part of the conversation is not for her ears. Impassive, the Automator’s silhouette fades and resolves. Howard begins to speak but stops, feels his shirt cling clammily to his back.
‘You like fish, Howard?’ The Acting Principal leaves the window abruptly and crosses the floor to the aquarium.
‘Do I like them?’ Howard stammers.
‘Old man used to sit up here half the day, watching the damn fish float around. Never saw the point of them myself. Fundamentally useless creatures.’ Crouching down, he snaps his fingers at one of the brilliant shapes that float tranquilly inside the tank. ‘Look at that. No idea what’s going on. In this office twenty-four seven, doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall.’ Turning to Howard again: ‘You know the difference between humans and fish, Howard?’
‘They have gills?’
‘That’s one difference. But there’s another difference, a more important difference. See if you can spot it. Come on, take a look.’ Obediently Howard rises from his chair and studies the variously sized fish in their heated limbo. He can hear the Automator breathing behind him. The fish flap their fins, placid and inscrutable.
‘I can’t see it, Greg,’ he says eventually.
‘Of course you can’t. Teamwork, Howard. That’s what the difference is. Fish aren’t team players. Look at them. There’s no system at work there. They’re not even talking to each other. How are they going to get anything done, you may ask? Answer: they’re not. What you see right there is fish at the height of their game. I’ve been watching them for a month now and that’s pretty much as far as it goes.’
‘Right.’ Howard feels like he is being assailed from all sides by an invisible enemy.
‘Might ask yourself what place they have in an educational institution. They don’t seem to have much to teach us. And by the same token, we don’t have much to teach them. Can’t educate a fish, Howard. Can’t mould a fish. Mammals, your dogs, cats, beavers, even mice, they can be trained. They know how to play ball. They’re willing to play their part and work towards the greater good. Fish are different. They’re intransigent. Loners, solipsists.’ He taps on the glass, again to no response; and then he says, ‘You screwed up last night, Howard. I don’t know how much, maybe I’ll never know. But it’s opened my eyes.’
Howard flushes. From the desk, he catches Trudy gazing at him with an expression of profound pity and compassion; quickly she reverts to the manila pad.
‘I had you pegged for a team player. Now I’m wondering if you aren’t more like one of these fish. You’d like to just float around on your own in the water, daydreaming. No law against that, you’ll say. True enough. But a fish isn’t much use to us here in Seabrook College. At Seabrook College, we’re interested in getting things done. We have goals to achieve, goals of academic and sporting excellence. We work together, we think things through. We’re mammals, Howard. Mammals, not fish.’
‘I’m a mammal, Greg,’ Howard hastens to assure him.
‘Can’t just say you’re a mammal, Howard. Being a mammal is about what you do. It’s reflected in the smallest of your actions. And the feeling I’m getting from you is that you haven’t decided either way.’ He straightens up, looks Howard in the eye. ‘Over the course of this mid-term break I want you to have a good hard think about where you’re going. Because either you start acting like a mammal and become part of the team. Or else maybe it’s time you found a new aquarium. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Greg.’ Clear might be the wrong word; but Howard understands that he will walk out of the office with his job intact. A wave of relief rides through him as the spectre of a long, explanatory conversation with Halley recedes, for now, into the distance.
‘Okay, get out of here.’ The Automator goes to his desk and lifts the sheet of paper with the list of names.
‘Good morning, Acting Principal’s office,’ Trudy says to the phone, and Howard thinks he detects a thankfulness in her voice too.
Brian ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast is still perched on the edge of the bench outside the office with the same expression of incipient doom. ‘Hasn’t the Dean spoken to you already?’ Howard says.
‘He told me to wait,’ Jeekers says quaveringly.
Howard bends down, puts his hands on his thighs. ‘What happened last night?’ he asks in a lowered voice. ‘Did you see who got to the punch?’
The boy does not respond: he merely gazes back at him blankly, lips pressed together, as if Howard has uttered a string of nonsensical words.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Howard says. ‘See you next week.’ And he clatters away down the stairs.
As soon as you open the door you can tell something’s wrong. It looks like just an ordinary room but then you notice smoke coming up from the floor – you jump back just in time as the black tail slices up through the flagstones, and then the Demon comes billowing out of the hole! It rises in a cloud until
it’s almost taken up the whole room, coiled above you like a shroud of smog over a city, and already everything around you is on fire! Even with the amulet your energy is starting to plummet, you have no idea how to fight it – all you can do is raise your shield, dive forward with the Sword of Songs –
Danny? You in there, pal?
Yeah, come on in.
Dad comes through the door. What’re you up to, sport? Oh, you brought the machine back, did you?
Yeah, I didn’t want to leave it in school.
What’s the game? Is this a new one?
Hopeland.
Hopeland, still? Didn’t you get that last Christmas?
It’s hard. But I’ve nearly finished it.
Good for you! But, dinner’s ready, so…
Oh, okay… Skippy hits Pause and gets up from the floor.
In the kitchen pouring a glass of water at the sink. The condensation makes the garden look like it’s disappearing in fog. Dad takes two smoking pieces of meat from the grill and puts them on plates. Okay! he says. Chicken à la Dad.
Smells great.
Well – Dad spoons out rice from the rice-cooker, then sauce from a saucepan – I guess we’re working on the principle that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. He laughs. Then he stops laughing.
Back at home, with the two of them together all day, the Game Skippy and Dad are playing becomes a lot harder. With it right there in the room with them it would be so easy to let something slip! So what they have done is invent a code. The way you use this code is to replace almost all words with the word great. A typical coded conversation might go like this:
So how’s the swimming, sport?
Oh, great, it’s going great.
That’s great! When’s the next meet?
It’s in Ballinasloe, in two weeks?
That’s the semi-final, right?
Yeah, it’ll be harder than last time but Coach thinks we’ve got a great shot.
Did he say that? Wow – great! That’s great!
By now they are real pros, no one who was listening in on them would ever think there was anything wrong. Sometimes because they are so good at it Skippy almost even likes the Game. It’s like a very precious, very fragile cargo that he and Dad are carrying through the jungle; or it’s a house and they’re creeping through it like spies late at night. But sometimes it is like the air is made of glass and he has waited so long for it to shatter that he starts wanting it to shatter! He wants to scream and shout so it falls to a million pieces! Does Dad feel that way too? He wonders sometimes, but of course it would be against the rules of the Game to ask him.
He doesn’t know how you are supposed to win the Game.
The clock ticks on the wall. Skippy listens to Dad’s knife scrape against the plate, the chicken exploding between his teeth. He looks at the scrape-shaped film of brown sauce on the plate. Dad chews and says, How about we give your sister a call?
Okay, Skippy says.
But immediately he worries. Nina is really bad at the Game. There are too many rules, she is too small to understand them, she keeps crying or saying things.
Tonight, after she’s talked to Dad, she tells Skippy she wants to talk to Mummy. Hey, what do you call a girl in an ambulance? Skippy says. Ni-na, Ni-na, Ni-na! Normally she thinks this is funny. But tonight she doesn’t. I want to talk to Mummy, she says.
You can’t, he says.
Why not?
She’s asleep, Skippy says, looking at Dad. Dad is gazing at the plug socket by the back door.
Wake her up.
I can’t wake her up.
Why not?
You know why not.
I want Mummy.
Skippy is getting angry. Why can she not understand the Game? Why does she think she’s outside the rules? Stop being an asshole, he says.
What? Nina says. Beside him, Dad stirs to life.
Asshole, you’re an asshole! Skippy shouts.
Nina starts to cry, which makes him even angrier, because even from Aunt Greta’s she is ruining the entire Game! But you have got to hand it to Dad, he always stays cool. Shh shh, he says, putting a hand on Skippy’s shoulder. Let me have another quick word with her, there, will you, sport? Skippy passes him the handset.
Hi, honey… I know, he’s, but… no, it’s not nice, but listen, I forgot to ask you something, did you get the present Mummy sent you? I know, but she’s asleep, but did you get it? Oh well, I bet it’ll come tomorrow… What? I can’t tell you, she wants it to be a surprise… shh, I know… well, you can have fun with Aunt Greta too, can’t you?
While Dad is talking, Skippy gives Dogley his dinner. He breaks brown gristly lumps into the bowl. Chomp, chomp, goes Dogley, his head down. Afterwards Dad turns on the football. From the corner of his eye Skippy watches him watching the white dot zip over the green field between the different-coloured men, his face emptied out, his hand plucking emptily at the arm of the armchair, rolling together little balls of fuzz then pulling them free.
At the station the tube of pills fell out of his coat as he was getting into the car. What’s this, sport? Oh yeah, they’re travel pills Coach gave me. Travel pills? Yeah, um, because coming back after the swim meet that time I felt really crap? Hmm, you don’t normally get carsick. Yeah, it was weird. Could have been just the excitement, I suppose. Yeah, probably. Or you swallowed too much water! Yeah!
They burst through the front door in a flurry of bags and laughter, but thinking back on it now Skippy can’t remember what they were laughing about, or if they were laughing at anything. Inside the stairs were everywhere. They angled upwards and around and in upon themselves. Dad stood at the foot of them. Why not go up and tell Mum you’re here? Skippy hesitated and examined Dad’s face, it was like a face torn out of a magazine. Go on, she’s been expecting you all day. Okay. Skippy climbed the thousands of angling stairs, towards the door that waited at the top.
YOU HAVE DEFEATED THE FIRE DEMON, DJED! It’s the owl, the one you cut out of the spiderweb in the Mournful Woods! BUT THERE IS NOT A SECOND TO SPARE! WITH EVERY HOUR, MIND-ELORE GROWS MORE POWERFUL. IN HIS VILE LABORATORY, DEEP UNDERGROUND IN THE SOUTHERN LANDS, HE LABOURS NIGHT AND DAY TO CREATE HIS FOUL MONSTERS. SOON, HE WILL HAVE RAISED SUCH AN ARMY THAT HE WILL BE INVINCIBLE! YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN STOP HIM! YOU ARE OUR LAST HOPE! The owl’s head swivels to the left, and when it returns to you its tawny eyes are full of tears. THE REALM IS DYING, DJED. THE EARTH HAS TURNED TO POISON, THE RIVERS AND LAKES TO ICE, THE AIR TO FIRE THAT CHOKES ALL WHO BREATHE IT. THE DOOM WE FACE IS DARKER THAN ANYTHING WE IMAGINED. SOON HOPELAND ITSELF WILL BE NO MORE, AND MINDELORE WILL CROWN HIMSELF KING OF THE NOTHINGNESS THAT REMAINS. SAVE THE PRINCESS, DJED! MAKE HASTE!
Doing push-ups in your room. Posters all around you, footballers, rappers, superheroes, bands. Swimming star Michael Phelps, the youngest man ever to break a world record (aged fifteen years, nine months). The Star Wars duvet and all your old toys on the shelves, Lego, Boglins, Zoids. You feel like you’re camped out in the room of another boy. You feel like the replacement boy they’ve got in after something awful happened. You move through the house as if you’ve been programmed with information about it.
The kitchen radio pops and frazzles every time you cross its path.
The magpies chatter like machine-guns, their claws scrape on the shed’s tin roof.
The drain refilled every morning with worn-out grey hairs.
Dad holds the book but never turns the page.
And the door stays closed all day.
You got a sec, Danny? I need to talk to you about something.
Sure thing, Dad.
This came this morning. Dad waves a pink slip of paper in his left hand. It’s Skippy’s mid-term progress card.
Oh.
Yeah, we need to have a talk about it. I mean, we should probably have a talk anyway, shouldn’t we.
They sit down at the table. Dad grips the underside of his chair and turns it diagonally so he’s facing Skip
py. This close, he seems very big, a bear crammed into a kitchen chair. His breath smells of whiskey. Skippy sits very still and peeks sideways at the card lying next to them on the table. A line of C’s and D’s, and at the bottom in someone’s slapdash grown-up writing, probably the Automator’s, Disappointing – must try harder.
First of all – is there anything you’d like to say about these grades, Danny?
Well… no… I mean, they’re disappointing.
No, I mean, I’m wondering if there’s some reason, like if they gave the tests that time when you were sick?
No. Dad’s eyes pour into his. He tries to think of something else to say. I’m sorry, he says. I suppose I’ll just have to try harder.
Dad exhales. It’s the wrong answer. What I’m wondering is… he says. Obviously what I’m wondering is, are you having difficulty concentrating at the moment? Are you finding it hard to focus on this stuff?
Hmm. Skippy makes a carefully-thinking-it-over face. No, not really. No, I wouldn’t say so.
You haven’t found you’ve got too much on your mind to…?
No – Skippy sounds like he’s surprised by the question. No, nothing like that.
And yet these grades are way down.
Skippy looks at Dogley, telepathically trying to call him over.
You’re not on trial here, sport. I’m just trying to find out, you know…
Skippy takes a deep breath. Well, maybe it’s just taking me a while to settle into senior school. I think I just need to settle in more, and try harder.
Dad stares at him. The sour tang of whiskey, the metallic hum of the refrigerator. That’s it?
Mm-hmm, Skippy nods firmly.
Dad sighs and looks off to the left. Danny… in certain situations… well, let me put it this way, in my own work, personally speaking, I can find it difficult at the moment to, to care about what I’m doing. I was wondering if you felt that at all.
Skippy’s eyes smart with tears. What is Dad trying to do here? Why is he trying to catch him out? He does not reply, blinks at him to say, What?
