‘ “Sleepy.” That’s top athlete Daniel “Skippy” Juster, ladies and gentlemen.’
Scccrrrrcccchh, scccrrrrcccchhh, scccrrrrcccchhh, goes Ruprecht’s toast. Skippy stares into his breakfast as if it’s appeared out of nowhere.
‘I could probably be a top athlete if I wanted to,’ Mario puts in carelessly. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to.’
‘Oh yeah, Mario, that’s why,’ Dennis says.
‘Up yours, Hoey, that is why. For your information, this summer two different Premiership teams rang me up to offer me trials.’
‘The Premiership of masturbating,’ Dennis says.
‘If there was a Premiership of masturbating, you would be David Beckham,’ Niall adds.
Seizing an imaginary microphone, Dennis adopts a limp Estuary accent: ‘Masturbating’s changed a lot since I were a lad, Brian. In my day, we masturbated for the sheer love of it. Day and night we did it, all the kids on our estate, masturbating on the old waste ground, masturbating up against the wall of the house… I remember me mam coming out and shouting, “Stop that masturbating and come in for your tea! You’ll never amount to anything if all you think about is masturbating!” Masturbating crazy we were. Your young masturbators today, though, it’s all about the money, it’s all about agents and endorsements. Sometimes I worry that the masturbating’s in danger of being squeezed out altogether.’
‘Hey, Skip, what was the hotel like on Saturday?’ Geoff asks. ‘Did you have a minibar?’
‘No.’
‘Was there a hot tub?’
Scccrrrrcccchh! Scccrrrrcccchhh! Scccrrrrcccchhh!
‘Jesus, Ruprecht, what the hell are you doing?’ Skippy rounds on him.
‘Burnt toast is a carcinogen,’ Ruprecht replies placidly, continuing his excoriation.
‘A what?’ says Geoff.
‘It gives you cancer.’
‘Toast gives you cancer?’ Mario says.
‘Giving us cancer would actually be a step up for this place,’ Dennis says, looking around splenetically at the Ref.
‘Car-SIN-oh-jen,’ Geoff repeats slowly.
Scccrrrrccccccrrrrcccchhh, goes the knife on the bread, then Skippy grabs Ruprecht’s plump wrist. He looks up in surprise.
‘It’s annoying,’ Skippy says, embarrassed.
The bell goes. Potato-Head Tomms rises and claps his hands for them all to carry their trays over to the trolleys. ‘I just have to get something from my locker,’ Skippy tells the others. It’s 8.42, the corridors are full of puffy-eyed boys in coats, hurrying to check-in. News of Saturday’s swim meet has spread: as he makes his way against the tide to the basement steps, people he’s never spoken to are nodding to him in acknowledgement; others punch him on the arm or stop to say congratulations.
‘Hey, well done on the other night, Juster.’
‘Here, heard about your race. Nice one, man.’
‘Good job, Juster, when’s the semi-final?’
If you’re used to people looking past or through or most often over you then the attention is pretty strange. Now two guys from the low streams, Darren Boyce and someone else whose name Skippy isn’t even sure of, break free from the shoals to approach him. Darren is smiling and holding out his arms – then at the last minute he shoves his friend so he clatters into Skippy and sends him crashing into the wall; they laugh and move off in the other direction.
He picks himself up. The toast-sound echoing through his head again, Scccrrrcccchh, scccrrrrcccchhh, scccrrrrcccchhh. The pill’s already wearing off! Shh, I know, calm down!
Down the steps through the waves of bodies. When he came back from summer holidays this year the boys had changed. Suddenly everyone was tall and gangling and talking about drinking and sperm. Walking among them is like being in a BO-smelling forest.
The basement is crammed with narrow aisles of lockers. They remind Skippy of coffins, cheap wooden coffins with combination locks. To one side there’s a patched pool table, on which Gary Toolan is crisply, blondly annihilating Edward ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson, while Noddy the janitor looks on, leaning on his broom, cackling approvingly. A few doors up from Skippy, a small group has gathered furtively around Simon Mooney’s locker, indicating the presence of contraband.
‘Atomizers. Black Holes. Fifth Dimensions. Sizzlers,’ Simon Mooney is reciting, poring over a plastic bag. ‘Then we have rockets, bangers – these are like the loudest bangers you’ve ever heard.’
‘What’s this one?’ Diarmuid Coveney points.
‘Don’t touch.’ Simon whisks the bag primly out of reach and reopens it at a safer distance. ‘That, my friend, is the infamous Spider Bomb. Eight individual fireworks in one.’
There is a murmur of awe and appreciation. ‘Where d’you get them?’ Dewey Fortune asks.
‘My dad bought them in the North. He goes up there all the time on business.’
‘Wow – do you think he could get me some?’ Vaughan Brady suggests breathlessly.
Simon considers this with a drawn-together mouth, like he’s sucking a sweet. ‘No,’ he says.
‘Well – how about you sell us some of yours?’
‘Hmm…’ Simon does the sweet face again. ‘No.’
‘Why not? You’ve got loads.’
‘Can we at least set a couple of them off now?’
‘Come on, think of what Connie’d do if you let off a banger under his chair.’
‘No.’
‘Well, what did you bring them in for, if you’re not going to set one off?’
Simon shrugs, and then, noticing Carl Cullen and Barry Barnes lurking in the vicinity, hastily stuffs the fireworks back in his locker and snaps shut the lock. The circle reluctantly disband, and head towards the stairs as the final bell goes.
Skippy closes the door of his locker and leans back against the door.
SCRRRRCCCHHHH, SCRRRRRCCCHHH, SCRRRRRCCCHHHHH!
Hot tub? Minibar? Sweat drips down his back, everything’s moving in jumps and rushes, like the moments are connected by waterslides and each time he blinks he’s hurtled out into a new one not knowing where he is –
Shh, take it easy.
– and little particles of memory appearing out of nothing and exploding like fireworks against the inside of his eye, little sparks of images that are gone too quick to see, like dreams are gone the second you realize they’re dreams – but dreams of what? Memories of what?
Shh. Deep breaths.
He takes out the amber tube and swallows a pill with some flat Sprite. Okay. Slowly and calmly he takes the books he will need for the morning’s classes from his locker, and places them in his bag. He is late for Science but he does not hurry. Already things are feeling more normal again, see? The pills moving through you like sleep, like eating ice and feeling your insides freeze. Weird that the cure should just appear like that at the same time as the sickness –
‘Hold it right there!’ Mr Farley exclaims as Skippy comes through the door. He turns to the class. ‘Which of the seven characteristics of life can we see Daniel exhibiting right now?’
Thirty grinning eyes swivel onto him. Skippy stands there like an idiot with his hand on the door. There is some snickering, and some shouted suggestions from the back of the room (‘Excretion?’ ‘Gayness?’) before Mr Farley steps back in. ‘ “Breathing” is the answer. Oh yes, now you all know it. Breathing, or as it’s known scientifically, respiration, is one of the seven characteristics of life. Thank you, Mr Juster, for that very elegant demonstration. You can take a seat now.’ Skippy, blushing, hurries down to his desk beside Ruprecht. ‘Every living thing on the planet breathes,’ Mr Farley continues. ‘However, not everything breathes the same thing, or in the same way. For example, humans breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide, but plants do the opposite. That’s why they’re so important in combating global warming. Aquatic organisms breathe oxygen the same as humans, but they extract it from the water, through gills. Some organisms have both gills and lungs – can anyone tell me what these are called?’