‘Who’s the elf again?’
‘You are,’ four exasperated voices chorus.
‘Oh right.’
Thothonathothon, Blüdigör and Barg valiantly come to the aid of their hapless elven friend, dispatching the Hellworms with blows from their halberd (2d6 HP damage), broadsword (1d10) and flinten pike (3d4). But another shock awaits our courageous fellowship – an underground river, too furious to be crossed by ordinary means, with the drawbridge raised on the other side!
‘Wow, how are we going to cross this?’ Mejisto the Elf wonders.
‘It is too furious to be crossed by ordinary means,’ Valdor the Dungeonmaster (L. Rexroth) repeats.
‘Wow,’ Mejisto says again, shaking his head.
‘By ordinary means,’ Valdor says. Looks are exchanged among the other members of the band.
‘Hmm,’ Mejisto says.
Barg the Dwarf passes a hand over his face and rubs his temples.
‘The shield!’ Blüdigör Äxehand exclaims at last, in the hope of getting at least ten feet further along in their quest before lunch break is over. ‘The Shield of Styx! That’s the whole point of it, is it carries you over every kind of a torrent!’
‘Oh great,’ Mejisto says. ‘Who’s got that then?’
It’s beginning to look like the inseparable comrades may actually be on the verge of, if not separating, then saying things they might regret – when the door flies open and Ruprecht Van Doren bursts in. It is a long time since Geoff has seen Ruprecht burst anywhere, but he finds he is not completely surprised: some small, amulet-like part of him always knew that one day his overweight friend would come crashing through this door or another, with the maniacal sheen glistening on his brow that indicates that Something is Up. At the same time, who would have guessed that his first words would be, ‘We need to find Dennis, fast!’?
On the way to the park, Ruprecht explains his new plan. The maniacal sheen did not deceive: this is big, extremely big, with many complicated scientific elements that Geoff loses track of almost immediately. But he is too excited to care, because it is so much like old times; and descending the hill to the lake where Dennis and his smoker friends stand smoking, he feels a big yellow glow of anticipation fizzing up inside him like a Vitamin C tablet in a glass of water.
Dennis, though, is not all that pleased to see them. ‘What do you want?’ he says.
‘Listen to this, Dennis. Ruprecht’s got an amazing plan!’
‘Well, I don’t want to hear it,’ Dennis says, fumbling a fresh cigarette from his packet and jabbing it in his mouth.
‘But you’re a part of it! The whole quartet is in it!’
‘I don’t care!’ Dennis shouts. ‘Leave me alone! Can’t you see I’m smoking?’
‘I think we may be able to get a message to Skippy,’ Ruprecht says.
Dennis turns ghostly-pale and lowers his lighter. ‘What?’ he says.
‘Music,’ Ruprecht explains. ‘There’s a certain amount of evidence that music of various kinds is audible in the higher dimensions –’
‘He’s going to use the Van Doren Wave Oscillator, Dennis!’
‘No,’ Dennis interrupts, more loudly, ‘I mean, what – the fuck?’
Ruprecht, checked, glances over to Geoff uncertainly.
‘Skippy’s dead, Ruprecht,’ the words appearing in a rush of sepulchral white smoke. ‘Haven’t we been over this?’
Ruprecht begins to explain about the historical precedent, but Dennis cuts him off: ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he says, pursed lips the only part of him not trembling. ‘Skippy’s gone, why can’t you leave him be?’
‘But Dennis,’ Geoff intervenes, ‘see, he’s in the hidden dimensions, remember, like those fairy-tales in Irish class?’
‘Geoff, do you really understand what he’s talking about?’ Dennis turns to him. ‘I mean, really, do you have even a vague idea?’
‘No,’ Geoff admits.
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ Dennis says. ‘It’s bollocks.’
‘But you haven’t even heard it yet.’
‘I don’t need to hear it. All he’s ever told us is bollocks. The castle on the Rhine, the private tutor flown in from Oxford, the magic portal. Fairy-tales, you said it yourself.’ He drops his cigarette and crushes it under his foot.
Ruprecht, forlorn, unblinking, says, ‘This could actually work.’
Dennis laughs. ‘You’re lying, and you don’t even know it! You can’t even tell what’s true and what’s a lie any more!’
‘No, this is true. I know it. But it has to be tomorrow night. The concert is our only chance.’
‘Fuck you, Von Blowjob. Find some other chump for your gay plan.’ And turning on his heel, Dennis marches back towards Niall and the other smokers.
Geoff covers his face with his hands.
‘Please,’ Ruprecht says.
Dennis turns round. ‘You asshole, what is it you even want to say to Skippy? What do you have to say that you couldn’t have said before, if you hadn’t been too busy trying to prove what a great scientist you were?’
Ruprecht’s whole body slumps, his second chin slipping down into his third and fourth.
For a long moment Dennis holds his gaze; then, ‘Forget you,’ he says, and strides away.
Ruprecht watches him go with an expression of agony, as if Dennis too were passing beyond the veil; his lips tremble with words he cannot quite bring himself to say – and then at last, in a bark like a gunshot, he exclaims, ‘I didn’t have a private tutor.’
Dennis stops.
Ruprecht is standing there in a daze, as if he’s not sure where the words have come from. But then reluctantly, ‘I didn’t have a private tutor,’ he repeats. ‘You’re right, I made that up. I went to boarding school in Roscommon. My parents moved me to Seabrook after I… I…’ He takes a deep breath. ‘One day after swimming I got an erection in the showers.’
The sea comes to them in gusts, barrages of white noise like great cargos of emptiness crashing onto the shore.
‘It just happened,’ Ruprecht concludes dismally. He bows his head, stranded in the grass like some spent atoll.
Dennis is still turned away. For a long time he does not speak; but then, Geoff sees his shoulders begin to shake. A moment later, over the wind and the waves, the first chuckles escape him. ‘A boner in the showers…’ He throws his head back and guffaws. ‘A boner in the showers…’ He laughs for a long time; he laughs and laughs until he is doubled over, until tears stream down his cheeks. Then he stops, and straightens, and regards Ruprecht closely, Ruprecht’s pleading eyes like shiny buttons in his doughy gingerbread face. ‘You poor fuck,’ he says at last. ‘You poor fat fuck.’
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!