The conversation that followed was desultory: was the boy feeling better? He was. Did he accept Father Green’s apology for losing his temper? He did. But Father Green had already learned a profound lesson: that despair too is a sin, and a most insidious one, because it obscures those instances of God’s grace that are among us, and leads us into solipsism and hardness of heart. He had allowed himself to be clouded by pessimism, curdled by rage, but God in his mercy had given him a chance to atone. And the nature of his penance is clear: he must help this boy. For here is one who may be helped, who may yet be saved from the depredations of his time – subtly, of course, obliquely, an invisible hand gently steering him towards goodness. One could still do that, couldn’t one, one could still take a boy under one’s wing? And in saving him – Father Green’s mind is racing now – might he not thereby rediscover his own lost path? Might this boy not be the Lot who saves, for Father Green, the profaned city in which he is lost? Even as he asks the question, he hears his heart respond unequivocally, yes! Yes, Jerome, yes!
Was that a – laugh? Did he hear someone laughing, out there in the dark? One of the boys, no doubt – he leaps for the door. But outside there is nothing; only a prickling silence that mocks his paranoia. He holds his head. Late, Jerome, it is late. At this hour one labours merely under illusions.
He turns out the light, sets off back through the school towards the Residence. As he goes he imagines the trials that might afflict a youngster, and how best a concerned friend might help to tease these out. He ignores the curious sense he has that someone is following him. Just another of these irritating tics that have plagued him these last few weeks.
But he knows who it is.
Next morning Skippy’s recovered from his mystery illness, and though initially he’s followed wherever he goes by a chorus of fake barfing, it’s not long before he’s bumped from the limelight by new and bigger stories. It appears that at some point after the final bell yesterday, someone broke into Simon Mooney’s locker and took all his fireworks from inside it. Simon Mooney is staggering white-faced from group to group, asking people if they have any information, but no one does; after all his gloating yesterday it’s debatable whether they’d give it to him even if they did.
The other big news is Miss McIntyre’s announcement in Geography class today of a possible field trip to Glendalough to see the U-shaped valley. This causes quite a stir. A U-shaped valley, made by a glacier! With her!
There was a time not so long ago when few people would have been much moved by the prospect of a U or any other shape of valley. Prior to Mr Ó Dálaigh’s departure for a gallstone operation, the only fact of interest anyone can remember learning in Geography is that there is a town in Turkey called Batman (pop. 131,986; chief industries: oil, food production). But all that changed when Miss McIntyre arrived on the scene. It’s like simply by pointing to things she can make them come alive – make them dance and sparkle, like the brooms and cups and so on in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice – and now the boys can’t understand how they ever found geographical features boring. This new-found interest in the world around them isn’t confined to the classroom either. Under her tutelage, previously non-committal boys, boys who could barely be brought to look at anything unmediated by an electronic screen, have been transformed into Taliban-like ecological zealots. They write furious letters to the directors of polluting companies; they excoriate mothers for driving the half-mile to the shops to buy one (solitary) filo pastry roll; they ruthlessly make away with anything recyclable that is left out of sight for even a moment (unopened cans of Coke, homework) and berate comrades over inefficient use of deodorant spray. Ruprecht, of course, says that these kind of piecemeal measures won’t have any effect, and that even if much more drastic action were taken, which it probably won’t be, Earth has more than likely gone past the point at which the environmental devastation of the last two centuries can still be reversed. But this falls on deaf ears.
‘M-maybe she’ll take us to the U-shaped valley and then we’ll never come back here,’ flushes Victor Hero.
‘She can make ice seem warm,’ Bob Shambles says dreamily.
But the biggest news of all comes just before lunchtime, when the boys emerge from History class to find that a rash of posters has appeared all over Our Lady’s Hall.
‘HALLOWE’EN HOP’
END OF TERM SECOND-YEAR MIXER WITH ST BRIGID’S
SOFT-DRINK REFRESHMENTS
ALL PROCEEDS TO CHARITY
Beneath these words is a crudely executed graphic of a Frankenstein’s monster jiving, soft drink in hand, beside an old record-player.
‘What the hell is a Hop?’ Mario says.
‘I think it’s like a dance,’ Niall says, frowning. ‘A kind of dance, from days of Yore?’
‘Or a dance for one-legged people?’ Geoff surmises.
‘It’s a Hallowe’en disco for the second-years from the two schools,’ Dennis says. ‘My brother told me about it.’
‘A disco?’ Skippy says.
‘They do it every year,’ Dennis says. ‘Everyone dresses up.’
‘Holy shit,’ Mario says.
‘This is excellent!’ says Niall.
‘A ghoul for every boy,’ Geoff says in his zombie voice.
Up and down the corridor boys are excitably making the same discovery, much to the chagrin of the Automator, who snaps at them to quit stalling and get to class, then realizes it’s lunchtime.
‘I’d better buy some condoms,’ Mario says. ‘This Hop will be a serious beavershoot.’
‘It’s going to be Spook-tacular!’ Geoff says in the voice.