Night has fallen, utterly black, moon and stars inked out by storm-clouds that seem, even now, still to be arriving on the scene; the air is full of staticky rain that doesn’t fall but hangs, tingling, waiting for you to walk into it. That’s not all it’s full of. From the leaf-strewn laneway leading down to Ed’s Doughnut House, from the avenue that snakes past the priests’ residence to the back gate by St Brigid’s, from the road by the tennis court that goes to the main entrance, costumed forms are arriving, many of them – among the cowboys, devils, giant spiders, rugby internationals, Jasons and Freddys, corpses in various states of decay – costumed female forms. The car park is a riot of bare legs, flashing silver in headlights as they debouch from Saabs, Audis, SUVs; and as soon as these latter have gone, coats are shrugged off to reveal equally bare arms, bare mid-riffs and as much cleavage as they can get away with.
It seems the girls have by and large played down creativity in favour of the opportunity to dress slutty. Naughty nurses sashay up with kinky cowgirls; a pneumatic Lara Croft in thigh-high boots carries the nacreous tail-fin of a mermaid who for one heart-stopping moment appears naked from the waist up, till you realize she’s wearing a fleshtone leotard; S&M cop, porno-Cleopatra, four woozy princesses tripping arm-in-arm in princess heels up the bumpy laneway; two Catwomen, already arching their backs at each other, a host of BETHanis in various guises familiar from the videos – all flocking to join the line that extends down the steps from the doors of the Sports Hall through which music swirls and colours glint like promises…
The boarders, attempting to take this in, are for a moment reluctant to move: it’s as though they’ve stumbled upon Xanadu, right here in their own school, and they fear they might somehow shatter the illusion, scatter this heady dream to the four winds… Then, as a man, they think better of it, and hurry down to join the queue.
At the top of the steps the Automator is delivering his last-minute instructions to Howard the Coward and Miss McIntyre: ‘It is now seven forty-five. At eight-thirty I want these doors closed. There is to be ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE after eight-thirty, under any circumstances. Prior to ten-thirty p.m., no one is to leave except with your permission. Once they leave, there is NO READMITTANCE. Anyone behaving in a disruptive or inappropriate fashion, I want their parents called immediately. And anyone –’ he raises his voice here ‘– found to be in possession or under the influence of alcohol or controlled substances of any kind is to be punished with immediate suspension, pending full investigation by the School Board.’
He casts a searing gaze over the line of suddenly terrified-looking youngsters frozen silently on the hall steps, holding their alcoholic breath.
‘Good,’ he pronounces. Already late for his fundraising dinner at Seabrook Rugby Club, he takes his leave of the chaperones and strides down the line in the direction of the car park; then, a little distance past the tail of the queue, he stops. Scratching his head, he turns and slowly retraces his steps, as if he is not quite sure what he is looking for, until he arrives at Dennis and Niall.
A silence falls over the assembled masquers. Smoothing down his red tie, adjusting his charcoal blazer, the Automator stares at Dennis through narrowed eyes. Dennis, identically attired, hums nervously to himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the reptilian neck of Max Brady in front of him. Giggles begin to escape up and down the line. The effect, for anyone looking on, which everyone is, is akin to that of the Automator staring into a fairground mirror. His gaze flicks over to Niall, then back to Dennis. He begins to say something, then stops; after a full minute of naked staring, in which Dennis comes close to tears, he grunts, turns on his heel and continues on his way.
They listen to his footsteps echo off to the car park, the car door chunks open and closed and the motor starts; and then, as it revs off into the night, there is a mighty cheer.
‘You are all suspended!’ Acting Principal Dennis Hoey cries. ‘Hallowe’en is banned! Study your navels! Cut those notes!’ Niall shakes his head and silently thanks God, whom he has promised never to listen to Dennis again.
The doors are opened, and the line progresses swiftly forward. But before the party can begin, there remains one last trial to get through – the Sports Hall antechamber where, seated alone at a table, Father Green is taking entrance money. The light here is sterile and unforgivingly bright, reducing them, no matter how glamorous or outlandish their attire, once more to children; as they shuffle by him to drop their crumpled fives into the bucket, the priest thanks them in an impersonal, excessively courteous tone, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the almost universally sacrilegious costumes, not to mention the acres of goosepimpled flesh – still, the transaction leaves them with a strange chill of ignominy, and they hurry away as quickly as they –
‘Oh, Mr Juster…’
Skippy reluctantly turns back from the door. What is the problem? Didn’t he see him put in his money? The priest’s lashes, long and surprisingly feminine, waft upwards, uncloaking the coal-black stare.
‘You appear to be losing a wing…?’ He extends a knotted finger.
Looking down, Skippy sees that the feathers have come unpinned from the ankle of one dragonskin boot. He bends quickly and adjusts it, then mumbling his thanks hastens into the hall.
The others have disappeared; everything is dark, and Skippy stumbles around for what seems like an age, bumping his way through witches, mutants, trolls and terrorists, unable to make out anyone he knows. Every available inch of space has been covered with black cloth, decorated in turn with crescents, stars, mystical runes. Black balloons float overhead like lost souls, ropey black webs drip from the eaves, mutilated mannequins climb out of the walls, and over the DJ booth, where Wallace Willis – lead guitarist with Shadowfax, Seabrook College’s number one rock band – is spinning the discs, a gap-toothed pumpkin exults as though presiding over the bacchanal. When his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Skippy finds he can identify most of the male half of the revellers. That Zeus over there, in cotton-wool beard and bathrobe, is Odysseas Antopopopolous; the IRA man in camouflage gear and balaclava can only be Muiris de Bhaldraithe. But some of them still defy him. That eerie Death, for instance, face lost beneath the hood of his robe, standing six and a half feet tall at least, who is he? And eerier still, the pink rabbit jitterbugging feverishly over beside Vincent Bailey and Hector O’Looney? And these girls – can they really be the same ones he sees every day, queuing up in Texaco for cigarettes and phone credit? Have they secretly, all this time, been this? If it weren’t for the worn-down lines of the basketball court underfoot, the only trace of the hall’s previous incarnation, Skippy’d think he’d somehow wandered into the wrong place…