‘No,’ Howard admits.
‘So already we’ve got him breaking one of the house rules, viz. leaving without notifying a supervisor. What’s to stop him breaking another? Breaking all of them? It’s open and shut, Howard. Open and shut.’
That the Automator has a scapegoat for this debacle is certainly good news for Howard; at the same time, something seems not quite right with this version of events. He struggles to marshal his thoughts against the crashing guilt-hangover that tugs him floor-wards like a massive psychic drain – and then he remembers. ‘Greg, Carl Cullen tried to get into the Sports Hall last night. He knocked on the main door around 9 p.m. He seemed… agitated.’
‘Did you let him in?’
‘No, it was after the curfew so I turned him away.’
‘Then I don’t see what he has to do with our situation, Howard, if you didn’t let him in.’
‘Well, what if he didn’t go home? What if he, you know, if he decided to take revenge – sneak in and… and do this?’
The Automator stares at the floor for a long time. Trudy gazes at him, her pen poised over the page for the moment he recommences speaking. ‘You say you sent Carl away at what time?’
‘Around nine.’
‘And you left for the Geography Room at what time?’
‘Maybe… half past nine?’
‘So, would he have had time to go home, load up on dope and come back here in that time,’ the Automator muses. ‘Yes, he would. But that’s assuming he knew you’d go off on your little excursion and leave the hall unsupervised, which he didn’t. Even if he had the mickey with him from the get-go, would he have hung around outside on the off-chance he’d somehow get in? For a half-hour? In the rain? The boy’s wild, but he’s not a masochist. No, this smells to me like an inside job. Someone watching you all night, waiting for his opportunity. He doesn’t need much time. A few seconds, that’s all it takes. The moment you step outside, he makes his move. Maybe even before you step outside. Either way, he makes the drop, then he’s out of there, home free.’
‘But there’s no proof it was Juster,’ Howard argues, knowing that it is futile. ‘I mean, it could have been anyone in that room, couldn’t it?’
‘Well, sure, it could have been anyone. It could have been mischievous pixies. It could have been the Man in the Moon. But all the available facts are pointing to this kid Juster.’
‘But why –’
‘Exactly, Howard! Why? That’s what we have to get to the bottom of.’ He taps the ballpoint pen against his teeth. ‘You get any change out of him when you talked to him?’
‘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.