Howard, in spite of his best efforts, can only goggle, like a man in a bell jar.
‘You’re right – Trudy, cut that whole lion part, it’s too much.’ Trudy assiduously takes a red pen to a printout sitting on her desk. ‘But I’ll tell you this, Howard, whatever else happens, this Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert is going to give the Old Man exactly the send-off he deserves. We’re having the auditions day after tomorrow, though we’ve preselected most of the acts, obviously.’
Howard is confused. ‘This is a different concert to the 140th…?’
‘No, Howard, one and the same, except that now it’s doubly momentous, in that it not only marks a milestone anniversary in the school’s history, but also commemorates the passing of one of its leading lights. The Father Desmond Furlong Memorial Concert, it has a ring to it, don’t you think? Gives it that extra touch of gravitas.’
‘But he isn’t actually dead yet,’ Howard establishes as delicately as he can.
‘No, he’s not. No sir, those doctors have another think coming if they believe they’ve got some shrinking violet on their hands here.’
‘So by the time the concert comes round… does that not mean he may actually still…’
‘Well, in that case we’ll have all the more reason to celebrate, won’t we? Unfortunately, Howard, that is not likely at all, not at all, I’m afraid, according to the latest prognosis. At this point he needs a miracle, poor man. That reminds me, though, how are you getting on with those programme notes? Real surfeit of riches, once you dive into those school records, isn’t there?’
‘Oh – absolutely,’ Howard says, picturing the empty notepad sitting under his library books at home. ‘Yes, it’s really coming together…’
‘That’s outstanding, Howard, knew I could count on you. Now, you said there was something you wanted to ask me?’
‘Oh yes… I’m thinking of taking my second-years on a class trip to the museum…’
‘Oh really?’ the Automator turning away again to part the louvres of the blind. ‘A class trip, eh?’
‘Yes, we’re doing the First World War at the moment and for a while now I’ve been thinking it would be good for the boys to see some of the uniforms and guns and so on. It’s not really treated in the textbook, you see, so this would be a way to bring it to life a little, as opposed to being just dead facts on a page…’
‘It’s not treated in the textbook?’
‘Not in any depth, no. Hard to believe, I know, but it actually does the whole war in half a page, and it doesn’t mention Ireland’s involvement at all. A field trip would be a way of engaging the boys on a personal level, to show them what their counterparts of ninety years ago would have experienced – actually, I’m sure there were Seabrook boys who went to the Front, we could ev–’
‘Yesyesyes,’ the Automator interjects, in what sounds like a distinctly minor tone. ‘I have to say, Howard, departures from the textbook always set alarm bells going in my head. These dead facts on a page, as you call them, are the same ones that your class are going to have to reproduce in their exam papers next year. Engaging the boys is all well and good, but your job first and foremost is to get those facts off the page and into their brains by any means necessary. Not to start confusing them with a whole slew of new facts.’
‘I do feel that this is something they’d find particularly beneficial, Greg –’
‘Of course you do, but where does it end? Heck of a lot of facts out there, Howard, heck of a lot of history. You wanted to put all that history in one book, it’d be the size of a warehouse and take you a thousand years to read, by which time of course a thousand more years of history would’ve elapsed. Until they invent, first of all, a history-supercomputer that can fit the whole thing on a single chip, and then some way of downloading the information directly into your brain, we have to be selective about what areas we’re going to concentrate on, you see what I’m driving at here?’
‘It would just be a half-day trip,’ Howard points out. ‘If we left at lunchtime we’d be back here by four o’clock.’
‘Things can happen between lunchtime and four o’clock,’ the Automator pronounces ominously. ‘I can’t help remembering what happened the last time I left you alone in charge of a group of second-years. That’s not the type of scene I want replicated on the streets of our nation’s capital.’
Howard, notwithstanding that he came up with the idea of the field trip purely as a pretext for asking the Automator about Aurelie, feels his choler rise. ‘I think you’re being a little unfair, Greg,’ struggling to keep his tone polite. ‘That was a freak incident. These are good boys, and I have a decent rapport with them.’
‘Mm-hmm.’ Addressing the question to the dusk, ‘That Slippy kid’s in your second-year class, isn’t he?’
‘Daniel Juster?’
‘That’s right – how’s he doing these days?’
‘Good as gold. I’ve had no trouble with him whatever.’
‘I’ll bet,’ the Automator says softly, peering through the blind like a predator waiting for his prey to step into his trap.
‘I really think you’ve got the wrong impression of him, Greg. He’s a very bright boy. A little shy, that’s all.’
‘Mm.’ The Automator sounds unconvinced. ‘Howard, come over here a second, would you? Something I’d like to show you.’
Obediently Howard leaves his chair, and Trudy scoots out of his way so he can join the Acting Principal at the window. Below them, through the narrow aperture of the blind, the twilit yard is deserted save for a sprinkling of cars and, Howard sees now, a single, diminutive figure standing on his own among the shadows. In his grey jumper and slacks he has almost entirely disappeared into the monochrome background, but now, as Howard watches, he pivots his upper body to one side and then, like a spring, uncoils, letting fly something from his hand. It travels only a short distance before wobbling dismally to the ground, where it scrapes to a halt with an ugly skittering noise that Howard realizes has been present on the periphery of his consciousness for some time.
‘Know who that is, Howard?’
‘Difficult to tell,’ Howard says evasively.
‘It’s Juster, Howard. He’s been out there this last half-hour.’ They watch the boy trudge over to the object where it has landed, then throw it back in the direction it came. It fares even worse this time, veering off to the right and rolling away into the bushes, to an audible epithet of dismay from the lone figure outside.
‘Any idea what he might be doing?’
‘Looks like he’s playing frisbee.’
‘He’s playing frisbee by himself, Howard. He’s playing frisbee by himself, in the dark. You ever played frisbee by yourself in the dark?’
‘It does look like he needs the practice.’
‘Howard, this may seem like a big joke to you. But damn it, you can’t look out that window and tell me that’s normal behaviour. Even watching him is giving me the creeps. Now you’re telling me you want to let him loose in the city? My God, there’s no knowing what kind of stunt he might pull.’ He turns back to the window. ‘Look at him, Howard. He’s up to something. But what? What’s going on inside that head?’ This provokes a thought – ‘Trudy, wasn’t Al Foley supposed to be profiling that kid for us? Damn it, how long can it take for a man to have his ears drained?’