‘Next!’ The judgement issues summarily from the review panel before Sexecutioner has even a chance to drop his first motherfucker. For a moment, the boys remain rooted to the spot in ungangsta-like attitudes of woundedness, mocked by the drumbeat that is still thumping around them; then, unplugging the ghettoblaster, they clamber down and make the walk of shame to the exit.
‘What in God’s name was that?’ the Automator says as soon as they have left.
Trudy peers down at her clipboard. ‘ “Original material.” ’
‘Our old friend original material,’ the Automator says grimly. ‘I’ve had some plumbing mishaps that sounded a little like those guys.’
‘It did have a certain rough-hewn vitality,’ Father Laughton moderates.
‘I’ve said it before, Padre, this concert’s not about rough-hewn. It’s not about “doing your best”. I want professionalism. I want pizazz. I want this concert to put the Seabrook name out there, tell the world what we’re all about.’
‘Education?’
‘Quality, damn it. A brand right at the top of the upper end of the market. God knows that’s not going to be easy. I’ve given serious thought to bussing in other kids, talented kids, just so we don’t have to drop the curtain after half an hour –’
‘I’m not sure that would be quite in the, ah, spirit,’ mutters Father Laughton.
‘Just a thought, Padre, just a thought. Speaking of which, though, had a couple of other ideas I wanted to run by you. First one: thought we might stick Brother Jonas in there somewhere – you know, representing Africa, various peoples the Paracletes have helped over there, bright future they can have if everyone rows in, sort of thing.’
‘Mmm, mmm,’ Father Laughton’s bowed head turning from cherry-pink to a florid magenta.
‘Maybe wear traditional dress, say a few words of gratitude in his tribe’s language. I want to remind people of this school’s long and continuing history of charitable work.’
‘Is the, ah, is the money from the concert going to Africa?’
‘Well, we haven’t decided exactly how it’s going to be allocated. That 1865 wing isn’t going to rebuild itself. But anyway that’s one idea. The other one’s this: Father, what comes to mind when you hear this word?’ The Automator pauses dramatically, then with a shimmer of fingers pronounces, ‘DVD.’
Father Laughton blinks. ‘DVD?’
‘Memorial concert’s all about remembering, right? What better way to remember than with a special-edition commemorative DVD? Let me break it down for you. You put on an event like this, you’re going to get parents coming along with their cameras wanting to film it. Psychology of the twenty-first-century crowd: people like to capture the spectacle, own it. Call it a side-effect of late capitalism, call it an attempt to stave off the ineffable transience of life. Point is, at these precious moments they all want to get little Junior down on tape. So what I’m thinking here is, we beat them to the punch. We film the entire thing, and so instead of a shaky hand-held recording complete with Aunt Nelly coughing and rustling sweets beside him, Junior’s dad can have a professionally edited, digitally enhanced DVD, his to own for ev– yes, yes, carry on.’ This last is addressed to Trevor Hickey, who has been hovering on the stage with a glazed expression these past few minutes, and now hurriedly begins his speech: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the feat of daredevilry you are about to see will shock and amaze you. Fire, man’s oldest and most indefatigable foe…’
‘I’ve made a few inquiries, couple of old boys working in the business, they’re telling me we can get the discs printed for about fifty cents a pop. Packaging, probably work something out there too. Main outlay’s going to be the recording – lighting, camera hire, sound desk, labour. But whatever we spend, we’ll make back ten times over. Think about it, DVD like that, it’s the perfect Christmas gift. Every uncle and grandmother and third cousin twice removed’ll be getting a copy of it.’
‘The Ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus believed that the universe was made of fire,’ Trevor says.
‘And they’ll be glad to, because not only will they be getting white-knuckle rock’n’roll by classically trained musicians, French horn playing of the very highest calibre, a patriotic ballad in our national language, Irish, and more, all on the same unique historic bill, but with the proceeds they’ll also be investing in Seabrook’s future – actually, that’s pretty good, make a note of that, Trudy, a piece of history, an investment in the fut– Jesus God, what the hell is that kid doing? What the hell are you doing, God damn it!’
Trevor Hickey’s startled face emerges from behind the eclipse of his rump, which is facing the hall with a match poised at its business end. Showmanship deserting him, he begins to babble out his speech again: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the feat of daredevilry you’re about to witness will shock and amaze you –’
‘The hell it will –’ In what seems a single bound the Automator is on stage, seizing Trevor Hickey bodily and hauling him down the steps. ‘My office, nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he bellows after him as he hurls the boy out the door. ‘If you need someone to light a fire under your arse, then by golly you’ve found your man. A week’s detention, let’s see how that shocks and amazes you.’
Brick-coloured, dusting his hands, he returns to the table. ‘See, this is the kind of thing we’re up against. Is that the way we want to commemorate Des Furlong? Is that the way we thank the man for forty-two years serving the Holy Paraclete Fathers? With some joker lighting his farts on stage?’
‘No,’ Father Laughton remonstrates, ‘no, of course not –’
‘You’re darn right it’s not.’ The Automator, simmering, reinstates himself at the desk. ‘This is going to be a night of quality musical entertainment if I have to sing every damn song myself. Now, who’s next? Ah!’ He brightens as the Van Doren Quartet troop through the door. ‘What is it they’re playing again, Father?’
‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D,’ Father Laughton says, adding, after a moment of internal debate, ‘You might recognize it from the current advertisement for the Citroën Osprey.’
The Automator nods. ‘Quality,’ he comments, settling back in his seat.
The Quartet seems a little unsettled at first: some kind of interchange appears to be ongoing between French horn and bassoon, and the viola is looking positively unwell. But a note from the triangle brings them to order, and Ruprecht – after telling the bas-soon quite audibly, ‘Play quietly’ – leads the foursome into the soothing circulations of the Canon. As it unspools, the slow descending harmony repeating and elaborating, a beatific peace invests Father Laughton’s pink, pointy face, and beside him, perhaps unconsciously, the Automator murmurs, ‘Citroën Osprey… mile for mile, that’s one of the top-performing cars in its class.’
THE AMULET… IT SAVED ME.
Djed on the riverbank, kneeling by the rushes. Below, the princess’s eyes glow up at him from the water’s surface, the river passing beneath her translucent image, making her ripple and dazzle. The tiny harp of the amulet, with the power to turn a demon’s flames into warm pacific chords of music, dangles between them, over his knees, twisting lullaby-slow like a leaf in the memory of a strong wind.
YOUR HEART IS WHAT SAVED YOU, DJED.
Her words are carried to the surface in bubbles, one word held in each, rising in sequence to recompose her sentence. She’s projecting herself from the demonic prison where she is frozen in ice – she has just enough magic left to do that. Within the pale image of her face his reflection is just visible, as if they are turning into each other.