Authors: Paul Murray
And for a time, at the start of the last century, they seemed genuinely to be on the brink of something. The succession of
discoveries one after the other – Hertz, Maxwell, Faraday, Lodge, Einstein with his undulating space, Schwarzschild with his
dark star
as it was called at first, and then
black hole
, a hole in the actual universe – and simultaneously, the rise of the table-turners and the clairvoyants and the spirit-photographers,
the battery of knocks on walls that had no human source… At that time as
never before it seemed the whole of reality warped and rippled, as if with the shape of invisible fingers endeavouring to
push through the skin of what was, the ghosts of words, spoken by long-lost voices, becoming almost audible in the new hiss
and new static…
Then it all stopped. The trail went cold. Was there just too much death to cope with, was that it? After devoting itself for
two world wars to perfecting new methods of annihilation, did science no longer want to hear what the annihilated might have
to say? Whatever the reason, scientists turned away from the spectral, confined their attentions to this side of the veil.
They built computers to establish a new reign of logic; they created polymers shapeable to every transient human wish; the
hidden dimensions, and the efforts to find them, were carefully forgotten – well of course they were forgotten, fool, because
Lodge was wrong, all of them were wrong, there is no ether, there is no magical connector joining the higher dimensions to
our own, there is no door, there is no bridge! And you’re banging your head against a brick wall! Uttering a cry not unlike
a goat’s bleat, hurling away his unused but heavily chewed pencil, Ruprecht thrusts himself away from his desk, fragments
of truth pinging around inside his head like a malevolent multiball in an insomniac pinball machine. Night swims around him,
the school’s dim chorus of snores. He sets off for the toilet, as much for a change of scenery as anything else.
In a less preoccupied state the telltale whiff of smoke escaping from underneath the door might have diverted him to the toilets
downstairs. But he pushes on in oblivious, only to find himself face-to-face with Lionel – sprawled languorously on a commode,
inhaling deeply on a cigarette, unperturbed by or possibly even relishing the stench of piss he imbibes with every drag, like
a malign Black Prince in his stinking marble court, waiting for some unfortunate to appear on whom he can take out his boredom.
‘Well, well,’ Lionel greets him cheerily. He flicks his cigarette into the urinal. ‘Well, well, well.’
The pleasing absence of authority figures means that Lionel
can take his time; furthermore, he has the run of six separate cubicles, so he isn’t hampered by that pesky wait for the cistern
to refill. The only curb on what could be the Ultimate Bogwash is Ruprecht’s considerable weight, which Lionel has to haul
from one toilet to another. This he does manfully, however, and Ruprecht soon resembles a just-born baby – teary, purple-headed,
tiny eyes blinking desperate and unseeing, mouth howling at the savagery of the world it has been introduced to. ‘What’s that?’
Lionel bends down to Ruprecht, who is gasping something. ‘Your asthma inhaler? Hmm, I don’t see it, maybe it’s down here…’
Plunged below the waterline again, Ruprecht feels his lungs and throat close up with an air of finality; and now the cataract
of stale water and supermarket bleach slowly fades out, yielding to something starless and black that reaches for Ruprecht
with glomming hands, squeezing its inky fingers around his heart, his lungs, squeezing and squeezing…
And then in the distance – as if arising out of this blackness – he hears something. A moment later, the pressure at the back
of his neck disappears, and there is the sound of footsteps receding at speed. With the last of his energy, Ruprecht hauls
his head out of the toilet bowl and he slumps, panting, against the cubicle door. A tuneless whistle echoes down the corridor:
Mr Tomms, on a rare late-night patrol. Ruprecht listens to it louden and grow faint. And then it hits him.
Music.
Thursday: two days until the curtain rises on the 140th Anniversary Concert. A palpable elation infuses the school; down in
the fell Mines of Mythia, however, it’s business as usual. Of late, the lusty band – Blüdigör Äxehand (V. Hero), Thothonathothon
the Mighty (B. Shambles), and Barg the Dwarf (H. Lafayette) – have been joined on the trail of the legendary Amulet of Onyx
by a swash-buckling new companion, Mejisto the Elf (G. Sproke), bearer of the storied Shield of Styx, which will carry its
owner across the most raging of torrents. Today the dauntless fellowship has just
unlocked the mysterious Casque of Quartz, but within find a nasty surprise – a brace of Hellworms, hungry for flesh, who seize
on hapless Mejisto the Elf!
‘Who’s the elf again?’
‘
You
are,’ four exasperated voices chorus.
‘Oh right.’
Thothonathothon, Blüdigör and Barg valiantly come to the aid of their hapless elven friend, dispatching the Hellworms with
blows from their halberd (2d6 HP damage), broadsword (1d10) and flinten pike (3d4). But another shock awaits our courageous
fellowship – an underground river, too furious to be crossed by ordinary means, with the drawbridge raised on the other side!
‘Wow, how are we going to cross this?’ Mejisto the Elf wonders.
‘It is too furious to be crossed by ordinary means,’ Valdor the Dungeonmaster (L. Rexroth) repeats.
‘Wow,’ Mejisto says again, shaking his head.
‘By
ordinary
means,’ Valdor says. Looks are exchanged among the other members of the band.
‘Hmm,’ Mejisto says.
Barg the Dwarf passes a hand over his face and rubs his temples.
‘The shield!’ Blüdigör Äxehand exclaims at last, in the hope of getting at least ten feet further along in their quest before
lunch break is over. ‘The Shield of Styx! That’s the whole point of it, is it carries you over every kind of a torrent!’
‘Oh great,’ Mejisto says. ‘Who’s got that then?’
It’s beginning to look like the inseparable comrades may actually be on the verge of, if not separating, then saying things
they might regret – when the door flies open and Ruprecht Van Doren bursts in. It is a long time since Geoff has seen Ruprecht
burst anywhere, but he finds he is not completely surprised: some small, amulet-like part of him always knew that one day
his overweight friend would come crashing through this door or another, with the maniacal sheen glistening on his brow that
indicates that Something is Up. At the same time, who would have guessed that his first words would be, ‘We need to find Dennis,
fast
!’?
On the way to the park, Ruprecht explains his new plan. The maniacal sheen did not deceive: this is big,
extremely
big, with many complicated scientific elements that Geoff loses track of almost immediately. But he is too excited to care,
because it is so much like old times; and descending the hill to the lake where Dennis and his smoker friends stand smoking,
he feels a big yellow glow of anticipation fizzing up inside him like a Vitamin C tablet in a glass of water.
Dennis, though, is not all that pleased to see them. ‘What do you want?’ he says.
‘Listen to this, Dennis. Ruprecht’s got an amazing plan!’
‘Well, I don’t want to hear it,’ Dennis says, fumbling a fresh cigarette from his packet and jabbing it in his mouth.
‘But you’re a part of it! The whole quartet is in it!’
‘I don’t care!’ Dennis shouts. ‘Leave me alone! Can’t you see I’m smoking?’
‘I think we may be able to get a message to Skippy,’ Ruprecht says.
Dennis turns ghostly-pale and lowers his lighter. ‘What?’ he says.
‘Music,’ Ruprecht explains. ‘There’s a certain amount of evidence that music of various kinds is audible in the higher dimensions
–’
‘He’s going to use the Van Doren Wave Oscillator, Dennis!’
‘No,’ Dennis interrupts, more loudly, ‘I mean, what – the fuck?’
Ruprecht, checked, glances over to Geoff uncertainly.
‘Skippy’s
dead
, Ruprecht,’ the words appearing in a rush of sepulchral white smoke. ‘Haven’t we been over this?’
Ruprecht begins to explain about the historical precedent, but Dennis cuts him off: ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he
says, pursed lips the only part of him not trembling. ‘Skippy’s gone, why can’t you leave him be?’
‘But Dennis,’ Geoff intervenes, ‘see, he’s in the hidden dimensions, remember, like those fairy-tales in Irish class?’
‘Geoff, do you really understand what he’s talking about?’
Dennis turns to him. ‘I mean, really, do you have even a vague idea?’
‘No,’ Geoff admits.
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ Dennis says. ‘It’s bollocks.’
‘But you haven’t even heard it yet.’
‘I don’t need to hear it. All he’s ever told us is bollocks. The castle on the Rhine, the private tutor flown in from Oxford,
the magic portal. Fairy-tales, you said it yourself.’ He drops his cigarette and crushes it under his foot.
Ruprecht, forlorn, unblinking, says, ‘This could actually work.’
Dennis laughs. ‘You’re lying, and you don’t even know it! You can’t even tell what’s true and what’s a lie any more!’
‘No, this is true. I know it. But it has to be tomorrow night. The concert is our only chance.’
‘Fuck you, Von Blowjob. Find some other chump for your gay plan.’ And turning on his heel, Dennis marches back towards Niall
and the other smokers.
Geoff covers his face with his hands.
‘Please,’ Ruprecht says.
Dennis turns round. ‘You asshole, what is it you even want to say to Skippy? What do you have to say that you couldn’t have
said before, if you hadn’t been too busy trying to prove what a great scientist you were?’
Ruprecht’s whole body slumps, his second chin slipping down into his third and fourth.
For a long moment Dennis holds his gaze; then, ‘Forget you,’ he says, and strides away.
Ruprecht watches him go with an expression of agony, as if Dennis too were passing beyond the veil; his lips tremble with
words he cannot quite bring himself to say – and then at last, in a bark like a gunshot, he exclaims, ‘I didn’t have a private
tutor.’
Dennis stops.
Ruprecht is standing there in a daze, as if he’s not sure where the words have come from. But then reluctantly, ‘I didn’t
have a private tutor,’ he repeats. ‘You’re right, I made that up. I went to boarding
school in Roscommon. My parents moved me to Seabrook after I… I…’ He takes a deep breath. ‘One day after swimming I got an
erection in the showers.’
The sea comes to them in gusts, barrages of white noise like great cargos of emptiness crashing onto the shore.
‘It just happened,’ Ruprecht concludes dismally. He bows his head, stranded in the grass like some spent atoll.
Dennis is still turned away. For a long time he does not speak; but then, Geoff sees his shoulders begin to shake. A moment
later, over the wind and the waves, the first chuckles escape him. ‘A boner in the showers…’ He throws his head back and guffaws.
‘A boner in the showers…’ He laughs for a long time; he laughs and laughs until he is doubled over, until tears stream down
his cheeks. Then he stops, and straightens, and regards Ruprecht closely, Ruprecht’s pleading eyes like shiny buttons in his
doughy gingerbread face. ‘You poor fuck,’ he says at last. ‘You poor fat fuck.’
That afternoon the news is all over the school that Ruprecht Van Doren and his quartet have been restored to the concert programme.
Master of Ceremonies Titch Fitzpatrick actually saw it happen, having been in the Jubilee Hall rehearsing his material when
Ruprecht and the others walked in. Contrary to some reports, there were no tears, or explanations, or even an apology, hardly;
Ruprecht just said they were ready to play again, if there was still a place for them. Still a place? Connie was all over
him like a spray-tan. It was like that story in the Bible where the bloke comes back from wherever and they have a huge feast
even though the bloke’s a bit of a waster.
Don’t get him wrong, Titch is a huge fan of Ruprecht’s French-horn playing. But after everything that’s happened, you have
to wonder about the wisdom of letting him just waltz back in like that. Not to get on his high horse or anything, but in Titch’s
opinion Ruprecht hasn’t displayed the kind of attitude that this 140th Anniversary Concert is all about. More importantly,
how can the Quartet possibly be ready in time? The concert is on
tomorrow
! Tomorrow!
No point mentioning these reservations to Connie, he’s skipping around the place like he’s fallen in love. That’s why Titch
has taken it upon himself, in his capacity as Master of Ceremonies, to have a little sneak preview of the Quartet’s performance.
And guess what, the noise coming from behind that rehearsal room door does
not
sound like classical music. Or, some of it does? But those parts keep getting drowned out by other parts that sound like
the Death Star exploding. And even as he watches, concealed within an alcove, Mario and Niall stagger by, hefting a) a computer
and b) some sort of satellite dish…?
The whole thing is fishier than a mermaid’s twat. Titch decides to take the matter directly to the top, i.e. Mr Costigan.
‘Actually quite busy here, Fitzpatrick –’
‘Yes, sir, but it’s important.’ He explains his misgivings about the Quartet’s readmittance, and the strange noises he heard
outside the rehearsal room –
‘Death Star? Fitzpatrick, what in God’s name are you –’ Then the phone goes. ‘Costigan – well, well, Jack Flaherty, you old
son of a gun! How are ya, big guy? How’s everything in petrochemicals? A little bird told me you guys were running out… ha
ha, of course not, listen here, we’re throwing a little shindig over here Saturday…’ The chair swivels away. Titch stands
there jilted a moment before becoming aware that Brother Jonas is staring at him from the other side of the room.
‘What is troubling you, my child?’ he says, in his soft muggy African voice.
Titch takes one look at the little black man, and another at the Acting Principal, gabbing away with his feet on the desk.
He smiles. ‘Nothing, Brother, it’s not important.’ Then he leaves the office. If they want to ignore their own Master of Ceremonies,
they deserve everything they get.