BICYCLE?’
Clearing his throat, Skippy replies in a faint high voice, ‘Maybe?’
The priest’s hand slams on ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast’s desk like a thunderclap; everybody jumps in their seats. ‘Liar!’ he roars.
The last of his earlier jollity and good humour has fallen away now, and they realize that it was phony all along, or rather
a darker manifestation of his ordinary rage, waiting for its inevitable moment.
‘Do you know what happens to sinful boys, Mr Juster?’ Father Green sweeps his blazing eyes about the room. ‘All of you, are
you aware of the fate that befalls impure hearts? Of hell, the endless torments of hell that await the lustful?’
Eyes study folded hands, evading his fervid gaze. Father Green pauses a moment, then changes tack. ‘Do you enjoy pumping your
stuff, Mr Juster? Do you like pumping it rough?’
A couple of people snicker in spite of themselves. The boy does not reply; he is gazing at the priest open-mouthed as if he
can’t believe this is happening. Geoff Sproke puts his hands over his eyes. The priest, enjoying himself, pacing the boards
in front of the blackboard like a barrister, says, ‘Are you a virgin, Mr Juster?’
This, class, is what’s called a double-bind. Note the formal perfection of its construction, the work of a real expert. Obviously
Skippy’s a virgin – Skippy’s about as virginal as they come, and will probably stay that way till he’s at least thirty-five.
But he can’t admit it, not with a classroom of boys looking at him, even if ninety-five per cent of them are virgins also.
Neither, though, can he deny it, because the person asking is a priest, who expects all good Catholics to remain virgins until
they are married, or at least is pretending to expect this for the purposes of his little game here. So Skippy merely wriggles
and shivers and breathes noisily as his interrogator advances a step or two down the aisle.
‘Well?’ Father Green’s eyes twinkle at him merrily.
Through clenched teeth, Skippy says, ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ Father Green, in performer mode now, repeats incredulously, with a comical wink for his audience. ‘What
do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know.’ Skippy stares back at him, his jaw wobbling, trying not to cry.
‘You don’t know what you mean when you say you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mr Juster, God hates a liar, and so do I. You are among friends here. Why not tell us the truth? Are you a virgin?’
Skippy’s face is shaking and sore-looking now. Five minutes remaining on the clock. Geoff shoots a desperate look at Ruprecht
as if he might know what to do, but the light has fallen to make opaque blanks of his glasses.
‘I don’t know.’
The indulgent smile fades from the priest’s lips, and the thunderclouds regather in the room. ‘Tell me the truth!’
Actual tears roll down Skippy’s cheeks. No one is snickering any more. Why can’t he just give Father Green what he wants?
But Skippy keeps saying, ‘I don’t know,’ like a halfwit, turning greener and greener, making the priest angrier and angrier,
until he says, ‘Mr Juster, I am giving you one last chance.’ And they see his bony hand curled up into a fist on Jeekers’s
desk, and they think of the fifth-year with the stitches and all of the other dark legends that swirl serpentine around the
priest, and in their heads they scream at him, ‘SKIPPY, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! JUST TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTS TO HEAR!’, but Skippy
is clammily, woozily silent and around him the air is full of sparks and the priest’s eyes glitter at him hungrily like wolf
eyes, and nobody knows what is going to happen, and then the priest steps forward, and Skippy, who is swaying slightly in
place, abruptly straightens, bolt upright, opens his mouth and vomits all over Kevin ‘What’s’ Wong.
The first time Halley set eyes on Howard was at a showing of
The Towering
Clearing his throat, Skippy replies in a faint high voice, ‘Maybe?’
The priest’s hand slams on ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast’s desk like a thunderclap; everybody jumps in their seats. ‘Liar!’ he roars.
The last of his earlier jollity and good humour has fallen away now, and they realize that it was phony all along, or rather
a darker manifestation of his ordinary rage, waiting for its inevitable moment.
‘Do you know what happens to sinful boys, Mr Juster?’ Father Green sweeps his blazing eyes about the room. ‘All of you, are
you aware of the fate that befalls impure hearts? Of hell, the endless torments of hell that await the lustful?’
Eyes study folded hands, evading his fervid gaze. Father Green pauses a moment, then changes tack. ‘Do you enjoy pumping your
stuff, Mr Juster? Do you like pumping it rough?’
A couple of people snicker in spite of themselves. The boy does not reply; he is gazing at the priest open-mouthed as if he
can’t believe this is happening. Geoff Sproke puts his hands over his eyes. The priest, enjoying himself, pacing the boards
in front of the blackboard like a barrister, says, ‘Are you a virgin, Mr Juster?’
This, class, is what’s called a double-bind. Note the formal perfection of its construction, the work of a real expert. Obviously
Skippy’s a virgin – Skippy’s about as virginal as they come, and will probably stay that way till he’s at least thirty-five.
But he can’t admit it, not with a classroom of boys looking at him, even if ninety-five per cent of them are virgins also.
Neither, though, can he deny it, because the person asking is a priest, who expects all good Catholics to remain virgins until
they are married, or at least is pretending to expect this for the purposes of his little game here. So Skippy merely wriggles
and shivers and breathes noisily as his interrogator advances a step or two down the aisle.
‘Well?’ Father Green’s eyes twinkle at him merrily.
Through clenched teeth, Skippy says, ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ Father Green, in performer mode now, repeats incredulously, with a comical wink for his audience. ‘What
do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know.’ Skippy stares back at him, his jaw wobbling, trying not to cry.
‘You don’t know what you mean when you say you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mr Juster, God hates a liar, and so do I. You are among friends here. Why not tell us the truth? Are you a virgin?’
Skippy’s face is shaking and sore-looking now. Five minutes remaining on the clock. Geoff shoots a desperate look at Ruprecht
as if he might know what to do, but the light has fallen to make opaque blanks of his glasses.
‘I don’t know.’
The indulgent smile fades from the priest’s lips, and the thunderclouds regather in the room. ‘Tell me the truth!’
Actual tears roll down Skippy’s cheeks. No one is snickering any more. Why can’t he just give Father Green what he wants?
But Skippy keeps saying, ‘I don’t know,’ like a halfwit, turning greener and greener, making the priest angrier and angrier,
until he says, ‘Mr Juster, I am giving you one last chance.’ And they see his bony hand curled up into a fist on Jeekers’s
desk, and they think of the fifth-year with the stitches and all of the other dark legends that swirl serpentine around the
priest, and in their heads they scream at him, ‘SKIPPY, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! JUST TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTS TO HEAR!’, but Skippy
is clammily, woozily silent and around him the air is full of sparks and the priest’s eyes glitter at him hungrily like wolf
eyes, and nobody knows what is going to happen, and then the priest steps forward, and Skippy, who is swaying slightly in
place, abruptly straightens, bolt upright, opens his mouth and vomits all over Kevin ‘What’s’ Wong.
The first time Halley set eyes on Howard was at a showing of
The Towering
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