by Roddy Doyle
—Fuckin’ hell, said Jimmy.
Norman was right beside him.
—The hair – on the back of my head, he said.
—I know, said Jimmy.
—It’s terrifying, said Ocean.—Truly.
—SHE STUCK THE PENKNIFE IN THE BABY’S HEART —
DOWN BY THE RIVER SÁILE —
It was the voice and nothing else. And they knew it: they were listening to a confession. The woman in the record had murdered her baby. She’d given birth to her illegitimate child in among the trees, and she’d stabbed it.
—THEY PULLED THE ROPE AND SHE GOT HUNG —
WEILE WEILE WÁILE —
No one spoke for a while. Ocean lifted the needle.
—I googled executions in Ireland, she said.—In, like, 1932.
—And?
—No women.
—I’m surprised, said Jimmy.—She had me convinced. Who is she again?
Ocean held up the record, showed him the label.
—Mary McCrone.
—Can’t be her real name, said Norman.
—No, Jimmy agreed.
—So, Jimmy, said Ocean.—Is this the song?
—No, said Jimmy—It isn’t. It’s the song tha’ was written after the song.
—So, said Des.—Got that?
—Think so, yeah.
—You imagine your throat expanding as you breathe in. And when you exhale, the quality of the sound – it’s already better.
—Yeah.
—You’ve been rushing —
—I know.
—Charging to the end.
—I know, yeah.
—Because you’re scared you’ll run out of breath.
—I know.
—But you won’t.
—I know.
Jimmy hated being the student, hearing himself – I know, I know – the teacher’s pet. But he loved what he was learning. Now and again, once or twice each time he played, he got a note that sounded right, a lovely thing that filled the room and the house. There was something great, a bit brilliant about sending the sound out, anticipating it, then blowing and getting it exactly as he’d wanted, and expected.
—This is great, Des. Thanks.
—No, said Des.—You’re doing well.
They were chest to chest in the space between the bed and the wall.
—Your money, said Jimmy.—Hang on.
—Thanks.
Jimmy put hands into both pockets, found two euro, some copper and a memory stick.
—Shite, Des, he said.—I’ve no money.
—Don’t worry, said Des.—You can get me the next time.
They were out on the landing.
—Sure?
—Yeah, yeah.
—If that’s okay with you.
—No problem.
Des was ahead of Jimmy on the stairs. He stopped, and turned.
—Actually, no.
He spoke quietly. Jimmy was two steps above him, so Des had to look up a bit.
—I need it, he said.—Sorry.
—No problem, said Jimmy.
—I’m broke.
—It’s okay, said Jimmy.
The urge was to push Des gently down the rest of the stairs, and out the door. Follow him, grand, but get him out of the house.
—I’ll go with yeh to a pass machine. There’s one in the Spar up the way.
—Thanks, said Des.—I’m sorry about this.
He was shaking. Jimmy could see it in his hand as it went for the banister. Jimmy could’ve dipped into the kitchen and seen if Aoife had the money. She probably did. But no. He’d go up the road with Des. Twenty-five fuckin’ euro!
The dog was at the door. He’d heard Jimmy coming down. He stood there, the tail doing ninety, looking up. Give us a walk! Jimmy got his foot under the dog – it was easily done – and gently slid it out of the way.
He opened the door.
—Quick, Des, before Steve McQueen gets out.
—Lovely dog.
—The kids love him.
It was dark now, coldish, but Jimmy wouldn’t go back in for his jacket. They were only going up the road. He looked at Des unlocking his bike from the front gate. The girl’s bike – a woman’s bike. Aoife had pointed that out the first time Des had come to the house. He wrapped the chain around the bar under the saddle. He wheeled the bike out to the path.
—Down this way, Des, said Jimmy.
He turned left at the gate and waited for Des to turn the bike his way. He smiled.
—Alright?
—Yeah, said Des.—Sorry again —
—You’re grand, said Jimmy.
What would he say? He hardly knew the man.
—I need to get some cash for one of the kids anyway, he said.—A school trip or somethin’.
Rub it in, yeh stupid cunt. He could throw money at his kids without knowing what it was for, and probably more than he’d be throwing at Des. But that was ridiculous. He wasn’t sure how, but it was just sentimental.
They walked beside each other.
—Winter’s over I’d say.
—Yeah.
—Thank Christ.
—Yeah.
—Easier goin’ on the bike.
—Yeah, yeah. Much easier.
—Did you sell the car, Des?
—Yeah, said Des.—I couldn’t – I had to.
—That’s bad, said Jimmy.
—No, it’s actually grand.
—No, it’s not grand.
He wished Aoife could have heard him say that. He’d tell her later.
—I meant, said Des.—I don’t really miss it.
—I don’t use mine much, said Jimmy.
That wasn’t true. It used to be truer, but not since the surgery and the chemo.
—But yeah, said Des.—It was hard having to decide to get rid of it.
—Did you get a decent price for it?
—No.
They walked past three gates before they spoke again.
—The bike, said Jimmy.
—It’s my daughter’s, said Des.—When she’s over.
—Christ.
—She’s tall, at least.
—What happened?
—No work.
Jimmy didn’t know what Des did – had done – for a living.
—Just disappeared, said Des.
He rang the bell on the handlebar.
—That was an accident, he said.
—What do yeh do? Jimmy asked him.
—Landscaping, said Des.—Gardens mostly.
—Southside?
—No, said Des.—Fuck off.
He smiled.
The Spar was right in front of them. They stopped walking.
—Everywhere, said Des.—You’d be surprised.
—I probably wouldn’t.
—I put fountains and ponds into council-house gardens, said Des.
—I bet.
—Anyway, said Des.—Small jobs were the first to go.
He shrugged.
—No real problem, he said.—I’d four or five lads working for me. Lithuanians. Great heads. But that became two or three. Then the big jobs became smaller. But they’ve stopped too. All these people have suddenly learnt how to cut the grass. That’s not fair. But —
He rang the bell again, on purpose this time.
—It’s rough, said Jimmy.
They just stood beside each other for a bit.
—I’d never have guessed tha’ that was what yeh did, said Jimmy.—Landscapin’.
—Why not?
—Well, you’re always dressed – dressed to kill, my ma would say. And your hands —
—I wash myself, said Des.
—Sorry.
—You’ve got some stupid notions, Jimmy.
—I didn’t mean anythin’.
He looked at Des.
—Sorry, he said.—I’m a twat.
—The real killer, said Des,—was two big jobs I never got paid for.
�
��Fuck. Really?
—And I know – I know for a fact that at least one of them is well able to pay. Just won’t.
—The cunt.
—You said it.
Jimmy nodded at the shop.
—You comin’ in?
—No, said Des.—I’ll only be tempted to spend money I don’t have.
—Grand. Won’t be a minute.
Jimmy knew: Des really couldn’t spend money he didn’t have. It was that basic. He didn’t have a working bank card, let alone an overdraft or a friendly manager. Jimmy’s eldest two had their own bank cards; their pocket money went straight to their accounts. They withdrew fivers, and they couldn’t actually spend money that wasn’t there. But they were in better shape than Des. He was back where he’d started, somewhere in the late ’70s. But, of course, he wasn’t. That was just sentimentality too.
The sentimentality – it was fuckin’ everywhere.
He took out a hundred and headed for the door, then changed his mind. He didn’t want to hand Des a fifty, didn’t want to tell Des it was fine, it could cover the next lesson as well. He didn’t want to hear himself say, You’re grand.
He went to the counter, picked up a packet of Doublemint, handed it with a fifty to the young one behind the counter. He took the change from her.
—Thanks.
He put twenty-five into a pocket and went back out to Des.
—There yeh go.
—Thanks.
It was fuckin’, fuckin’ dreadful. But he liked Des and it felt good to be with him now. Neither of them wanted to go. He knew Des would say no to a pint. Anyway, he didn’t want one himself. But he did something a bit clever. He anticipated the chat later that night with Aoife; what she’d ask, how she’d look at him.
—Is your apartment okay, Des? he asked.—Safe?
Jimmy knew that much; Des had an apartment. Somewhere off the Stillorgan Road. Jimmy had envied him – just a quick stab. The familyless life. The step back into happiness. Jesus.
—Yeah, said Des.—Yeah.
—D’you own it? Sorry if I’m —
—No, said Des.—No. My aunt owns it. I’ve been renting.
He shrugged.
—I’m her godson.
—Nice.
—Awful.
—Yeah.
—But yeah. I’m lucky.
—If you say so, said Jimmy.—But look it. Any time. You know.
—Thanks, said Des.
—I’m not just sayin’ that, said Jimmy.
—I know.
—If I can help – . Sorry. I mean it.
—I know.
—It’s a ceili band playin’ ‘Black an’ Tan Fantasy’, said Jimmy.
—My God, said Aoife.—In 1932?
—Yep, said Jimmy.—It’s a Duke Ellington song. But they didn’t call it that. These guys here.
—What did they call it?
—Liscannor Bay Fantasy.
—Brilliant.
They listened to an accordion doing what should have been done by a trumpet.
—Did you recognise it?
—Nope, said Jimmy.—I fuckin’ hate jazz.
—I forgot, said Aoife.—Sorry for asking.
—You’re grand, said Jimmy.—No, it was the young one.
—Ocean?
—Yeah. She spotted it immediately. Turns out she knows her onions. Whatever that means.
They said nothing for a bit while they both enjoyed the madness of it.
—How are you feeling? she asked him.
—Grand, he said.—Really. Grand.
—It mightn’t happen this time.
—It will, said Jimmy.—But it’s okay. I’ll survive.
He paused the song.
—And you know what’s good?
—What?
—This, he said.—The searchin’. The Eucharistic Congress is in June an’ we’ve still only got about half an album’s worth o’ songs. But she’s brilliant. Ocean.
—And she’s the girl you thought was being seduced by her father.
—Same one, he said.—Seems like ages ago. Fuckin’ hell.
They laughed.
—Anyway, said Jimmy,—we need about five more songs and we might be able to get away with four.
He held up the laptop, just before he put it on the floor beside the bed.
—It’s good though, isn’t it? The latest one.
—Yes, she said.—It is.
—I love that, he said.—Ceili lads listenin’ to nigger jazz, down a boreen somewhere.
—With the sound down low.
—Very low. Huddled around the gramophone, like. And hidin’ the record. Passin’ it around. In a different cover. It might even’ve been illegal. Banned.
—Different times.
—The good ol’ days, he said.—They must’ve been lookin’ for new music.
—And they found it.
—Yeah, but they had to disguise it.
He slid down under the duvet.
—I want to find somethin’ that wasn’t disguised.
—What?
—Don’t know.
She slid down beside him.
—Do me a favour, she said.
—Wha’?
—Concentrate a bit on the kids.
—I took Brian and May to my parents —
—The other two.
—They hardly know if I’m here or not.
—They’re worried. Just like the younger ones.
—They’ve some way o’ showin’ it.
—Ah Jimmy.
He knew he was being a prick. A complete one.
—Sorry.
—It’s okay.
She was still right in against him. It was great but it made him nervous. He was sure there was a smell of something off him – guilt, or fuckin’ stupidity. That was just stupid, he knew. But he couldn’t believe he’d get away with it. And he kind of didn’t care.
He turned in the bed, to face her properly. He bent his legs, so one of his knees touched her thigh.
—Tell me one thing, he said.
—What?
—If they’re so worried, if Marvin’s so worried – . This is a real question now. It isn’t self-pity.
—Go on.
—Right, said Jimmy.—The last time I was sick. An’ they all saw the state of me —
—You shouldn’t feel bad about that.
—Easily said.
—Jimmy, I’m tired of this. I really am. You’re flogging yourself. But, actually, you’re not. You’re flogging us. Me.
—Okay, he said.—Sorry. I hear you. You’re right. Just – Marvin.
—Go on.
—He sees me, he sees you gettin’ me up the stairs. And he leaves – he goes out the fuckin’ door, to a party.
She sighed, but she didn’t move.
—Yes.
—So, said Jimmy.—What? He’s goin’ to a party because he’s upset?
—Jesus, Jimmy. Use your imagination.
—I know. I do. I just wish he’d be a bit more conventional. I wish he’d fuckin’ hug me.
—When was the last time you hugged him?
—Okay – yeah. Yeah.
He closed the curtains. He got onto the bed. He sat back against the wall.
It was coming. He knew it was coming.
Oh God.
Oh fuck.
The house was empty.
Just him.
He listened again, the same voice, the exact same unbelievable message.
—Okay, he said.—I’ll have to – . Did you phone my wife, by the way?
He listened carefully.
—Okay.
He looked across at Ocean and Noeleen.
—Okay, he said.—Grand. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
He was finishing the call, about to press the red button. Then he thought of something.
—Thanks.
He inhaled, and slowly exhaled. He looked at the women, and stood up.
—Sorry, h
e said.—A family thing. I’ve to go.
—Is everything alright? said Noeleen.
—Yeah, he said.—It’ll be grand. I just have to – . Sorry about this.
He was on his way.
—Jimbo?!
—Yeah?
—Is there anything we can do? A phone call or anything?
—No, he said.—Thanks. It’s under control.
Jesus.
Down the stairs, out to the street, and the two corners to the car park at the back of the building. He had the key out, all ready to point at the car.
Nearly there – he was sweating like a bastard.
The code, the code – the car-park gate. He hit Cancel. He’d been punching in his bank card number. He had the right one now. 1977. How could he have forgotten that? Heroes, Exodus, Lust for Life. Maybe that was the steroids too – forgetting simple things. He’d ask Aoife. She’d know.
His heart – he could feel it.
He had the car going. On his way. He’d be there in twenty minutes.
—Mister Rabbitte?
—Yes.
—Mahalia Egan-Rabbitte’s father?
—Is something after happenin’?
Mahalia had gone back to class after the lunch break, drunk.
He checked his hands, loosened his grip on the wheel. They were fine – no shakes.
Pissed in home economics.
Mahalia – May. She was brilliant in school. She always had been. Since day one. Drunk as a skunk while making a swiss roll.
It wasn’t funny.
He was over the East Link now, past the O2.
Aoife had told him to concentrate on the kids. Well, her wish was coming true. Her wish and his. He’d be well able for this.
He’d texted Des as he went down the school corridor. Might hve to cancel trumpt. I’ll get bac. He’d texted Aoife too. On way. X. He’d been tempted to call her but he’d thought it would’ve looked bad, arriving at the Principal’s door with the phone to his ear.
—Where is she now? he asked.
He was in the Principal’s office, sitting in front of her desk. Missis Halpin. He thought her first name was Fionnuala.
—Sickbay, she answered.
—I want to see her, said Jimmy.
—Of course, she said.—We’ll just wait till Miss Traynor joins us. Miss Traynor was the Year Head. He’d met her before – he thought. At one of the parent–teacher meetings. She’d been alright.
—I need to see her, said Jimmy.
—Mister Rabbitte.
—Jimmy.
—There are ten girls in sickbay.
—Ten?
—Ten, yes. Mahalia’s in good company. She’s being well looked after.
—I know, said Jimmy.—And I’m really sorry about this. We don’t have drink in the house —