by Roddy Doyle
—Can I come? said his da.
—Maybe not, said Jimmy.
It wasn’t a bad idea.
—It might freak out the lads.
—You’re right, said his da.—No, you’re right.
—Maybe though, yeah, said Jimmy.—Fuck it, yeah. Why not?
—Great, said his da.—I’ll behave meself.
—Yeh’d better.
—Is there somethin’ wrong with tha’ cunt?
—Shut up, for fuck sake.
—He can’t hear me.
—It’s a studio, said Jimmy.—It’s designed for fuckin’ hearin’.
—Well, is there?
—Wha’?
—Somethin’ wrong with him.
He was talking about Lochlainn.
—Leave it, said Jimmy.
—It’s a medical question, said his da.
—Shut up.
—Okay.
He’d seen the grandsons looking at him. The boys weren’t sure they liked their granddad being there, with Marvin’s pals there too. No harm. It would keep them focused.
Marvin’s pals, the rest of the band, seemed fine. They were all shifting around – there wasn’t much room – all trying to be cool, and succeeding.
—We ready, Lochlainn?
Lochlainn shrugged.
—D’yeh have Auto-Tune, Lochlainn? Jimmy’s da asked.
—No way, Granddad, said young Jimmy.
—No, no, said Jimmy’s da.
He raised his hands, like he was surrendering.
—I’m with yeh, he said.—It’s an awful invention. A fuckin’ sin. I was just curious. Is it a thing, like? Or is it just inside in the computer? An app, like?
—Da?
—Wha’?
—I’m payin’ by the hour.
—Sorry. Grand. Fair enough.
—Righ’, said Jimmy.
—No Auto-Tune, said Lochlainn.
—Good man, said Jimmy’s da.—Back to mono.
—Right, said Jimmy.—D’yeh want to run through it, lads?
The drummer – Jimmy couldn’t remember whether he was Docksy or Mush – started tapping the side of the snare. It was a bit daft, but immediately true. It sounded right; it sounded historical. And the rest of it – Christ.
Jimmy looked at young Jimmy. He was sitting beside Lochlainn, watching every move.
It was the magic Jimmy had wanted all his life. A small gang of men, there because he’d brought him there, strumming, tapping and groaning –
—I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
They were making something new. It was perfect – maybe perfect just this once. Was Lochlainn even recording it?
He was – or he seemed to be. The lads kept rolling. It was 1932.
He delivered the song. He told them the lie.
—An oul’ lad my da knows from pitch ’n’ putt. He told my da he had all these ol’ tapes in the attic, his own da had collected.
He smiled.
—So there yeh go.
—Are there more? said Ocean.—Oh my God.
—Most of the tape was melted, said Jimmy.—Like – solid. Baked. Right in under the eaves. South-facin’.
He was a fuckin’ estate agent.
—But there was this one saved.
He nodded at the iPod dock.
—And the scratches —
—Don’t touch them, said Noeleen.—They’re amazing.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—It’s like he’s already in hell or somethin’.
—Exactly, said Noeleen.—Singin’ up from the pit.
Lochlainn had done a great job.
Jimmy couldn’t sit – he couldn’t stay still. They’d catch him if he stayed there. But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. He was way ahead of everybody.
He’d cancelled the trumpet. He’d texted Des. He hadn’t been practising. He couldn’t concentrate on the thing. But he’d changed his mind; Des needed the money. Then he got the text from Aoife, because he hadn’t answered the phone. Des is here.
—Jimmy.
—Wha’?
—There’s nothing worse – from the lady’s point o’ view now. There’s nothin’ worse than the man answerin’ a text. Is it your wife?
—I’ve to go, he said.
—That’s tha’ question answered, said Imelda.
—Trumpet lesson.
—Lovely, she said.—Double-booked, are yeh?
—I suppose so, he said.—Sorry.
They were sitting in his car.
—Someone else to blow yeh, said Imelda.
—You’re gas.
—Oh, I know, she said.
—We weren’t doin’ anythin’, said Jimmy.
—Jimmy, said Imelda.—We were fuckin’ talkin’.
—Yeah.
They were on top of Howth Hill, in the car park.
She opened her door.
—So anyway, she said.
—Sorry about this, he said.
—No problem.
—I enjoyed it, he said.
She looked at him.
—So did I.
She was still looking.
—We’re friends, aren’t we?
—Yeah, he said.—Yeah.
—It’s kind o’ surprisin’, tha’, she said.—Isn’t it?
—Is it? he said.
—Yeah.
—I suppose so, he said.—I think I know what yeh mean.
—I like it, she said.
She got out of the car – she groaned.
—I like it too, he said.
—Grand, she said.—No more sex, so. That’s a relief, isn’t it? Seeyeh.
She took the three steps to her own car. He waited till she was in before he started the engine. He waited till she was looking, then smiled, waved, and reversed.
What sort of a fuckin’ eejit was he?
They’d done nothing. He didn’t have to check his face in the mirror. They never were going to do anything. Not in the car. It was still bright, and they were two good-sized middle-aged adults.
He was down the hill now, driving through Sutton. Still miles from home.
He remembered once, him and the lads on Bull Island. This was when he was fifteen or sixteen. At night. They used to creep up on a bouncing car, two of them on each side. They’d wait till the chap inside’s arse was in the air, then they’d shake the car till the screaming stopped and the chap was trying to get out. And there was once, they were shaking the car when one of the lads, Softy Brennan, recognised his da in the fuckin’ car.
They ran back up into the dunes. Jimmy remembered deciding not to laugh.
—Did yeh not see it was your da’s car?
—It’s dark! said Softy.—There’s no colour!
—Wha’ abou’ his arse? Did yeh not recognise tha’?
That was Outspan.
—Fuck off!
Imelda was right; they were friends. Although he was fairly certain she’d been joking there, about the sex.
She was lonely.
He’d have to contact Outspan.
—He had to go.
—Shite. Sorry.
—It’s not me you should be apologising to, said Aoife.
—I know.
—He cycled across the city.
—I’ll phone him.
—Where were you?
—Work.
—Jimmy, she said.—You came home from work.
—I went back, he said.—Had to. Artwork for the Eucharist Congress album.
—Is it still Faith of Our Fathers Me Hole?
—No, said Jimmy.—That was just the workin’ title.
—Good.
—No, he said.—It’s – you listenin’?
—I am.
—1932: More Songs about Sex and Emigration. Wha’ d’yeh think?
—Great.
—Really?
—It’s very good.
—Would you buy it?
—I’d be curious.
—Is that all?
—It’s enough, she said.
—You’re right.
—Phone Des.
—I will.
But he didn’t. Not then.
He went upstairs.
There was no interest in the Eucharistic Congress. That was the problem. Noeleen had sent him a link to an article in the Irish Times, the Bishop of Dublin defending the money they were spending on it, saying that there’d be a big mass in Croke Park but admitting that it wouldn’t be full. She’d put a line of ?????s and !!!!!s above and below the link. And We need to talk at the bottom. He agreed, but he hadn’t – talked. Not yet.
Money, money, fuckin’ money.
He went into the bathroom. He looked at his face. He looked okay. The heat behind his eyes – it wasn’t there, he couldn’t see it. But it was bad. It had started just when he was parking the car, outside. It wasn’t too bad. It made him blink – that was all. He turned on the cold tap, got his hands under the water. He bent down and drenched his face. He looked again. He looked fine.
She found him.
Something had happened. He’d sat down on the bed – he’d had to. His legs were buckling, going from under him; he could feel it happening. The feeling behind his eyes spread out and down. Through his head, his gums, down, his shoulders. He was your man at the end of Blade Runner. Sitting there, cross-legged, frightening as fuck, then gone – switched off. That was Jimmy.
She came looking – where was he? And she found him.
—Jimmy?
He could hear her but he couldn’t answer. He literally couldn’t answer. She pushed him back gently onto the bed. She pulled his shoes off.
That was all.
She told him later that that wasn’t true, that he’d functioned properly.
—Functioned?
—Yes.
—Like, went to the jacks an’ tha’?
—Like, asked Marvin how his exams were going. You even joked about it.
—Did I?
—He was a bit upset after English Paper Two.
—Was he?
—Well, he was fine, she said.—But he said – he shouted, Fuckin’ Seamus Heaney didn’t come up! And you said, I didn’t know we knew Seamus Heaney.
—Did I?
—He laughed. It was lovely.
—Good. Good.
But he’d no memory he trusted. He’d brushed his teeth, he’d shaved. He’d moved around. He’d gone out with the dog.
—I brought you.
—Brought me?
—To Dollymount, she said.—I left you there and collected you.
—God.
He remembered slobbering. Feeling drool on his face, his chin. He remembered the surprise, and the shame, and how it took ages for the back of his hand to arrive so he could wipe it off.
Solid tears, too big and hard to get out. They pressed back into his head. He could only breathe with his mouth open.
They were waiting for him. All of them. Noeleen, the bank, the bands, the kids, Imelda, everybody – Aoife.
—The cancer trousers again, Jimmy?
He didn’t hear her. He did – he did. But only after. Questions he didn’t know were questions, until he saw her waiting for the answer. Or for his face to change.
Most of the time, he slept. That was what he remembered. That was when he was nearly happy and they left him alone.
It wasn’t dark.
He wasn’t by himself. He didn’t look, but he knew it. There was someone there, beside him.
He – whoever it was, a man – coughed.
Jimmy moved. He tried to make it seem like he was stretching, just shifting in his sleep.
There was a chair beside him. One of the chairs from the kitchen. Someone sitting on it.
Jimmy’s neck hurt. So did his eyes. They were dry, stinging.
—Outspan?
—Howyeh.
—What’re you doin’ here?
—Lookin’ at you, yeh shiftless cunt.
—Who let you in?
—Eve.
—Aoife.
—Yeah.
—Her name’s Aoife.
—Grand.
Jimmy rubbed his face with both hands. Outspan was still there.
—So, well. How’re yeh doin’?
—Not too bad, said Outspan.
—How’s the health?
—Same as ever, said Outspan.
He didn’t look too bad – no worse anyway.
—Gas, isn’t it? said Outspan.
—What’s gas?
—Eve downstairs thinks yeh need cheerin’ up. You’re a bit depressed. So she phones me. An unemployed man with terminal cancer, who has to live with his ma.
—Brilliant.
—It’s nice to be fuckin’ needed.
—Did you say Aoife phoned yeh?
—Yeah.
Jimmy looked down, beside the bed. His phone wasn’t there, where he always put it.
—When did she phone yeh?
—She phoned a few times.
—You didn’t drop everythin’ an’ come runnin’, no?
—I did actually.
—Did yeh?
—Yeah. I didn’t run but.
Jimmy wasn’t sure about this. He felt too okay. Like nothing had happened. Like what he’d gone through was ridiculous.
—So, he said,—Outspan. Cheer me up.
—Fuck off, Rabbitte.
That worked. Being called Rabbitte.
—Here, he said.—I was thinkin’. Remember the time in Dollymount, we caught Softy Brennan’s da ridin’ your one from the Mint?
—Colette.
—That’s righ’. Colette. With the limp. D’yeh remember it? Creepin’ up on the car?
—It wasn’t Colette, said Outspan.
—Yeh sure?
—It was another one.
—Could’ve sworn it was Colette.
—Tha’ was a different time.
Aoife was there now. Right behind Outspan. She looked anxious and too happy. Desperate. He’d never seen her like that before – he didn’t think he had.
He wanted to sink back. He didn’t want her thinking that all it had taken was a visit from Outspan. That it had been that easy. That false.
—He’s awake, she said.
—Yeah, said Outspan.
She had a mug with her. Tea for Outspan.
—Now, Liam, she said.
—Sound, said Outspan.—Thanks, Eve.
Jimmy watched her face. She was happy enough being called the wrong name.
—How’re you feeling?
She was talking to Jimmy – it took a while for him to know that.
—Grand, Eve, he said.—Not too bad.
There was no going back. She smiled – she grinned. She was close to crying.
He dressed properly. Trousers with a zip. A shirt with buttons. Tucked in.
—Your dad phoned.
—Did he?
—He said something about a drink.
—Let me know if he ever says nothin’ about a drink.
She smiled. He watched it change her face.
—I’ll drive you there if you like, she said.
—No, he said.
—Sure?
—Yeah. Thanks.
He was at the fridge, looking in. Like one of the boys.
—Hungry?
—No, he said.—Not really.
He wanted to sit on the floor. He didn’t know why. It was nearer than any of the chairs. The dog was at his feet, trying to trip him. The dog – he’d forgotten the dog. He’d forgotten all about the dog.
—Messi. Good man.
Now he could get down on the floor. He had his excuse. He pressed the side of his face against the dog. He felt the tail walloping his arm.
—He’s grown, he said.
That sounded odd, like he’d been away somewhere.
Aoife was still smiling. But there was a bit of that thing, the desperation he’d seen when Outspan had been
in the house.
But it was true; the dog was bigger. Still a pup, though.
—How’re things? he asked the dog.
—Anything you’d like?
For a second – was that the dog? But it was Aoife talking to him. Of course it fuckin’ was.
—Not really, thanks.
—Scrambled egg?
—Oh yeah.
She laughed. It was easy.
—And you’re sure about meeting your dad?
—Yeah, he said.—No. In a few days maybe.
He wasn’t sure about that.
—Kids in school?
—It’s July.
—Yeah.
He was glad he was on the floor.
—I could text him, he said.
—What?
She was bullying the eggs, chasing the yolks around the mixing bowl.
—I could text my da, he said.—Arrange somethin’.
He wanted his phone but he didn’t want to ask for it.
—After I’ve done this, she said.—I’ll get it for you. I think I know where I left it.
She was playing with him.
The dog was lying on his back, in Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy had to remind himself: you rub the stomach. He watched Aoife pour milk into the bowl. She put the bowl down and took his phone out of the cutlery drawer.
She bent down and left it on the dog’s stomach.
—There.
—Thanks.
It slid off, onto the floor.
He could smell the eggs now, becoming food. He texted his da. Alright? He knew Aoife was watching him. He didn’t look at the texts in the Inbox, or Sent. He put the phone beside him on the floor.
She’d known his code. But she’d always known it. He’d been using the same one for years, from phone to phone, way back to the first one. The same digits as his first bank card.
The phone buzzed and Messi was up off Jimmy’s lap and barking at it.
—Shut up, yeh fuckin’ eejit.
—Poor Messi.
It was his da.
Grande. Yrself?
Jimmy sent his answer.
Not 2 bad.
—Your dad? said Aoife.
—Yeah.
—Oh, she said.—I forgot.
—What?
—Toast?
—Brilliant, yeah. Lovely.
His da was back.
Grate.
He’d started spelling the words wrong when he texted.
—I’m enterin’ into the spirit of the thing, he’d said a good while back.—LOL.
Another one followed.
Pynte?
Jimmy didn’t answer. He would, but he didn’t know when he’d be ready to have a pint, or to leave the house on his own. The trip out to the wheelie – he knew he could get there but he wasn’t as confident about making his way back.