by Roddy Doyle
She moved, and sat beside him.
—Can you see?
—Yep.
It was YouTube – hard to make out. A low-roofed room, a lot of crowd noise, a whoop. The camera was all over the place; it never settled.
—Is it a gig?
—Watch.
She pointed to the title under the screen. I’m Goin’ To Hell.
—Jesus.
She pointed to the views. 5,237,016.
He began to understand it. The camera, more than likely a phone, was being held over people’s heads. The guy holding it was moving through the crowd, pushing. The guy – the camera – turned. And Jimmy saw it – him. His son. He saw Marvin.
He said nothing.
The camera got no closer.
Marvin stood sideways to the microphone stand, and sang.
—I WANT HER ARMS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Marvin’s pals, the other lads, were there too. Mush and Docksy – the rest of the band.
—I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
He sat back a bit. The screen swam when he was too close to it, and he wanted to get a look at Noeleen looking at it. She loved it. She was melting there, listening to a great song. And watching the handsome man singing it. For fuck sake.
—I PROWL THE STREETS —
I’M GOING TO HELL —
He tried to remember when Noeleen had last seen Marvin. It would have been years ago, when she’d bought into shiterock. There’d been a barbecue, a few things like that. They’d been friends, partners. There’d been genuine affection. Actually – he looked at her now – there still was. Looking at her there, leaning into the sound. She hadn’t a clue who she was watching. That was Jimmy’s guess. Kids grew so quickly; Jimmy himself could have been persuaded that it wasn’t Marvin.
But it was.
He wanted to cry.
—Who’s that? he asked.
—A Bulgarian band, said Noeleen.
—Bulgarian?
—Yep, she said.—It’s the bomb. Isn’t it?
—Fuckin’ amazin’.
—That’s a club in Stara Zagora, she said.
—That’s in Bulgaria, is it?
—According to Google.
—I’LL GET MY HOLE —
—I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
—Oh my fucking God.
That was Noeleen, and Jimmy wasn’t sure she knew she’d spoken. He decided to step out on the ice.
—He sounds very like —
He couldn’t remember the name – the guy who’d recorded the song in 1932.
Noeleen rescued him.
—He sounds exactly – exactly – like Kevin Tankard.
—Unbelievable, said Jimmy.
The three minutes were up.
Noeleen sat back.
—Well?
—I don’t know wha’ to say, said Jimmy.
It was the truth.
—It’s so great, said Noeleen.—So – just exciting. You found this song and a few months later there are kids in Bulgaria playing it. And more kids all over the world watching them. Millions of them. How does that make you feel, Jimbo?
—Great.
—Ah, come on! Give us a bit of the old Jimmy.
—Fuckin’ great.
He grinned.
It was fuckin’ unbelievable. But he couldn’t tell anyone. Except Marvin, when he got home. If he got home. He was obviously a superstar over there. He’d be Marvin Rabbeettski or something. And young Jimmy – he could tell him. If he didn’t know about it already.
—So, said Noeleen.
She stood up.
The place was a bit ridiculous with just the two of them in it.
—They’re ours, said Noeleen.
—Who?
—We’re going to sign them.
—The Bulgarian lads? said Jimmy.
—Yep.
—Great, he said.—Good idea.
He stood up too.
—Have you made contact with them yet? he asked.
—No.
—I’ll do that, he said.—What’re they called? I didn’t notice there.
—Moanin’ At Midnight.
—Great, he said.
—Wild.
—It’s a Howlin’ Wolf song, by the way, he told her.
—What is?
—Their name, he said.—They know their stuff.
An hour back at work, and he was already ahead of her. They hadn’t been called Moanin’ At Midnight when Jimmy had seen them months – a year – ago, or when they’d recorded the song. They were untouched and untraceable, until Jimmy decided to find them.
—Did you look for a website? he asked her.
—No, she said.—I only saw it on Friday.
—Who told you about it?
—My niece, she said.
—What age is she?
—Sixteen.
—She liked it, yeah?
—Oh God. Jimmy. We have to sign them. This isn’t just a bit of crack, like the Halfbreds. It’s the real deal. It’s rock ’n’ roll.
He grinned – he couldn’t help it. This was all mad and brilliant.
—Leave it with me, he said.
—I’m phoning John Reynolds, she said.
—The Electric Picnic chap?
—Yes.
—To get them on the line-up, yeah?
—Yep.
—Good idea, he said.—Great idea. Bulgaria’s in the EU, isn’t it?
—Yes, she said.—Why?
—Visas, said Jimmy.—They won’t need them. They can come over whenever we want them. And come here. Put a word in for the Halfbreds as well, will yeh?
—I’ll mention them.
—Thanks, he said.—There might be a cancellation or somethin’. And while you’re at it —
—You’re back.
—I am. Ned – the Bastard of Lir.
—Still feeling guilty, Jimbo?
—You said it.
He needed to get out – just get out, move, march the excitement off himself. But he couldn’t. He had to sit down now and search for Moanin’ At Midnight. He couldn’t disappear and come back with them, delivered. Noeleen had to see him working for it.
—There’s no point in googlin’ Moanin’ At Midnight, he told her.
She was behind him somewhere.
—Why not?
—The song, he said.—Thousands of blues sites.
—What about Bulgarian Moanin’ At Midnight?
—Leave it with me.
He texted Marvin while he spoke.
How r things? X
—Where’re we movin’ to, by the way? he asked.
What was the time difference, between Dublin and Bulgaria? Marvin wouldn’t get back quickly anyway; he never did.
—Well, she said.
She was sitting now too, with her back to him. Just the two of them in a space made for twenty. Although there’d never been more than twelve. Still though, it was sad. And it was frightening. Things were shrinking. It was the same all over Dublin. People wandering around empty spaces.
He missed her answer.
—Sorry?
—My mum’s back garden, she said.
—You’re jestin’.
—She’s letting me build a Shomera, said Noeleen.
—A fuckin’ prefab?
—They’re lovely, she said.—The one I chose. I’d have included you in the decision if —
—Grand.
He said it nicely; he hoped he did. It couldn’t have been easy for her, moving from here to her ma’s back garden.
—Two rooms, she said.—Offices.
—Jacks?
—God, yes.
He wouldn’t have to be banging on the oul’ one’s back door, walking across her kitchen with Mojo or the Mike Scott book under his arm.
—Where does she live?
—Clontarf.
—That’s handy.
It was nice, tapping awa
y, throwing the chat over their shoulders.
—Why your ma’s?
—What?
—Why not get the Shomera installed in your place? I know it’s a good bit out —
—I’ve moved back.
—Oh.
—It’s okay.
It wasn’t. It was shite, having to move back to her mother’s house.
—I’m sorry about that, he said.
—It’s fine.
He hated asking but he thought he’d better. He did the Aoife test: would she be furious if Jimmy told her that Noeleen had moved back home but he didn’t know why? Yes, she would. Although she probably knew already. But that probably didn’t matter.
He stopped typing. He rolled back his chair a bit, so she’d hear it move. He swerved, so he could see her.
—What happened?
The phone hopped. It was Marvin.
Grand.
He put the phone back down.
—One of the kids, he said.—Sorry.
—Can’t afford to keep it, said Noeleen.
She shrugged, smiled.
—Same old story, she said.—I’m supposed to think I was greedy.
—Don’t see why.
—I don’t either, she said.—I could afford it at the time. We could.
—Is Adam in your ma’s as well?
She smiled, and shook her head.
—Nope.
—Jesus, he said.—It’s rough.
—Ah well.
He texted Marvin. Ok if I phone u later? X
Outspan had a latte and skinny blueberry muffin. Jimmy had a double espresso.
—Yeh not eatin’?
—Not hungry.
—Hard on the hole?
—Just not hungry.
—Yeah, maybe.
They found a table in among the young and the healthy. Jimmy couldn’t look at Outspan properly; he could feel his neck rip when he forced himself to keep his eyes on him. They’d nothing in common, especially now that Jimmy wasn’t dying. He liked Outspan but, really, he was there because he wanted Aoife to know he was there.
—How’s your ma? he asked.
—Same as ever, said Outspan.—I seen your parents there.
—Yeah?
—They’re lookin’ great.
—Yeah.
The coffee was muck. Jimmy pointed at Outspan’s cup.
—How’s yours?
—Grand, said Outspan.—Not too bad.
The phone hopped in his pocket.
It was Marvin, back.
Grnd. 7?
Perfect.
He thought of something now – shocking – and perfect again.
—Are yeh still into the music? he asked.
—A bit, yeah.
—D’you want to come to the Electric Picnic with me?
—No way.
—Why not?
—Hippy shite.
—Ah, for fuck sake.
This was more like it; now they could talk.
—Grow up, man, said Jimmy.—You’re talkin’ shite.
—How am I? said Outspan.—I went to an outside gig once. Brought me daughter – the older one, Grace. She likes Coldplay. Don’t fuckin’ ask. Annyway, it was crap.
Jimmy texted Marvin. Great.
—Coldplay won’t be at the Picnic, he said.
—Not Coldplay, said Outspan.—They weren’t too bad. It was the whole thing. Fuckin’ eejits hoppin’ around. No one listened to the music. The Coldplay fella – he seemed like a nice enough head. Yeh can kind o’ see wha’ your woman, Gwyneth Paltrow sees in him. Annyway, he says, We’re goin’ to play ‘Yellow’, or somethin’. An’ the young ones around us go mad. Oh I love this one!
His Southside girl impression was brilliant, but eerie. Several Southside girls stood up and went to a free table outside. Inhaling the taxi fumes was preferable to witnessing Outspan’s performance.
—An’ then they’d just start chattin’ to each other again. There’s no way! Fuck right awf! He’s the focking bomb!
—The Picnic’s different, said Jimmy.—It’s for people who know their music.
—You’ve been there yourself, have yeh?
—No, said Jimmy.
He hated outdoor festivals. Outspan was bang-on.
—But I’m goin’ this year, he said.—Will yeh come?
—No.
—Go on, yeh cunt.
—Okay.
He couldn’t resist.
—See now, he said.—I have friends.
She smiled – she grinned.
—Fuck off, she said.
Then she looked a bit more serious.
—Is it not – is it not a bit strange that the friend you asked might not be alive by the time it starts?
—That’s a bit pessimistic, said Jimmy.
—I suppose.
—Look it, said Jimmy.—You were the one who got the two of us together again.
—I know, she said.—It’s great.
They were alone in the kitchen. Even the dog was missing.
—What’s the noise? said Jimmy.
—What noise?
—Outside, he said.—In the back.
—It’s Jim, she said, and she looked out the window to check.—I asked him to wash the brown wheelie.
—Asked him?
—Told him, she said.—It was stinking.
—Grand.
—Oh God.
—What?
Jimmy stood beside Aoife and watched young Jimmy vomiting on the patio. It was hot out, no sign of a cloud for once, and the air around young Jimmy was packed with flies. It looked like they couldn’t make up their minds between Jim’s puke and whatever was left at the bottom of the wheelie.
Jimmy had his second great idea of the day.
—I’ll give him a hand.
The stench grabbed him before he was even out the door.
—For fuck sake.
He waded through solid stink, across the patio to young Jimmy.
—Y’alright there?
Young Jimmy stood up, wiped his eyes.
—I can’t do it, he said.—Sorry.
Jimmy looked into the wheelie.
—Oh fuck!
They stood there laughing, disgusted, delighted. The dog pissed against the side of the wheelie, and that got them going again.
—It can’t be easy, said Jimmy.—Vomitin’ and laughin’ at the same time.
He was rubbing young Jimmy’s back, thrilled to be having the opportunity. He tried to remember when the brown wheelie system had been introduced, when the Council had thrown one of them at every house, before the whole service was privatised.
—I think I’ve gone blind, said young Jim.
Jimmy patted his back.
—Good man.
It must have been four or five years. He wasn’t positive, but he didn’t think the brown wheelie had ever been washed. He’d never done it; he’d have remembered. There was stuff at the bottom of that bin that they’d eaten in the middle of the last decade.
—I’ll give you a hand, he said.
—Thanks, said young Jim.—I’ll hose the puke.
—Grand, said Jimmy.
He looked.
—Fuck.
—What?
—I think Messi’s after eatin’ most of it.
That got them going again.
—Don’t tell your mother.
A disgusting job, but Jimmy wasn’t sure he’d ever been happier.
—Breathe through your mouth, that’s the trick.
They hosed, brushed, sweated, gagged, laughed, and shovelled years-old rot into a black plastic sack. The only thing was the flies – and especially the maggots. There was no laughing at them. They were serious.
—There now.
They were finished.
—Yeh proud?
—No.
—You could eat your dinner off tha’ wheelie.
I am my da.
—D’yeh fancy goin’ to a film? he said.
—Eh – what – what film?
The cosy bit was over.
—No, it’s grand, said Jimmy.
And it was. It was funny.
—Only if you want, he said.—I thought the Batman one.
—I’ve seen it, said young Jimmy.
He looked so relieved.
—Twice, he said, just in case.
—Grand.
Jimmy thought of something.
—Did you see Marvin on YouTube?
—Yeah.
—Good. Isn’t he?
—Yeah.
—Does anyone know? About the song.
—No.
—Sure?
—Eh – no.
—Okay.
He went back in through the kitchen. The last of the flies went with him. Brian was home, head coming out of the fridge.
—Want to go to the Batman film, Smoke?
—The Dark Knight Rises?
Jimmy loved that, the precision, the literalness of kids that age – still that age.
—If that’s what it’s called, he said.
—Cool. Yeah.
—Great. How was the football?
—Okay.
—It was good, yeah?
—Yeah.
Mahalia was in at the computer.
—Hey there.
—You smell, she said.
—I know.
—There are, like, flies flying around your head.
—I’ll deal with them, don’t worry.
She looked back at the screen.
—D’you want to come to The Dark Knight Rises?
—I’ve seen it.
Ah shite.
—Twice, she said.
—Grand.
She stayed staring at the screen.
—Seeyeh, he said.
It was sad but grand. He’d make it something nice to tell Aoife.
They got out of the house before she could object to them going to the Batman film so soon after the shootings in Colorado, and drove up to Coolock. And it wasn’t too bad, the film. He stayed awake through most of it. It was entertaining enough and he didn’t want to miss any of Anne Hathaway. He’d definitely watch all of The Devil Wears Prada the next time Mahalia was watching it.
He’d timed his phone alarm to go off at seven.
—Back in a minute.
—Okay.
—You’re alrigh’ by yourself for a bit?
—Yeah.
—Good man.
He went out to the car park because the foyer was full of mad kids and their mas. The rain was back, so he tucked himself in against the wall of Burger King. There was a longer delay than usual, the signal heading to Bulgaria, he supposed, and the dial tone was different, foreign. He half expected Marvin not to answer.