by Roddy Doyle
—Hey.
—Marvin?
—Hey.
—How are yeh? It’s Dad.
—Yeah.
—Yeh havin’ a good time?
—Yeah.
—An’ is the weather good?
It was an oul’ lad’s question. No answer came back.
—So things are good, yeah?
—Grand, yeah.
—Great.
—Yeah, it’s good.
—Come here, said Jimmy.—Your gigs.
—Yeah?
—Moanin’ At Midnight.
Marvin laughed. Jimmy loved that sound.
—Great name, he said.
—Yeah, thanks, said Marvin.—It’s a Howlin’ Wolf song.
—I know.
—Cool.
—I saw the YouTube thing, said Jimmy.
—Yeah?
—The song.
—Did you see the number of hits it has?
—It’s supposed to be a fuckin’ secret, Marv.
Stop!
—But it’s brilliant, he said.
—Cool – thanks.
—But the secret.
—It kind of still is a secret, said Marvin.
—I know.
—People think the song is really old. Traditional, like.
—No, it’s great, said Jimmy.—And the record’s sellin’ really well. Probably because of you. I owe you a pint or somethin’.
—Cool. I’ve to go –.
—Okay, grand. But —
—We’ve to do a soundcheck.
—You’ve another gig?
—Yeah.
—Great, said Jimmy.—I’ll let yeh go. There’s another thing but.
—What?
—They think you’re Bulgarian.
—Who?
—Everyone.
—No.
—Far as I know, yeah.
He could hear Marvin laughing. He could hear him – he swore he could – waving his arm, getting his buddies to come over and hear the news.
—Marvin? Yeh there?
Marvin’s voice was deeper.
—Yesss.
Jimmy copped on: he was pretending to be Bulgarian.
—Good one.
He laughed.
—Listen, he said.—I’ll let yeh go. But my boss – my partner. Noeleen – do you remember her?
—Think so.
—The way the video is cut – your one, like. With no intro or anythin’, just the song. She thinks you’re Bulgarian. And she’s not the only one. So.
—D’you want us to pretend we’re really Bulgarian?
—No, said Jimmy.—Yeah. But no. Listen. Be a bit mysterious. Don’t say anythin’ between songs. Don’t say anythin’ at all. It’ll be more convincing than puttin’ on an accent.
—Okay.
—Can you follow the logic?
—Yeah. Think so.
—And listen. I’ll let yeh go now. But —
He was drenched, the side of him leaning against the Burger King window, right through to his skin. The water was running straight into his clothes. He hadn’t noticed and he didn’t care.
—Yeah? said Marvin.
—You’re Bulgarian, said Jimmy.—But you’re mysterious Bulgarians. You’re like guerrillas. You strike, an’ disappear.
Jimmy remembered Joey the Lips Fagan, the Commitments’ trumpet player, saying the same thing, back in the days when Jimmy was Jimmy.
—We hit an’ then we sink back into the night.
—We?
—You, said Jimmy.—I meant you. But listen. Final thing.
—Yeah?
—I’m supposed to be searchin’ for you, said Jimmy.—To get you to come over to Ireland for a few gigs.
Marvin’s laugh became a howl.
—The Electric Picnic, Marvin, said Jimmy.
The howl became something even madder.
—We can plan it when you get back, said Jimmy.—Properly, like.
—Cool.
—Good luck tonigh’.
—Thanks.
—Be mysterious.
—Yeah. Yeah.
—I love you.
—Yeah.
—Seeyeh.
—Yeah, seeyeh.
On his way back in to Brian and Anne, Jimmy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Marvin.
Tanx. X
—A nice enough lad, he told Noeleen.—The manager. His English is excellent.
—What’s his name?
Oh fuck —
—Boris.
—Great, she said.
—He’s in the band as well, actually. The drummer.
—It’s fantastic, she said.—We’re doing business with a man called Boris.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Gas, isn’t it?
He googled Bulgarian Male Names, looked over his shoulder, scrolled down through them. Too fuckin’ late – he was stuck with the name. There was no Boris but there was a Borislav. Boris was definitely short for that. He was grand – safe.
He’d have to be careful. He’d have to keep ahead of Noeleen and, now that he thought of it, everyone else, including himself. He was making it up, and he’d have to keep reminding himself of that.
Fuckin’ hell though. It was brilliant.
—Phone me tomorrow at about midday, he told young Jimmy.
—Okay.
—I’ll be callin’ you Boris.
—Eh – why, like?
Jimmy told him.
—Cool.
—Don’t tell your mother, said Jimmy.
He was saying that a lot these days.
—And come here, he said.—I’ll text you first. Just to make sure Noeleen’s there and she can hear a bit of the conversation.
—Should I be a prick? said young Jimmy.
—I told her you were sound.
—Oh. Okay.
—We’ll keep it simple, said Jimmy.
Outspan phoned him.
—Me ma’s organisin’ a fundraiser for me.
—For an operation?
—No, said Outspan.—The Electric Picnic thing.
—Really?
—Yeah, said Outspan.—Upstairs in the Hiker’s.
—Brilliant, said Jimmy.—Or is it?
—Ah yeah, said Outspan.—It’s grand. A bit embarrassin’.
—What’ll it be? Jimmy asked.
—Wha’?
—The fundraiser.
—Race nigh’ or pole dancin’. She can’t make her mind up.
—You’re jestin’.
—Yeah, said Outspan.—There’s no pole in the Hiker’s.
—Do they do pole dancin’ for charity?
—They do annythin’ for fuckin’ charity.
He’d sent the text.
Phone.
And, fair enough, the phone rang.
—Hello?
—It’s, like, Boris.
—Boris! said Jimmy.—Hey!
—Fock thees hey.
—How did the gig go last night?
—Fock thees geeg.
—Great, said Jimmy.—Brilliant.
He stood up. He didn’t look at Noeleen. He strolled nice and slowly out to the stairs.
—Is this okay? said young Jimmy.
—So Boris, said Jimmy.—Have you spoken to the band?
Every word was clear and separate, so Boris in Bulgaria could understand him.
—Are you still there, Boris?
—Yeah. Sorry if I messed —
—And they’re happy?
—Yeah.
—Great. Great. Great. It’s a great line, isn’t it? You sound like you’re only down the road.
—I am, said young Jimmy.
—Down the road, said Jimmy again.—Yes – no. It just means very near. Anyway. The band is happy. Yes?
—Yes.
Jimmy kept going down the stairs.
—I’ll look at dates and venues and put something together. Do the lads – ? Sorry. Do the guys in the band have jo
bs? Are they students?
—Students.
—Students. Great.
He was down the stairs, out on the street. He was crossing, to Insomnia. But he kept it up, in case Noeleen was looking out at him. Method management – it was the only way. He just hoped he wasn’t frightening young Jimmy.
—Great. That’s useful to know. We’ll make sure they are back in time for the start of college.
He pushed the door, got in.
—Jim?
—Yeah.
—Thanks, said Jimmy.—See yeh later.
—Okay.
—You were brilliant, thanks, said Jimmy.—I owe yeh.
—Big time, said his son.
He got coffees for himself and Noeleen. He was happy. But something was pulling him back. His cop-on had grabbed hold of his shirt. He remembered how elated he’d felt, how fuckin’ high and powerful, before he’d crawled into bed. This was different though – it had to be.
He was back out on the street. That was it. Earlier in the year he’d have been striding out, indestructible. Now though, he looked left and right and made sure he didn’t spill the coffee over his fingers.
Aoife came with him. A tenner each, and up the stairs. Outspan was at the bar, looking miserable.
He looked at Aoife.
—Howyeh, Eve.
The place was full of people Jimmy used to know, bald men he’d gone to school with, fat oul’ ones he’d kissed or wanted to. They’d all paid their tenners for Outspan.
—Howyeh, Missis Foster.
—Ah, Jimmy.
—Great night.
—Massive, said Outspan’s ma.—I had a bit of a blubber earlier.
She must have been over seventy, like his own parents. But she looked exactly the same, the only one in the room who did.
—An’ come here, she said.
She grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder and pulled him down so her mouth was at his ear.
—You’re a great lad, doin’ what you’re doin’ for Liam.
—I’m doin’ nothin’.
—Fuck off now, said Missis Foster.—He won’t let yeh know, but he’s delighted. An’ come here.
She grabbed Jimmy’s hand and pulled him through tables and familiar faces. The men were in suits or football jerseys. Jimmy in his jeans and a shirt was under-dressed and over-dressed.
Missis Foster was still holding his hand.
—Howyeh, Rabbitte.
—Here, Jimmy! Don’t let her drag you ou’ to the jacks!
—Fuck off now, you, said Missis Foster.
They were heading for a corner. And the thought hit him. Imelda! She’d be here. She lived just down from Outspan’s house. Grand, grand. He’d introduce her to Aoife. Christ, his life was full.
—He’s droppin’ the hand, Missis Foster!
—It’d make my night, said Outspan’s ma.—Don’t mind those fuckers, she told Jimmy.
She’d dragged him right across the lounge. There was no sign of Imelda.
—Here now.
Outspan’s ma let go of his hand. She was beaming at a kid, a little young one, in her party dress. She was seven or eight, a beautiful little thing.
—This is Alison now, said Missis Foster.—Say hello, Alison. This is your daddy’s friend, Jimmy.
Jimmy held the kid’s hand.
Outspan’s daughter.
Has she won?
—I don’t know, I don’t know.
They were all in the room, waiting for the result.
—What’s keeping them?
They watched Katie Taylor and the Russian young one, the ref between them holding their arms, down.
—Did she win?
—I don’t know – Jesus, wait.
They were all there, the whole family, Marvin as well; he was home. It was the first time in ages – since Christmas – that they’d been like this.
It was agony.
—The poor girl.
Jimmy Magee, the commentator, was going mad now, but it was hard to tell with that gobshite. Then the ref lifted Katie’s arm.
—She’s won!
—Oh God, she’s won it!
—Cool.
—She’s fuckin’ won – sorry!
They were up out of the couch, off the floor, hugging, laughing.
—Kay-tee! Kay-tee!
—God is my shield!
The dog was barking and jumping at them but he seemed happy enough.
—God is my shield!
—She’s brilliant.
—God is my shield!
—Jesus, Jimmy, said Aoife.—If you keep saying that, I’ll think you’re serious.
—God is my shield!
He didn’t know why he was so happy. It was just a young one after winning a medal. She was barely older than his own kids. But that was it – that was it. An Irish girl had won an Olympic gold. She’d done something brilliant and now, today, it meant everything.
A text from his da.
Its 1990 over here!
—Kay-tee, Kay-tee!
He sent one back.
God is my shield.
He could hold his kids for as long as he liked. He could love being Irish. There’d be Chinese tonight, thanks to Katie.
—Jimmy.
Aoife tried to hold onto his new hair. Her mouth was in his ear. He was on top of her; she’d wanted all of his weight. He had Katie Taylor to thank for this as well.
—Jimmy.
—Yeah?
He lifted his head, so he could look at her. She’d have wanted that.
—It was funny the first time, she said.—It really was. But if you whisper God is my shield once more, I’ll pack a bag and never come back.
—Sorry – okay.
Her hands were back in his hair.
—Say something else, she said.
—Okay, yeah. Good idea.
They had a Wikipedia page ready, himself and young Jimmy.
Kevin Aloysius Tankard (1905-unknown) was an Irish musician and singer. He is thought to have been born and lived in the Liberties area of Dublin, although little is known of his early life.
It looked good, the real thing.
There is only one recording known to exist, the recently discovered I’m Goin’ To Hell (1932).
—It’s a bit short, said Jimmy.
—Yeah.
—How did he die?
—A pact with the devil.
—No, said Jimmy.—People will start thinkin’ of Robert Johnson.
They’d kept looking at the Robert Johnson page while they constucted Kevin’s.
—Plane crash?
—Too modern.
—Drug overdose?
—Might ring true, said Jimmy.—Google old-fashioned drugs there, till we see.
They looked through the lists.
—Opium.
—It’s hard to imagine opium in Dublin in the ’30s or ’40s, isn’t it?
—Who says he stayed in Dublin? said young Jimmy.
—I do, said Jimmy.—But it’s a good point. What else have we?
—Peyote.
—Too Mexican, said Jimmy.—How would it’ve got here?
—Okay, said young Jimmy.—Heroin.
—There’s a thought.
Young Jimmy pointed at something on the screen, a date.
—It’s been around since 1874, he said.
—Cool, said his father.
They built up a history of questions, a long paragraph, and shortened it. They sat side by side at the kitchen table and forgot where they were.
—Someone claims they saw someone like him in – say – Argentina.
—Brilliant.
—There’s a graveyard in – what’s a city in Argentina?
—Buenos Aires.
—Cool. There’s a stone – like tombstone, like. With K.T. carved on it.
—Yeah, yeah.
—Leave it with me, said Outspan.
—Sure?
—Yeah, he said.—What’s the word again?
>
—Yurt, said Jimmy.
—An’ that’s a posh tent, yeah?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—So Noeleen says – in work. An’ they’re in a quieter camping site, she said. Away from the fuckin’ madness.
—Grand.
—They’re supposed to be comfortable.
—An’ fuckin’ waterproof, yeah?
—Yeah, yeah, said Jimmy.—An’ they give yeh inflatable mattresses as well.
—An’ inflatable women – for tha’ fuckin’ money.
Jimmy didn’t think he’d ever heard Outspan sound really excited before.
—So – a yurt, yeah?
—Gotcha, said Outspan.—An’ come here.
—Wha’?
—The night in the Hiker’s. We took in way more than I need. So. Is there annyone else we can ask?
—Well, said Jimmy.—Brilliant, yeah. What abou’ Derek?
—Asked him, said Outspan.—He started his usual, yeh know. Ah, I don’t know, would we have to camp, will there be toilets? A pain in the fuckin’ arse.
He was talking so much, Jimmy began to wonder about his lungs. But then there was a noisy pause. It lasted a while. Then Outspan spoke again.
—So I told him to fuck off.
—Fair play, said Jimmy.—Is there annyone else?
—No one I know, said Outspan.
Jimmy said nothing. It was probably true. He was like Jimmy there. There were loads of people who wished him the best – the Hiker’s had been packed – but he’d no real friends.
—There’s a guy, said Jimmy.—Des. He’s sound.
—Ask him.
—Okay. Sure?
—Yeah, go on. We need to fill the fuckin’ yoke.
—The yurt.
—Yeah.
A thought fell through Jimmy.
—D’you remember my brother, Les?
—The mad cunt.
—He’s not mad these days – I don’t think.
—Is he still a cunt but?
—I don’t know, said Jimmy.
He didn’t mind saying that.
—He lives in England, he said.
—That’s not fuckin’ promisin’.
—Will I ask him?
—Fire away.
—Did it – ?
They were in the bed. Aoife waited till he noticed she’d stopped talking.
—Yeah?
—I don’t mean this nastily, she said.
He sat up a bit. Mike Scott would have to fuck off again.
—Go on, he said.
—Well. Did it ever occur to you that I’d like to go?
—To the Picnic?
—Yes.
Jimmy went for honesty.
—Yeah, he said.—’Course.
—And?
—Well, he said.—I’m guessin’ you’d probably like to.