The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  He was grand again. He wasn't tired any more either. He was wired, raring to go. When the kids woke up he told them the news.

  —So?

  —Cool.

  —I'm the new baby!

  He brought them to the zoo.

  —Look at the baby monkey, Mahalia.

  —No!

  And, while they wandered the zoo till it was time to bring them to meet their new brother and Mahalia refused to look at anything under the age of twenty-seven, Jimmy made some calls.

  —So, tomorrow night; okay.

  —Yes, said King Robert.

  —D'you think you'll be able to find it?

  —For sure, said Dan.

  He was bringing them all together.

  —Got a name for this band? said the young one from New York who wasn't white.

  —Yeah, Jimmy lied.

  He had the rest of the day to think of one.

  8 Vigilante Man

  They were all there in the kitchen, their first time together.

  Jimmy Rabbitte: manager.

  Kenny Reynolds: guitar.

  Gilbert Boro: djembe drum and scream.

  Agnes Bunuel: vocals.

  Kerri Sheppard: vocals and guitars.

  —Am I black enough for you, Mister Rabbitte? she asked when Jimmy climbed over the kids and opened the door for her.

  —You're grand, said Jimmy. —Come on in.

  In actual fact, she was hardly black at all, but she did have dreadlocks. And she was gorgeous.

  Dan Stefanescu: accordion.

  Young Dan Stefanescu: trumpet.

  Leo Ivanov: drums.

  Last to arrive was King Robert. Marvin had opened the door and the three kids were staring up at him.

  —Hey, Mister, said Marvin.

  Don't mention his colour, Marv, said Jimmy to himself; please.

  —Who do you follow? said Marvin.

  —Follow? said King Robert.

  —Support, said Marvin.

  —I follow Bray Wanderers, said King Robert.

  And the kids fell around laughing.

  —Don't mind them, said Jimmy. —Come on in. No problem getting here, no?

  —Your directions were adequate, Mister Rabbitte.

  It was quiet in the kitchen, just Dan and Young Dan chatting together and Kenny trying to chat to Agnes. And it got even quieter when King Robert walked in after Jimmy. He stared at them all, gave them a long, hard second each. Even Jimmy was sweating. He filled the kettle and introduced everybody. They smiled, and nodded, or didn't smile, and didn't nod. He filled cups and mugs, handed around the coffee and tea. Then he tried an old trick, an ice-breaker he'd used when The Commitments first met. He got out the Jaffa Cakes.

  —Soul food, he said.

  It didn't really work with this gang, though. The dynamic was different; they were older, foreign, the country was too prosperous, they weren't hungry – something. Kenny from Roscommon was the only one to dive at the plate.

  This was no party. Jimmy was all alone there in the kitchen. There was no spark here, no energy at all. They were stiff, nervous, ready to leave. King Robert stood against the wall, well away from all of them. Gilbert was looking at the back door. It wasn't going to happen; Jimmy could feel it. But he pressed on.

  —So, he said. —The music.

  They looked at him.

  —Woody Guthrie, he said.

  —Pardon me?

  —Listen to this, said Jimmy.

  There were eight in the kitchen, not counting himself, but it wasn't the full band. He needed bass, more vocals; he needed age and protection. And belief.

  He was working on it.

  He played 'Vigilante Man' for them. A Guthrie song, but Woody wasn't singing this one. That was for later. Jimmy played them the Hindu Love Gods – three-quarters of REM backing Warren Zevon. Released in 1990, it was the fifth CD Jimmy had ever bought. 'Vigilante Man' was the last track.

  —HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?

  They listened. And Jimmy watched them loosen and fall in love. It was music they wanted to play; he could tell already. It rolled and growled; it was angry and confident, knocking shite out of the enemy. Agnes was tapping her foot. Young Dan was tapping the dishwasher. Kenny was tapping his belt buckle.

  —WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—

  King Robert's ear was aimed at the nearest speaker, already taking the words.

  —CARRY A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—

  It was over.

  —HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.

  And Jimmy was pleased with himself. He'd done it again. He had his band. He had the music and the name. He looked at his watch: half seven. His mother would be coming in ten minutes. She was looking after the kids so he could dash in to see Aoife and Smokey. They were coming home from the hospital tomorrow, so he had to go on to his brother Darren's house in Lucan, to get the crib and a few bags of baby-gros and other stuff. And there was nothing left in the fridge for the kids' lunches for school tomorrow, so he'd have to stop at the 24-hour shop on the Malahide Road on the way back. And his da had said something about them going for a pint. And, before all that, he had to help Jimmy Two with his Irish homework and Marvin with his sums.

  But Jimmy was a satisfied man. This time the silence was comfortable.

  —That's the kind of thing yis'll be playin', said Jimmy. —Alright?

  —I fuckin' like the bit about the shotgun, said Kenny.

  Kerri the Yank got ready to object but, before she got to words, King Robert started singing.

  —OHHH—

  HAVE YOU – SEE–EE–EEN THAT VIGIL— ANTEE—MA–AN.

  And that was it. The nine people in Jimmy's kitchen were all together.

  —So, said Kerri. —Who are we?

  —The Deportees, said Jimmy.

  —Fuckin' ace, boy, said Kenny.

  9 Dust Bowl Refugees

  It was cold and damp. And it was cheap.

  —I'll take it, said Jimmy.

  In fact, it was free. An old hairdresser's, Colette's Unisex, it had been stripped of everything except the sink brackets, a lot of sockets, a couple of posters and the mould behind them.

  It was perfect.

  His sister Linda had found it for him. She worked in an estate agent's. Craig, her boss and boyfriend, had said that Jimmy could use it until some daw took it off his hands.

  —He must be a good lad, this Craig fella, said Jimmy.

  —He's a prick, said Linda.

  —Why are you with him then?

  —Ah, he's nice.

  So, just like that, they had their rehearsal space and, just like that, they were rehearsing. They were stampeding along behind King Robert – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE–EE – while the rain hammered the roof. It was different this time, not like The Commitments.

  —Why are you doing it? Aoife asked him.

  It was three in the morning. Aoife was feeding Smokey and she'd nudged Jimmy awake, for a chat. It was three weeks after she'd come home from the Rotunda.

  —I'm not sure, to be honest with yeh, said Jimmy.

  He sat up in the bed.

  —But, I'll tell yeh. It's different this time. I've a feeling about this one.

  —Good, said Aoife.

  —WEH–ELL, I AM GOING WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE. These people were musicians already. They were grown-up; even Young Dan had years of living and music behind him. They knew how to listen. They could climb aboard a tune. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY. Yeah, sure, there were egos in the room. Kerri had arrived with seven guitars – LORD LORD – and King Robert wasn't happy with Woody Guthrie's diction.

  —He is uneducated.

  —Fair enough, Your Majesty. But just sing AIN'T, will yeh. AM NOT doesn't sound right.

  Gilbert had already missed one rehearsal. Leo was the gentlest, nicest drummer Jimmy had ever met, so he'd probably explode soon. And Kenny was a danger to himself and the community; he was running a sno
oker cue up and down the neck of his guitar while he kneeled in front of his amp. But it was fine. He knew why he was doing it and they respected that. And Jimmy liked it. There was a tamed wildness in the room that was producing good noise.

  He hadn't worried about playing Woody Guthrie in his raw state to them. He put on 'Blowing Down That Dusty Old Road', a version of an old blues song that Guthrie recorded in 1944, and he knew they'd get it; they'd hop on the possibilities and make the song theirs. WE–ELL, YOUR TWO–EURO SHOES HURT MY FEET. A folk song could be huge. Jimmy told them that and they knew what he was talking about. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.

  The Hot Press ad delivered his bass player. Another woman, a Dubliner.

  —Northside or southside? said Jimmy.

  —Ah, grow up, would yeh.

  Her name was Mary.

  —I used to be called Vera Vagina, she said. —I was in the Screaming Liverflukes. We played the Dandelion Market. U2 supported us. Remember?

  —Yeah, Jimmy lied. —And look at the fuckers now, wha'.

  She shrugged.

  —Yeah, well.

  An old punk, with two kids and a husband in the bank, her hair was still purple and standing up.

  —Just when the rest of me is beginning to sit down.

  She was great and here she was, walking the strings, loving the sound, loving the company. It was already a full sound, just their third time together. No shoving for the front, no real showing off. Agnes sang into every second line —YE–ES, I'M LOOKING FOR A JOB WITH HHH–HONEST PAY. Young Dan's horn went YES YES, NO at the end of each vocal line; his da's accordion was a swooping, laughing whinge. —AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.

  After he'd locked up the Unisex and said the goodbyes, Jimmy went to his da's local.

  Paddy Ward was his da's idea. He was a traveller who'd married into a settled family.

  —But he forgets now and again, said Jimmy's da. — He wanders a bit. But he's sound.

  They watched now as Paddy Ward walked in, solid and slow, a big, impressive man with hair that took managing and a jacket that hadn't been cheap.

  Jimmy's da spoke first.

  —How's it goin', Paddy?

  —Not so bad, Jim.

  —This is my young fella.

  —Don't I know him.

  —I hear you can sing, said Jimmy.

  The man said nothing.

  —D'you want to be in a group?

  And the man spoke.

  —I was sixty my last birthday, sonny. You took your fuckin' time.

  And he sang.

  'Nothing Compares 2 U'. All of it.

  And Jimmy died again.

  10 Smells Like Teen Spirit

  —Have you anything against blacks? said Jimmy.

  —What about Hello first, Jimmy?

  —Hello, Mickah. Do you have anything against blacks?

  —No, said Mickah Wallace.

  —Grand, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want a job?

  Mickah Wallace was a family man these days. He had three kids he adored, and he was also very fond of the two women who'd had them for him. They lived near each other.

  —Saves on the petrol, said Mickah when he met up with Jimmy, for the first time in years. He was on the Ballygowan. He didn't drink or smoke these days.

  —I don't even say Fuck any more, said Mickah.

  —So, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want the job?

  —I have a job, said Mickah. —I've two fuckin' jobs.

  —D'you want another one?

  There'd been no more phone calls since the night Smokey was born but the first gig was coming up and Jimmy didn't want to leave anything to chance or Nazis. He wanted Mickah on his side.

  —What kind o' job? said Mickah.

  —Well, said Jimmy. —The usual.

  —Ah Jaysis, Jimmy; I don't know. Those days are kind of over, yeh know.

  Mickah worked on one of the new green wheelie-bin trucks.

  —Yeh should see the stuff they put in them, he told Jimmy. —How d'yeh recycle a dead dog, for Jaysis sake?

  And he delivered for Celtic Tandoori, the local takeaway. Fat Gandhi, the owner – real name, Eric Murphy – gave Mickah three nights a week.

  —We go to the same church, said Mickah. —He's sound.

  Mickah was a born-again Christian.

  —It's been the makin' of me, m'n. I owe it all to the Lord.

  Jimmy told him about The Deportees, and about the late-night/early-morning phone caller.

  —What would the Lord do about it, Mickah? said Jimmy.

  —Hammer the shite out of him, said Mickah.

  —So, you'll take the job?

  —Okay.

  —THE NEW SHER–IFF WROTE ME A LET–TER. They were really hopping now, playing the walls off the Unisex. COME UP AND SEE ME – DEAD OR ALIVE. They were ready.

  That was Paddy Ward singing. King Robert had been very reluctant to hand over the space behind the mike, but he was listening now, and watching Paddy's mouth —I DON'T LIKEYOU-RRRR HARD ROCK HO–TEL. Paddy put his hand on King Robert's shoulder, the King stepped in and they brought the song home together.— DEAD OR ALIVE – IT'S A HARD RO-OO-OAD.

  Kenny had objected to Paddy when he'd turned up a few nights before.

  —Is he what I think he is? said Kenny.

  Jimmy was ready.

  —He's a traveller, yeah. Have you a problem, Ken?

  —Eh—

  —Cos we'll be sorry to lose you.

  —No, no, fuck no. It's just, it's unusual though. A, a traveller, like. In a band.

  —Look around you, Kenny, said Jimmy. —It's an unusual band. That's the whole fuckin' idea. Are you with us?

  —God, yeah. Yeah. Thanks.

  Jimmy watched Kenny now. He was lashing away there, in some kind of heaven. Kerri played rhythm; Kenny was free to roam. And he did – he went further on that guitar than any traveller ever did in a Hiace.