—He’d be your cousin as well, I suppose. Second cousin, or first cousin twice removed or tha’ shite. Anyway, he has a huge collection of old 78s an’ stuff.
—Great, said Jimmy.—From back that far?
—I’d say so, yeah, said his da.—He wouldn’t throw out his shite, Norman. He’s a bit older than me as well. An’ he’s a real collector, yeh know. Goes to meetin’s an’ all. So I’d say he could help yeh.
—Brilliant, said Jimmy.—Will yeh introduce me to him?
—Does tha’ mean I have to go with yeh?
—Just the once, said Jimmy.—Till I get me foot in the door.
—Okay, said his da.
—Come here, said Jimmy.
He leaned to the side.
—Don’t fart, said his da.—Not so soon after the chemo.
—Fuck off, said Jimmy.—I’m just gettin’ my iPod out. Here we go.
He untangled the earphones and handed them to his da.
—Here, he said.—Yeh know where these go.
He watched his da shove one into each ear, like he was trying to make them meet in the middle. Then he – Jimmy – turned on the iPod.
—What the fuck is this?! his da roared.
But he kept the earphones in, and laughed once, and kept smiling for most of the two minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Jimmy turned it off, and his da unplugged himself.
—What was tha’?
—The Halfbreds, they’re called.
—There’s no way they’re from 1932.
—No, said Jimmy.—It’s a different thing. A different project.
—There’s no stoppin’ yeh.
—You’re beginnin’ to be too nice, Da.
—Okay, said Jimmy’s da.
—They’re the Halfbreds.
—They fuckin’ sound it.
—A husband an’ wife combo. They’re old punks. From way back. But they recorded that one last week. An’ everyone loves it. Marv, young Jimmy, Aoife, all the gang at work. They all think it’s great.
—Specially the endin’.
—Tha’ wasn’t rehearsed.
—You could tell, said Jimmy’s da.—Howth Junction, wha’.
—Yeah.
—Always my favourite Dart station.
—Windy oul’ place.
—Great view but.
—Anyway, said Jimmy.—Everyone loves it. But d’you know how many will actually buy it?
—Go on.
—No one, said Jimmy.
—Why’s tha’?
—Would you buy it?
—No.
—Why not?
—It’s shite.
—You just said you loved it.
—Yeah. Because it’s shite.
—Ah, for fuck sake, listen. Nobody’s buyin’. The kids don’t think they have to.
—They download it for nothin’.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Exactly. My age group an’ a bit younger, we still buy. But they don’t buy much. An’ very little that’s new.
—Make a video.
—We’re goin’ to —
—A good one, said his da.—Make us laugh. Get your woman from the Rubberbandits video.
—You know the Rubberbandits?
—Of course I know the fuckin’ Rubberbandits.
The Rubberbandits were a pair of clever lads from Limerick who wore SuperValu bags over their heads, and rapped. Their song, ‘Horse Outside’, was the new national anthem. Jimmy hated them.
—More than eight million YouTube hits, said Jimmy.
—Twice as many as live in this poxy country, said his da.—It’s the way to go.
—But only about nine thousand bought the song, said Jimmy.
The misery in that statistic pleased him, all the noughts in the millions falling away – the state of the fuckin’ world.
—Beats a kick in the bollix, said his da.—An’ listen. I remember when you were a kid. You sat on the floor in front of the telly when
Top o’ the Pops
was on – don’t fuckin’ deny it. An’ yeh held up a microphone and taped every song yeh liked, an’ played them all on your little cassette recorder. For nothin’.
—That was —
—No, it wasn’t different. There were thousands of yis, doin’ the same thing, all over Ireland and over in England. Robbin’ the artists. An’ the artists were still multi-fuckin’-millionaires.
—You might be right.
—I am right. I know more than yeh give me credit for.
—I know, said Jimmy.—Sorry.
—So, said his da.—Make a fuckin’ video an’ get the young one from the Rubberbandits one – with the dress an’ the eyebrow, yeh know her?
—’Course.
—Or someone like her, said his da.—Shoot it at Howth Junction station. On the platform. Northbound or southbound, I don’t mind. An’ when your man there sings,
She’s showin’ me Howth Junction
, just get her to point at the sign an’ raise her eyebrow, the way she does for the Rubberbandits. Then stick it up on YouTube an’ see wha’ happens. An’ don’t worry, I’ll phone Norman for yeh.
Des was sitting on the bed.
—Sorry there’s nowhere else, said Jimmy.
—It’s fine, said Des.
—I didn’t realise the house would be full, said Jimmy.—There’s usually an empty room at the weekends.
—Jimmy, said Des.—You’re just looking for excuses not to start. Go on.
—Am I standing right?
—It’s not a photo shoot.
—Fuck off, Des. The hernia.
—What hernia?
—If my stance is wrong, I could give myself a hernia. I saw it on YouTube.
—You’re fine, said Des.
He looked behind him, like he was checking the distance to the pillows. If he lay back there on the bed, Jimmy would sack him, or fuck the trumpet at him. He was already a shite teacher.
This was terrible.
He looked at the window. He put the trumpet to his mouth. He blew.
—There now, said Des.
—Wha’?
—It’s not about force, said Des.
—I know.
—It’s the buzz.
Des pursed his lips.
—My cheeks didn’t fill with air, he said.—Did you notice?
—Yeah, Jimmy lied.
—Take two breaths, said Des.
Jimmy looked down at him.
—First one, said Des.—Then the extra one.
—Tell yeh wha’, Des. Stand up and show me.
—Oh, said Des.—Sure.
He stood up, and stood beside Jimmy.
—So, he said.—Breathe in. Fill your lungs.
Jimmy did.
—Now, said Des.—The bit extra. Imagine you’re filling your stomach with air. I think that’s how we imagine it anyway, filling our stomachs, not our lungs. You can exhale now.
—Thanks.
—Put the mouthpiece to your lips. Purse the lips, good and tight. Breathe in. No – keep the lips tight. Yeah – and breathe. And blow. Release the air. You’re in control. Just—blow – . Great. That was a G.
—Was it?
—Not really, said Des.
It was fuckin’ freezing. The station platform – southbound – was the most exposed place on earth. Fuckin’ Attenborough hadn’t a clue.
—Has there been a murder, love?
—No, we’re filmin’ a video.
—Ah, lovely. Is the young one in it?
—She is, yeah.
—She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?
—Yeah.
—She must be petrified though, God love her.
—It’s only for a bit. She’ll have her coat back on in a minute.
—Ah grand.
He hunched down, and looked at it framed in the monitor. Barry standing like Elvis Costello
c
. 1977, Brenda standing behind the drums like Moe Tucker c. 1967, the Dart crawling past them as Barry roared it for the fourth time.
—SHE’S SMILING BACK AT ME —
AND SHE’S SHOWING ME HOWTH JUNCTION —
He was singing straight into the weather, sweating, losing weight on one of the coldest days of the winter.
—Happy?
The director, Pete, was hunched beside Jimmy.
—Yep, said Jimmy.
—Cut! That’s our take. Now’s your moment, Avril!
Jimmy stood up straight, and felt fuzzy, weak, just for a moment. But the cold quickly fixed him. He watched the cameraman lift the camera and bring it closer to the station sign. He watched the young one, Avril – she was a model, one of those glamour ones. She usually did photo shoots in a bikini, launching new sewerage schemes with county councillors. Jimmy watched her point at the sign, at the Junction in Howth Junction, and raise her eyebrow – exactly as the script demanded.
It was a different batch of people this time. Different patients, different nurses. This new one smiled when he asked for ice and lemon.
Still the same terror as he watched the bag of poison being hoisted. He’d never yawn when that happened. He’d never feel like a veteran.
There was a fella beside him who was obviously up for a chat. Jimmy put in his earphones and headed him off at the pass. He didn’t turn on the sound; he couldn’t have coped. But he scrolled through the bands and chose the songs for his funeral.
—I was fine for two days after. But then – Jesus, Les.
—It’s the steroids, said Les.—They mask the nausea. But they wear off.
—It didn’t happen the first time but.
—No, said Les.—Same here.
—Horrible.
—Yeah.
—Thanks, by the way.
—It’s fine, said Les.—Any time you want to talk —
—Thanks.
—No problem.
—I don’t want to worry Aoife or – or – the kids. Sorry.
—Fine.
—I’m out in the fuckin’ garden.
—Just remember, it’s normal.
—I know.
—And it stops.
—But it fuckin’ comes back.
—I know.
—And I can’t even vomit.
—Yep.
—How’re things with you anyway, Les?
—Fine.
—Thanks for this.
—It’s fine.
The barman told him to go back outside and around to the basement. That was where the gigs were.
He waited at the top of the stairs. He could hear the music – he could feel it, coming up from the wooden steps. He went down
the first six or seven, to the turn. The heat came up at him – it felt like a crowd. He stayed there a while, a few seconds. He was hoping Marvin wouldn’t see him. He hadn’t told him he’d be coming – he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to embarrass him. He’d only stay for half a song.
He made his move.
It got hotter every step down. It was ages since Jimmy had felt crowd heat like this. The gigs he’d been organising were usually a couple of dozen middle-aged people, looking awkward, trying to remember what they were supposed to do.
The beat became real sounds as he got to the bottom of the stairs, and his head dropped below the top of the door at the same time that a kid on the platform – it wasn’t a stage – grabbed the mic off its stand and screamed.
—He was incredible.
—Did he see you?
—I only stayed for a bit.
—It’s great you saw him.
—Ah Jesus, Aoife. I’m so fuckin’ proud.
—Tell him.
—I will, don’t worry. The place was jammered.
—Great.
—It only fits – it couldn’t be much more than a hundred. But it was packed. Teemin’. But you should’ve seen him. D’you remember Jason an’ the Scorchers?
—No.
—Country-punk. No?
—No.
—They were brilliant. Mad live now – mad. All over the stage. And the guitarist used to spin around while he was playin’. An’ Marvin did that – exactly like it. He nearly decapitated a few o’ the punters at the front.
—Great.
—I’m goin’ up to play me trumpet.
Norman lived just off the New Cabra Road.
Jimmy waited for his da to park his van behind him. He looked at his da checking that he had the right house, squinting a bit.
He looked a bit uncertain, even unhappy. Then he saw Jimmy’s car in front of him.
—Here’s my da now, he said, and he opened his door.
The fuckin’ nausea – it was lurking, waiting for him. He needed air. He needed his da.
He got out of the car. Fuck the nausea.
—How’s it goin’? he said.
His da was out of the van, hitching up his jeans.
—Howyeh, he said.—How’re things?
—Grand, said Jimmy.
He stepped back, and to the side.
—This is Ocean, he said.—From work.
—Hii
ii
.
—Ocean, he said.—This is my dad. Jimmy – as well.
—Howyeh, Ocean.
—Ocean is – she’s coordinatin’ the project, Jimmy told his da.—Does that sound okay, Ocean?
—That sounds great, said Ocean.
His da was staring at her a bit. Jimmy hadn’t told him she’d be with them.
—We might as well go in, said his da.—He knows we’re comin’. I had to shout a bit on the phone. He’s gone a bit deaf, I think.
He pushed the gate. He had to give it a lift too, to get it open.
—Tragic really, he said.—Goin’ deaf in a house full o’ records. I’ll oil his gate while we’re here.
He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell.
—Did yis hear tha’? he asked Jimmy and especially Ocean.—I couldn’t hear annythin’.
He put his ear to the pebbled glass and pressed the bell again.
—You’d want to be a dog to hear tha’ fuckin’ bell, said his da.
He ran his hand down the side of the glass, along the paint and wood.
—Needs a bit o’ work, he said.
—Here he comes, said Jimmy.
They saw the shape, then the man behind the glass, and the hand going to the lock.
—Here we go, said Jimmy’s da.
The door was opening.
—There y’are, Norman.
—Is it Jimmy Rabbitte?
—It is, said Jimmy’s da.
—There’s no need to shout, said Norman.
He was a small man, and kind of papery. Jimmy didn’t think he’d ever met him before. He couldn’t remember a younger version. He was smiling, but unfriendly. He took something out of his waistcoat pocket.
—Look.
He was talking to Jimmy’s da. He’d paid no attention to Jimmy or Ocean.
—See here? Three settings.
—What’s tha’, Norman?
—Stop shoutin’, I told yeh. It’s my hearin’ aid.
—Should it not be in your ear or behind it or somethin’?
Jimmy and Ocean followed his da and Norman into the house.
—Christ.
—Oh my God.
Every wall they could see was covered in shelves of records. Jimmy stopped to look, to slide a few from their perches. But something stopped him:
Don’t touch till you’re let
. He kept going down the hall – made narrow by shelves – to a big bright room that was, after he’d spotted a kettle and the fridge, the kitchen. He heard Ocean behind him shutting the door.
His da was looking at the ceiling.