—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.
—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.