—Utter shite, said Outspan.
It was cold now and dark. Outspan had a black cap pulled down past his eyebrows – where his eyebrows used to be.
—Where next?
Jimmy got the programme out of his pocket. He couldn’t read it.
—Can’t fuckin’ see.
—Here, said Les.
He took the paper from Jimmy and held it up and at an angle.
—Ah yes.
—Who?
—Christy Moore.
—Let’s go. Where?
—Crawdaddy.
They were veterans now. They knew where to go.
Jimmy wanted to lead the charge into the tent, to get over the hump, the fuckin’ barbed wire fence that was his snobbery. His head was well up for it but his body was holding him back. He could feel it, just above his kneecaps, around his waist, pulling the back of his hoodie. He was fighting himself to stay up with the lads and have a good wallow in Christy. And he was fighting everyone else at the Picnic as well. All thirty thousand – whatever the number was – the population of Darfur and the other Darfurs, the posh tents and the yurts; there were kids dashing to Christy who hadn’t been born when Christy was starting to think about retirement. It was a good-sized tent but it hadn’t been built for a population this size.
—Fuckin’ hell.
Les kind of gathered them up. He wasn’t a big man – no bigger than Jimmy – but he seemed able to shield the other three and
push backwards through the entrance, and in. Jimmy wondered – the thought popped up – if Les had served time in the army, the British Army. There was something so efficient about the way he moved and commanded the bodies to get out of his way without a word or an elbow.
They were in now and sweating in honour of Christy.
—JOXER MET A GERMAN’S DAUGHTER ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER RHINE.
They’d arrived in the middle of ‘Joxer Goes to Stuttgart’.
—AND HE TOLD HER SHE’D BE WELCOME IN
BALLYFERMOT ANY TIME.
And it was great to be there, to be right in there, in all the love and the steam. Jimmy hadn’t been in as packed a crowd as this since – he couldn’t remember – years ago, the ska days. And it was the only gig he’d been to so far where no one around him was talking. All eyes, all mouths, were on Christy.
It was over. They stayed put. They held one another’s sleeves like kids on a school trip while the solid mass around them loosened and they could get back out into the cold.
—Wha’ did yeh think? Jimmy asked Outspan.
—Brilliant.
—You actually liked somethin’?
—Fuck off, he was fuckin’ brilliant.
Jimmy took a breath and crossed the line.
—Yeah, he said.—He was incredible.
He wanted to cry. The rest of his life was going to be great.
But Outspan looked bollixed.
—Nightcap? said Les.
—Back at HQ, said Jimmy.—Sound.
—Are there any more gigs? Des asked.
—Just DJ stuff, I think, said Jimmy.—Dum-dum, fuckin’ dum-dum.
—Oh fuck, come on.
They grabbed a few hotdogs on the way.
—For fuck sake – look.
There was a photograph pinned beside the hatch; the pigs on the organic farm before the organic farmer knifed the poor fuckers.
—Here, said Jimmy to the lad with the ponytail in the truck. —Which pig did ours come from?
The lad leaned over the hatch and put his finger on a pig. He was wearing dentist’s rubber gloves.
—That one.
—Did he have a name? said Les.
—Janice.
—Brilliant.
—Worth the seven euro.
They went slowly – the ground, the food, the crowds, the dark, Outspan. There were parents shoving buggies through the muck and trying to keep count of the kids on legs. The music from the funfair bashed against the techno coming from one of the tents. They weren’t the only ones going back to Darfur but there were as many coming at them, heading back in.
—Fuckin’ eejits.
Les led the way to the jacks. There was a watchtower to the left, and two lads in reflective jackets on a wooden platform, a spotlight above their heads. The field was well lit.
—It’s like a fuckin’ prisoner-of-war camp.
—Not really, said Les.
They could feel the ground clinging to them as they got nearer to the urinals. Jimmy slid, but stayed up. They stood in a line.
Jimmy saw it – a lump in the corner, just past the urinal. It looked like a pile of clothes but it had two heads. It was a couple, a boy and a girl, sitting close; their hair looked tangled together. They would have looked lovely on a beach.
—Are yis okay?
—Hi, said the girl.
—Are you alright?
—Fine, said the boy.
—Grand, said Jimmy.
—Bye.
—Bye.
He caught up with the others. He could hear Outspan’s breathing.
—Alrigh’?
Outspan nodded.
They looked out for the guy ropes. The spotlight was behind them and sprayed the roofs of all of the tents ahead. But their bodies made long shadows and even in the light the ropes were tricky – thin and glassy. They tripped over a few but nearly all the tents were empty.
—Look where you’re going!
—Fuck off.
Les knew exactly where their tents were. Definitely, thought Jimmy; he’d been in the British Army. He’d found tents and loojahs in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The two young lads were still minding the tents and the gear.
—Alright, gents?
—Grand.
—Have a good night, lads?
—Great, said one.—Not a bother.
—D’yis want a few cans? said Outspan.
—We’re grand.
They were gone, away, tripping over the ropes.
—Poor cunts.
They sat on their jackets.
—It’s fuckin’ cold enough now, isn’t it?
—Cuddle up here, look it.
—Fuck off.
—Well, said Les.—I enjoyed myself tonight. Thanks, Jimmy.
—What’re yeh thankin’ tha’ cunt for?
They opened cans, and tapped them against the other cans.
—Cheers.
—Great night.
—Who was the best?
—Christy.
—Lanegan.
—Fuck off. Christy.
—I liked Sigur Rós.
—You fuckin’ would.
—What about tomorrow?
Jimmy told them about his own bands.
—They sound like shite, said Outspan.
But they all seemed happy, even a bit excited. Jimmy took a breath, felt himself go over another hump, and told them about his Bulgarian son.
—Brilliant.
—Fuckin’ brilliant.
—Just – fucking brilliant.
All four of them were fathers. Jimmy realised it for the first time. They grinned and laughed and loved the thought of one of their kids up on a stage.
—I’ll finally get to see my nephew, said Les.
Jimmy could see Des and Outspan looking at Les, trying to work out the story. He was Jimmy’s brother; that was all they really knew about him. They said nothing.
Jimmy looked at Des, and felt a bit bad – a bit guilty. The Irregulars, Des’s band, had been his first clients.
—If your vocalist hadn’t died, Des, he said.
—Selfish prick, said Des.—It should’ve been me, men.
Les put his head back and roared.
—It should have been Des!
They joined him for the second shout – even Outspan.
—It should have been Des!
No one objected.
—Where is everybody?
—They’re at the dum-dum dum-dum.
—Young people, wha’.
—They haven’t a fuckin’ clue.
—There was no fuckin’ dum-dum dum-dum in our day.
—We played our instruments, said Outspan.
Jimmy looked at Outspan. He was right – Outspan had played rhythm guitar.
Les passed more cans around.
—Cheers.
—Yep.
—It should have been Des!
—I am the Des!
At last, life – a reaction came from across the field.
—Shut fuckin’ up!
—I am the Des!
—Shut up!
—I’m the Des!
—You’re the cunt!
—I am the cunt!
They were pissed but clear-headed – Jimmy was. Outspan was standing, away a bit, pissing on someone else’s tent. Les was sitting cross-legged, straight-backed. Des was lying back, leaning on an elbow. The elbow was off the jacket, very slowly sinking into the ground. Des didn’t notice or care.
Outspan was back.
—Alrigh’?
—Grand.
He took his time – a long time – bending his legs, dropping to
the ground. There was one point, one second, when Jimmy saw how skinny he’d become. His legs didn’t widen; his thighs seemed as thick as his ankles.
He landed.
—Where’s me can?
—Any regrets? said Jimmy.
—I can’t find me fuckin’ can.
—Yeh brought it with you.
—Fuck, I’m not goin’ back for it —
—Here, said Les.
He handed Outspan a fresh one.
—Cheers – thanks.
—Give us one there as well, Les, said Jimmy.
—And me, said Des.
Jimmy couldn’t remember drinking as much, or for as long. He was breaking some kind of record. But he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t anything.
—So, he said – he remembered what he’d said a minute before. —Any regrets?
—Wha’? said Outspan.—Me in particular?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—But no. All of us.
—Well, said Outspan.
—Wha’?
—Chinese cock, said Outspan.
The air was full of Excelsior. It was the funniest fuckin’ thing they’d ever —
—I’ve done all the rest, said Outspan.
They were on to the next cans before they’d stopped laughing and started and stopped again.
—I wish I’d had a few quid, said Outspan.
—Yeah, said Des.
—But, like, I did, said Outspan.—For a bit. I had a bit of a bundle. An’ I spent it. So – no.
—More women, said Les.
—Yep.
—Yeah.
—But it’s obvious, isn’t it? said Jimmy.—Nothin’ to do with health or gettin’ older. We’ve probably felt tha’ way since we were five.
—More women!
—More women!
—Shut up!
—I am the Des!
—Real regrets, said Outspan.—They’re fuckin’ pointless.
—I’m with yeh.
—Women, money, things tha’ went wrong.
—What about you, Les? said Jimmy.
Les didn’t answer.
—I wish I was you, Rabbitte, said Outspan.
—Fuck off.
—Serious.
—Fuck off.
—You’re perfect.
—Fuck off.
—Sex but, said Outspan.
—Wha’?
—I read a thing, said Outspan.—A website, like. When I was – fuckin’, yeh know – diagnosed. Kind of a list of all the things tha’ were goin’ to happen durin’ the chemo an’ after.
—I read that shite as well, said Jimmy.
—An’ it is shite, said Outspan.—Isn’t it?
—Some of it, said Les.
—Fuckin’ all of it, said Outspan.—I never stopped – except when I was really sick – now, really fuckin’ sick. I never stopped wantin’ to ride nearly every woman I saw. It was business as usual. Still is. Even though —
—Wha’?
—It would fuckin’ kill me.
—Good way to go.
—Not fair on the bird.
He coughed – or it sounded like a cough.
—But at least, he said,—there’s the chemo porn.
—The what?
—Chemo porn.
—What the fuck is that?
—It needs fuckin’ explainin’? said Outspan.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—I think so – maybe. Just to be on the safe side.
—Ah, look it, said Outspan.—I thought yis’d know about it.
—No.
—Well, it’s – like. It’s people with cancer.
—Ridin’?
—Some, said Outspan.—Mostly just pictures. Good-lookin’ women who still look good even though they’re goin’ through chemo. Men as well – some.
—Jesus.
—It’s kind o’ reassurin’, said Outspan.—Yeh can see for yourself, if yeh have a smartphone there.
The dum-dum dum-dum was still going but something must have ended because they could see bodies now, long shadows, moving through the tents.
Les had his phone out.
—What’s the web address?
—Which one?
—There’s more than one?
—’Course there is, said Outspan.—Jesus. Chemo-porn.com. There’s a dash.
—Between chemo and porn?
—No, between fuckin’ an’ eejit.
—Don’t, Les.
—What?
—Why not? said Outspan.—What’s your problem?
The shadows were huge but the kids that came after them weren’t particularly big. They stopped dead at the lads.
—Old people! said a girl in shorts and wellies.—Old people!
—Oh my God!
Jimmy laughed. They all did.
—Put the phone away, Les, for fuck sake.
There were five of them – maybe six. Two girls and three lads – maybe four.
—Want a drink, kids? said Les.
—Cool.
—It’s a bit gross, like.
—What is?
—It’s like drinking with our dads, like.
—Could be worse, said Outspan.—We could be your fuckin’ mas.
—Here, said Les.
He passed each of them a can.
—You don’t have to stay, he said.
—Savage – thanks.
They tripped over guy ropes as they escaped to their own tents somewhere behind the lads.
—But look it, said Outspan – he’d lowered his voice.—There’s a link. To an Irish site.
—Porn?
—Not really. More online datin’.
—People with cancer?
—Yeah – ’course.
—And?
—I met up with one.
—A woman?
—A fuckin’ chimp. Yeah, a woman.
—How was tha’?
—Grand, said Outspan.—Not too bad.
—You met her?
—Yeah.
—Where?
—First time?
—Yeah.
—Pub near hers.
—An’ yeh went back?
—Yeah.
—And?
—An’ wha’? It was great. I don’t know – neither of us had to feel bad.
Jimmy wanted to cry. He wanted to hug Outspan.
—D’yeh still see her?
—No.
—Ah. How come?
—She’s dead. Yeh fuckin’ eejit.
There was silence – total. The whole of the Picnic and Laois had gone missing. Then there was a rattling noise – Outspan laughing.
—Yeh cunt, said Jimmy.—You were havin’ us on.
He still wanted to cry. But laughing was easier and Outspan looked happier there than Jimmy had ever seen him.