“There’s a crowd of rock stars and film people living up around here, that’s why. Oh, look! Look, Kathleen! That’s him! Your man, what’s-his-name! Joey Mad-Again. Joey Madigan!”
“They’re brilliant!” said Kathleen.
To Minogue, inspired by two Jamesons, it appeared that she and Maura Kilmartin were both levitating. He looked at them crouched, hovering over their seats. Their heads moving from side to side reminded him of hens prospecting for remnants of grain in a farmyard. Invisible in the crowd, a fiddler played two bars of “The Rakes of Mallow.” The shouting and laughter dropped to a murmur. A tall, unshaven man turned around to find a spot to place his empty glass. Kathleen waved and caught his eye. Joey Madigan, stage-names Joey Mad and Joey Mad-Again, lead singer, founder and guitarist with the hit rock/traditional/folk group Social Welfare, looked around the table and raised his eyebrows.
“Howiya, Joe!” Maura called out.
“Howiya yourself,” he called back.
By the way this Joe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Minogue pegged him for a man who could drink a lot and had done so tonight. He thought of Hoey. His colleague had taken three weeks’ sick leave. Minogue had last seen Hoey the day before yesterday. Hoey had attended four AA meetings, was dry and looked relaxed. He told Minogue that he was getting his inoculations and booking a flight through to Harare. Hoey assured him several times that it wasn’t a joke. Kilmartin believed Hoey, but continued to treat it as a joke.
“Heard you on the radio, Joe!” Kathleen said. “Will you sing? Will you?”
Since when was Kathleen so bold, her husband wondered. And that look on her face. Radiant. An adoring fan? Kilmartin was looking stonily at this recent star on the Irish music scene.
“Go on, can’t you?” Maura Kilmartin joined in. Her husband’s face set harder as he stared at Joe Mad-Again.
“Give us ‘Dublin Town,’ Joey. Go on, do,” Kathleen pleaded.
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Ah, go on, can’t you?” said Minogue. Kilmartin looked over to his friend in disbelief.
Now he remembered the group. This hit of last summer had launched the group properly. “Dublin Town” was full to the brim of the city’s mocking irony. Madigan had a singular talent for belting the lyrics out with angry, accusatory snarls. Joey Mad seemed to sense Kilmartin’s discomfort. The Chief Inspector had folded his arms and was studying the empty glasses on the table now. Finally, he glared up.
“Ah, go on, do,” he growled, and put on a flinty smile. “For your man here with the long face. It’s his first day out in a long time. He’s a fan of the Dublin crowd.”
Joey Mad tapped a shoulder in the crowd. Kathleen Minogue elbowed Kilmartin in the ribs.
“Will you look?” said Kathleen. “It’s the other one! The one who used to play with The Goners-Gabby Mac!”
She turned bright, excited eyes on Minogue. For the first time in nearly two weeks, Minogue felt the weight slip a little. Last night was the first night he had slept more than four hours since returning from Clare.
“He looks like a goner, all right,” Kilmartin observed. “The narrowback. Get a real job, pal.”
Kathleen turned to Maura Kilmartin and Minogue saw his wife’s hand splayed down on Maura’s forearm.
“God, Maura, it’s great! He’s going to do it! Fab, isn’t it?”
A fiddle launched into a rousing intro. It was soon joined by a guitar and the hollow thuds of a bodhran. Maura and Kathleen were standing up now, trying to see into the crowd.
“Sit down, can’t ye?” Kilmartin hissed.
The crowd seemed to heave with the music as Joey Mad began to howl out the words.
We sat in Bewleys Restaurant there,
We talked and laughed without a care.
“You know, says she, the time just flies
I thought how small talk always lies.
Joey Mad began to shout out the chorus. Kilmartin rolled his eyes.
Oh, Dublin town’s a desperate town,
But I’m a desperate man.
The Chief Inspector leaned in and shouted into Minogue’s ear. “At least he got that last part right. It is fucking desperate!” Minogue looked at Kathleen and Maura. They were swaying from side to side in their seats, clapping gently, smiling. The whole pub seemed to be lurching somewhere with the music. He felt his heart was beating in an empty space. Other voices joined in louder as Joey Mad bit into another verse. Maybe he’d be better off outside, away from the crush and the racket.
What were we then, sixteen or so?
Why did you leave, I’d like to know?
Escape, run, travel-I began.
But you’re back, says she, each chance you can.
Oh, Dublin town’s a desperate town,
But I’m a desperate man.
Someone whooped. Kilmartin stood and waded into the crowd. Kathleen, swaying, caught Minogue’s eye and winked. Something gave way in his chest then. The music seemed to grow even louder. But as the fiddler let the instrument free and it wandered away from the melody, the guitar fought with the fiddle, soaring and falling with it. The bodhran player was up to the hunt and he smiled and closed his eyes while his hands became a blur. The mob seemed to surge as it moved, egging on the musicians. Kathleen’s face had taken on colour, Minogue noted. He must write to Daithi tomorrow. She felt his stare and turned. For several seconds her face took on that frown he remembered from that day they’d had a puncture high up over the Burren. There was something beyond anxiety in that look, he believed. He raised an eyebrow at her. He felt the muscles in his cheeks begin to give way. God, he thought, he seemed to be finally climbing out of this. He leaned in toward her and grasped her hand.
“You’re the wild woman now to drag me up here. It’s like cold water thrown in your face.”
“Had to be done,” she said. Her eyes had lost the fear and they glistened now. “You were turned in on yourself too long, man.”
“We must come here again when it’s as mad, so.”
Kilmartin was back with a clutch of drinks in his hands. He stooped in over the table and placed the glasses down firmly. For a moment, Minogue thought of tagged exhibits being positioned on the table under the bench.
“I had to walk on a few head-cases to get to the bloody bar,” he shouted into Minogue’s ear.
Pilgrim, exile, tourist, son,
Leaving here I thought I’d won,
Next time I’m back, I’ll bring a sign
Hey, while I’m here, this town is mine!
Voices roared throughout the pub. Still Minogue heard Joey Mad spit out the words.
Oh, Dublin town’s a desperate town,
But I’m a desperate man!
“Jesus,” Kilmartin broke in between Kathleen and Minogue. “People buy that, you know!”
More whoops erupted and the fiddle returned to race with the guitar.
“They pay good money to hear this clown tell ’em something like that!” Kilmartin’s mockery stopped abruptly.
“Christ,” he said, too softly for Minogue to hear, but the Inspector turned his head in the direction Kilmartin was looking. John Tynan, Commissioner of Gardai, raised a glass of amber-coloured liquid in wry salute. Kathleen had noticed too. She leaned into her husband.
“Are you in trouble? Are we in trouble, I mean?”
Minogue shrugged. He picked up his drink and headed into the crowd. Kilmartin followed. Blocked for several moments by two women executing an impromptu two-step to the repeated chorus, Minogue turned to his colleague.
“How come he’s here?”
“Well, he phoned earlier in the day. Asked if you were around or if I’d be in touch with you. I happened to mention that you-well, Kathleen, I mean-had invited us up to this madhouse for a jar. Social, like.”
Minogue probed for sincerity in Kilmartin’s eyes before making his way toward the Garda Commissioner.
Tynan stepped out the front door of the pub and into the yard. Minogue and Kilmartin ambled with him toward the wall that flanked the Barnacullia road below.