— I’m not with you.
— I’ve been countin’ everyone, said Jimmy. — Kind of a census, like. Like Bethlehem — is tha’ the place?
— No room at the inn.
— So I was just countin’. Seein’ how many are actually in the family. Martin’s out, yeah?
— Okay.
— An’ Louise is in.
— Agreed.
— But what about her kids? Are they family?
— No.
— Why not?
— Well, okay.
— You understand my predicament.
— There’s no blood connection, said Darren.
— Okay, said Jimmy. — But what if one of us was adopted? Would we be turfed out?
— No.
— So?
— Well —
One of Darren’s kids was beside Darren. Jimmy hadn’t seen him arriving.
— Howyeh, Fergie.
— Hi.
— What’s up, Fergal? said Darren.
— Can I have another Coke?
Darren looked a bit embarrassed. Jimmy loved that. And he wouldn’t be telling Darren that it was a reasonable and regular question in his house too.
— Did you ask Melanie? said Darren.
— She said No.
— And I’m saying No, said Darren. — But I won’t be going into the kitchen any time soon.
— Cool.
Fergal was gone.
— You handled tha’ well, Darren.
— Fuck off, said Darren.
— So, said Jimmy. — Seriously now. Are Faith and Max family?
— No.
— Ever?
— Not yet.
— I’m with yeh, said Jimmy. — A few more years, a few more visits.
— Yeah, said Darren. — That seems to make sense.
— That’s twenty-three so, said Jimmy. — I’m surprised. I expected more.
— Yeah, Darren agreed.
Jimmy made his mind up.
— I wonder how many kids Les has, he said.
— One, said Darren.
— D’yeh think so?
Darren looked at him over the specs — then properly.
— I know, he said.
— Maisie, said Jimmy.
— Yeah.
— Lovely name.
— Yeah.
— How did yeh know? Jimmy asked.
He didn’t know what he felt — how to feel. Robbed. Guilty. Relieved. Fuckin’ useless.
— We’ve been in touch.
— You an’ Les.
— Yeah.
— Me too, said Jimmy.
It had never occurred to him that Darren and Les would have been talking to each other, that Darren would have contacted Les, or Les would have contacted Darren. It made sense. It made sense! They were brothers, for fuck sake, closer in age than Jimmy was to Les.
— Have you seen him? Jimmy asked.
Darren didn’t answer quickly.
— No.
— Phone?
— Yeah.
— Me too, said Jimmy.
He hated hearing himself.
— Is he alright? he asked. — D’you think?
— Yeah, said Darren. — Yeah.
He wasn’t holding anything back; Jimmy didn’t think he was.
— Is he married?
— No.
— That’s twenty-five so. In the family.
— Right.
Mahalia was passing through, with Tracy’s Shauna and Darren’s Fay hanging onto her. And, he saw now as well, Mahalia was trailing Sharon’s Gina. And — Jesus — Gina was following Max.
— Christ, Mahalia, said Darren. — You’re taller than your mother.
— That’s, like, no big achievement, said Mahalia.
Darren laughed — he burst out laughing. Jimmy wanted to hug Mahalia.
He put it to his mouth, and blew. But nothing came out. Just the sound of his breath.
He tried again. Deep breath.
Nothing.
He’d watched a guy on YouTube explaining how to get sound from the trumpet. It was the lips — the aperture. Say M, your man said, then smile. Then blow.
— Mmmmmm.
Nothing.
Maybe his smile wasn’t convincing enough. He was faking it.
— Mmmmmm.
There were white spots, and he had to sit on the side of the bath till they went.
He was grand again; he wouldn’t be fainting. The smile had been too big, too desperate, like your man’s in Wallace & Gromit. He made it smaller, take it or leave it.
He blew.
He heard a cheer from downstairs, and applause.
He phoned Des. But Des had been ahead of the rest, and he’d changed his mind about going to the Chinese. He’d got into a taxi instead, and gone home.
— Alone?
— Unfortunately.
— So you saw nothin’?
— Saw nothing, heard nothing.
— Okay, said Jimmy. You don’t know anyone that teaches trumpet, do yeh, Des?
— No.
He phoned Noeleen.
— Jimbo.
— Howyeh.
— How was Christmas?
— Grand. Great. Quiet. You?
— Same here. So.
— Do I have to phone Ned?
— Strange question, Jimbo.
— I know. But. Did I apologise to him?
— No.
— How was he?
— Angry.
— Okay.
— Phone him.
— Okay.
— It’s been nearly a week.
— I know. I’ll phone him.
— And you’re in tomorrow?
— Yeah.
— We’ll talk.
That sounded a bit ominous.
— Yeah.
He sat on the bath, the trumpet in one hand — it was so fuckin’ cool — and his phone in the other. He found Ned’s number.
— Hello?
— Ned.
— Yes?
— It’s Jimmy. Rabbitte.
— Ah.
— I owe you an apology.
— Ah.
— I’m sorry, said Jimmy. — I was out of my face. I’m not excusin’ myself now. I shouldn’t’ve hit you.
He shouldn’t have said that, reminded the poor man that he’d given him the slaps.
— So look it, he said. — I’m sorry.
— Thank you, Jimmy, said Ned.
— Yeah, well, said Jimmy.
He looked at himself holding the trumpet. He liked what he saw. The chemo could fuck off.
— I meant to phone you earlier, he said. — But it took—. The drugs, yeh know. The painkillers.
Shut up, for fuck sake.
— I probably shouldn’t have been drinkin’ at all, he said.
— Forget about it, said Ned. — It never happened.
— Fair play, Ned. Thanks.
— But, said Ned. — I’m just thinking. It might be an idea to apologise to Ocean too.
Fuckin’ why?
— I’ll do that, Ned. Good idea. I’ll do it when I see her.
— Hold on, Jimmy. I’m just passing the phone over to her now.
— Hi, Jimmy!
He hung up and got out of the bathroom. It was becoming a David Lynch film in there. He went into the bedroom and lay back on the bed.
Aoife was sitting beside him when he woke and knew he’d been sleeping. It was cold, and dark.
— Jesus, it’s freezin’.
He was trying to climb in under the duvet.
— Your shoes, Jimmy.
He got them off, dropped them on the floor.
— Get in with me.
— Dinner’s ready.
— I’m your starter, said Jimmy.
He moved across the bed, onto the trumpet.
— Fuck, sorry — me trumpet.
— God, you’re sleeping with it now.
— I’m not.
— I don’t know, she said. — I’m jealous.
— No need to be, he said. — It’s a hard oul’ hole.
— Ah Jimmy!
— Only messin’.
He held her.
— Warm me up, nurse.
Her arse was in his lap. He put an arm around her and pulled her nearer.