Lochlainn shrugged again.
— It’s yours.
Jimmy looked around for somewhere to sit, but changed his mind. He was too giddy to sit. And Lochlainn had the only chair.
It was rough.
— I’M DOWN ON MY KNEES —
It was dreadful.
— A MUNCHIN’ MUNCHIN’ MUNCHIN’ —
It was brilliant. Lochlainn was yawning but he hadn’t a clue.
— AND THE GIRL DON’T KNOW —
I GOT ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION —
Jimmy was listening to the howling kid inside every middle-aged man, and Brenda on the drums was the howling middle-aged woman.
— OH YES SHE DO —
— OH NO SHE DON’T —
— OH YES SHE DO —
— OH NO SHE DON’T —
— Was their bassist with them? Jimmy shouted.
— No, said Lochlainn.
— I didn’t think so, said Jimmy. — Just the two of them, yeah?
— Yeah.
— They fill the room but, don’t they?
— SHE’S SMILIN’ BACK AT ME —
SHE’S SHOWIN’ ME HOWTH JUNCTION —
AND THE BITCH DON’T KNOW —
I GOT ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION —
There was no getting away from it, the senior civil servant could sure make that guitar scream. There wouldn’t have been room for the bass.
— OH YES SHE DO —
— OH NO SHE DON’T —
This was the scream of a shocked and angry man. And Brenda’s drums boomed, brutal as ever. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. It was fuckin’ wonderful.
— BUT NOW SHE KNOWS —
— I GOT ERECTILE —
The phone — Barry’s phone — went off. ‘Ace of Spades’. It was perfect and it sounded distant, fading. And Barry’s voice.
— Sorry.
And Brenda’s.
— Ah, for fuck sake!
— I’ll have to take it.
Brenda kept at it. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. And stopped.
— Then fucking take it, Barry!
— Stop it there, Lochlainn.
Brenda’s shout was still in the room.
— Exactly there, said Jimmy.
— What?
— I want it to end on Barreeeee — the way she says it, okay?
Jimmy loved this.
— Make the eeee hang there, he said. — Three beats. No, four. Then done. Can you handle that, Lochlainn?
Lochlainn shrugged — no problem, no interest, your funeral. He hadn’t a fuckin’ clue. And Barry and Brenda. They hadn’t a clue either. They’d left, gone back to their other lives. It was a classic, and Jimmy was the only man in the world who knew it. He’d probably need the rights to ‘Ace of Spades’, even that poxy phone version. But that was grand, easily done — he thought.
What a day.
He watched Lochlainn fiddling away.
— D’yeh suffer yourself, Lochlainn?
— Sorry?
— The erectile dysfunction.
— No, said Lochlainn.
— No, said Jimmy. — Me neither.
He sipped.
— Jesus.
He tried it again. He’d never tasted anything like it. That was the chemo — he’d read about it, before he’d stopped reading. How his taste might become heightened.
He sipped again. It exploded — it just exploded — upwards, straight into his brain. He shook. Coffee tastes amazin. X He fired the text off to Aoife. She’d like that.
He looked around. Everything else was normal. The Brazilian young one behind the counter still looked nice, but not as nice as she should have looked, being from Brazil. But she was the same young one — that was the point. Everything was the same. It was just taste; it was exact, scientific. He wasn’t going mad.
Aoife’s text arrived. Great. X. And another one. Will u be wanting cancer trousers when you get home? He fired one back. Fck off.
Barry’s phone was off. But Brenda answered him immediately.
— We’re not paying for the studio.
Jimmy could hear kids — girls — shouting, behind Brenda.
— Who’s winning?
— We are, bitch. My girls are pussy-whipping Mount Anville.
She wasn’t whispering.
— Great, said Jimmy. — Ra ra ra.
— We’re not paying.
— I wouldn’t expect you to, Connie.
— It wasn’t my fault, said Brenda. — Hey, fat girl! Try chasing the ball!
— It was nobody’s fault, said Jimmy.
— Bloody Barry, said Brenda. — So fucking important. Good block, honey!
— I think it’s saveable, said Jimmy.
— We’re not paying.
— No one’s askin’ you to pay, said Jimmy. — I’m happy to cover it. That’s what I do.
— Yeah, yeah. Suck my cock.
— Here’s what I’m thinkin’, Connie, said Jimmy. — I’m goin’ to run it past some people and see wha’ they think. Some market research, but nothin’ too formal.
He’d play it to the kids — the older pair — when he got home. And Aoife — she’d love it.
— You’re serious? said Brenda.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I am.
— Yessss!
— Did we score there?
— Yes!
— Ah great.
He didn’t tell Noeleen. He kept the song in his pocket. He wanted to live with it for a day.
— How was it? she asked.
She knew it was chemo day.
— Grand, he said.
— That all?
— Yeah, he said. — It was fine.
He kept going. Ocean was waiting in the meeting corner. She looked too young sitting there.
— Hi.
— Hi.
He sat. He stood.
— Back in a minute.
He walked to his desk. He looked at nothing on his screen. He went back. He sat.
— Listen, he said. — Before we start.
She looked even younger. Bambi’s sister.
— I owe you an apology, he said. — Sorry.
— Thank you.
— No, he said. — I’m sorry. So. Did Noeleen mention anythin’ to yeh?
— Yes, she said. — It’s so cool.
— Great. So.
He wished he had a cup or something, anything he could hide behind.
— Where do we start?
— We-ellll, she said.
She looked at the iPad on her lap.
— I, like — okay. I did some brainstorming of my own, with some of my girlfriends.
She looked at him, and did the huge-eyes thing.
— I’m sorry, she said. — Was that okay?
— Yeah, yeah. Grand. No — go on.
— Soooo. Here’s what we came up with. My girlfriends are Irish, by the way. Just in case — I’m sorry. You know, not an invading force of American postgrad chicks kind of thing.
He felt useless, superfluous. But it was great, like being shown the insides of a clock or something — how everything turned.
He leaned forward, and she showed him the list. The archives, the collections. It was brilliant. And the other stuff too, the Irish links. The friend with the uncle in the UCD Folklore Department; the dad who was going through bankruptcy proceedings with another man, who was president — or whatever — of the John McCormack Appreciation Society; the mother with the friend who played golf with the bishop.
He pointed at friend.
— Why the italics?
— They fuck.
— Oh. Grand, go on.
It was all there, on one page of an iPad. A roomful of Southside girls had given Ocean everything she needed.
He was getting an iPad. They were fuckin’ brilliant.
— This is great, he said. — Thanks very much.
— My pleasure.
— It’s so fuckin’ Irish but, isn’t it?