He had to lavish emails on the clients he’d been neglecting since the chemo started, especially the Celtic Rock brigade. And he had a mobile number for a chap he thought had once been called Brendan Goebbels. He was the founder, if it was the right guy, of a Dublin punk outfit called the High Babies. Jimmy’d read somewhere — it might have been in The Ticket — that the Edge and Bono were doing the soundtrack for a new HBO series, set during the hunger strikes, starring Colin Farrell and Bono’s daughter. And he’d remembered a song the High Babies used to do, around the time of the hunger strikes, called ‘Snap, Crackle, Bobby’. Eat your Krispies Bobby — Or you’re goin’ to die. He didn’t know if they’d recorded it. But if they had, he knew someone who knew the Edge’s cousin, who might get the song to the Edge. If this was the right man, if Jimmy could grab the man’s interest, and if the other man could grab the Edge’s interest. If, if, fuckin’ if. On the good days, Jimmy loved that word.
He’d phone Les. He’d phone Darren. And Des. And Imelda — instead of just texting. He’d talk to her properly. He’d phone Outspan.
He still didn’t have the song.
But he had an idea.
He was at chemo, scrolling through the iPod again.
He’d make it up.
It was there, as solid a thought as he’d ever had, already a fact, as if he’d made the decision months ago. He’d invent the song.
He attacked the iPod again. It was different now, though. It wasn’t cheerful self-pity. This was research.
He looked up.
The knitting, the books, the fuckin’ eejit over there with his iPod. Jimmy knew what that poor cunt was doing.
He was nearly done here. Then he’d be running again, charging. There was no stopping him.
— We’ve no money, she told him.
— Wha’?
They weren’t broke like Des, just normal broke. They’d insufficient funds. Aoife hadn’t been able to take any money from the Pass machine in the Spar. They were paying for the lunch with her credit card.
— My treat, she said.
It was nothing to worry about.
But it was.
Jimmy remembered a conversation he’d had with Noeleen that had shocked him. But he’d forgotten about it — he couldn’t believe it.
They were all taking a pay cut.
— How much? said Aoife.
This was before they’d started eating, just after she’d asked him how the chemo had gone.
— I think she said 30 per cent, he said.
— Jesus.
— Yeah, he said.
It was like news he’d just heard.
— Jesus, Jimmy.
— I’m sorry.
— We’ll cope, she said.
She was talking to a man who’d just come from chemotherapy. But he knew she wanted to kill him.
— And Noeleen, she said. — And is she taking the pain as well?
— Yeah, said Jimmy.
He thought he remembered Noeleen telling him that.
— An’ we’ve some interestin’ stuff comin’ up, he said. — So we should be okay —. D’you remember the Halfbreds?
— God, yeah.
— I’ve to meet them in a bit, said Jimmy. — Want to come?
— No.
— Ah, go on.
— Okay, she said.
— Great.
— Why?
— Why what?
— Why do you want me to come? she asked.
— It’ll be good crack, he said. — An’ they might be less obnoxious if you’re with me. Anyway —
He looked at her properly.
— It was always us, wasn’t it? You an’ me. We did it, not fuckin’ Noeleen.
— Leave her alone.
— I know. But you know what I mean.
And he told her about the song he was going to write. He got a bit worked up as he heard himself tell her, afraid it sounded infantile and silly. They were skint and he was going to mess with history.
He finished telling her, and she told him she’d an idea as well.
— No.
— Why not?
— D’yeh think?
— Why not? she said again. — You’ve seen him.
He thought — he didn’t; he didn’t have to.
— Okay, he said.
His eyes were watering.
— Fuckin’ hell, Aoife.
He walked into the kitchen. He was struggling a bit, a bit drowsy. He saw Marvin at the fridge, or young Jimmy. It was still dark. There was something not right — he turned on the light.
He roared — it wasn’t a word, or a howl.
It was a kid, a young lad, a fuckin’ burglar. Gone. Out the open window. Jimmy hadn’t seen him get there. There’d been no sound on the floor and he’d knocked nothing over as he slid out.
Jimmy went after him.
He was gone — the kid was gone. Over the back wall. Or the wall beside him, into the empty neighbour’s. He didn’t know. He wasn’t even certain now he’d seen him.
He went back into the kitchen.
The window was open. It was nearly a welcome sight, proof. He’d seen the kid.
— You, he said softly, to the dog. — You’re a useless shitebag, aren’t yeh?
Jimmy picked the dog up. His arms were shaking. He could feel it before he took the dog’s weight. His heart was hopping. He was surprised, though; he wasn’t angry. He felt nothing about the kid.
His roar had woken no one. He listened — no sounds from upstairs.
He brought the dog over to the door, and shoved him out the back for his piss.
They’d left the kitchen window unlocked. They never used the alarm.
They were broke.
They weren’t.
They were — they were squeezed. They were in the club.
He let the dog back in.
There’d been something about the kid, the glimpse he’d had of him. Standing at the fridge, like one of his own.
He didn’t phone the Guards. He wasn’t going to. He was telling no one.
He shut the fridge door. He made the coffee.
She sat on the bed. She looked back at him and laughed.
— Fuck off, Jimmy.
— Look, he said.
— No, she said. — You fuckin’ look.
She hadn’t moved.
— This stay away from each other shite, she said. — We’re not married, Jimmy. There’s no arrangement. That I’m aware of. A kiss an’ a cuddle now an’ again. That was always it.
— I know.
— So grand. You know. Fuck off.
This hadn’t been the plan.
— You don’t get to decide, Jimmy, she said. — There’s no fuckin’ decision. If you want to stay away, then stay away. I couldn’t care less.
— Listen —
— Don’t fuckin’ listen me, Jimmy Rabbitte.
She stood up.
— I’m not your fuckin’ wife.
She walked out of the room. Two steps did it. But the way she did them — fuckin’ hell. He heard her put down the toilet seat — she didn’t bang it. Was he supposed to go while she was in there? She’d told him to fuck off. And she’d meant it — he thought she had.
He’d get fully dressed, no rushing down the stairs with his jeans and shoes in his arms. He didn’t want to leave like this. He didn’t want to leave at all. He wanted to change his mind, get back into the bed, roll back five minutes and shut his fuckin’ trap.