— Yeah.
— An’ so are the royalties.
— No way —
— I’m not pullin’ a fast one, Marv, said Jimmy. — If we go claimin’ royalties, the whole thing falls apart. I’ll look after yis, don’t worry. But the royalties thing. I’m glad yeh brought it up. An’ Jim — you as well. It brings home the point. Nobody is to know about this.
This appealed to them — he could tell. It appealed to him too. The international man of fuckin’ mystery.
— Just the three of us, he said. — And your mother.
— And Mush and Docksy, said Marvin.
They were the two other lads in his band.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But not yet. Till we’re ready. An’ not the full story.
They liked that too.
— What’ll I do, though? said young Jimmy.
— Give me a hand, said Jimmy. — Produce it, engineer it. And we still have to write the fuckin’ thing.
— What sort of music was there in 1932? said Marvin.
— We’ll decide that, said young Jimmy.
— Wha’?
— We’ll decide what sort of music there was in 1932.
Jimmy stared at him, just for a bit.
— Good man.
— Les?
— Yeah. Hi.
— Great to hear yeh.
— Yeah.
— Thanks for phonin’.
— It’s okay.
— How’s Maisie?
— Good.
— Great. Tell her I was askin’ for her.
— Yeah.
Ask about mine, yeh cranky monosyllabic prick.
— Les?
— Yeah.
— You’re still there.
It always felt like a fight. Trying to get words — anything — out of him. Jimmy always became the interrogator, the sarcastic bollix — You’re still there.
— Yeah, said Les.
Jimmy sometimes wondered if it actually was Les.
— I just phoned to say good luck, said Les.
— Thanks — eh —
— I knew it was coming up.
— Yeah —
— The last session.
— Yesterday, said Jimmy.
— Oh. Great.
— Yeah.
— Like the school holidays then.
— You were never in school, Les.
He heard Les laughing.
— That’s true, said Les.
Jimmy wanted to cry — again.
— Thanks for phonin’, Les.
Say something else, get him to stay on the line.
— Bye.
— Bye.
He heard the slap of something hitting the hall floor. He looked, and turned it over with his foot. It was that mad thing, Alive!, the free Catholic paper. Normally, he’d have walked out to the green wheelie with it — even this early. But he read the headline; he couldn’t avoid it. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL.
He picked it up, and saw the two smiling girls on the front page. Normally they’d have been promoting a new app or a beer festival. Here though, they were advertising the Eucharistic Congress.
He took it with him into the kitchen. He shoved the dog out for his piss and put on the coffee. Then he opened page 12: Are You Ready for the Congress?
No, he wasn’t.
It was starting on the 10th of June. That was less than two months away.
He read on down the page, looking for hints that the Pope might be coming. There weren’t any. The oul’ prick was staying put. He wouldn’t risk the country’s indifference. But the Congress was going ahead, with or without the headline act. It even had a theme: ‘The Eucharist: Communion with Christ and with One Another’. Jesus, they’d be riding in the bushes after that session. Events, workshops, keynote addresses; ecumenism, marriage and the family; priesthood and ministry; reconciliation. It wasn’t what Jimmy’d expected. Where was the big stuff — the crowds? Only seven thousand had registered. They were coming from Kazakhstan, El Salvador and Uganda. These would be hardcore fuckers; they’d be walking all the way, over the water and all. And they wouldn’t be buying Jimmy’s album.
What fuckin’ album?
Ocean kept bouncing up to him with another 78 or spool of tape. She’d found him about twenty songs. She often had Norman with her. Jimmy half thought she might have moved in with Norman.
— Stranger things have happened, said his da.
— Fuckin’ name one. Go on.
And Jimmy had rejected them all. Too pious, too bland, too familiar, too slow. He hadn’t told Ocean, or Noeleen, the real plan. He didn’t want to be confronted with boring fuckin’ questions about cost and legality. He wasn’t going to listen.
He picked up the Alive! The coffee had done its job. It was time for the morning dump and survival test. Every time he wiped his arse he half expected bad news. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.
He preferred to get this done before the rest were up and scratching at the bathroom door. If he found blood, he wanted to be back downstairs, getting the breakfasts and lunches ready, smiling at them as they shuffled into the day.
He looked at the front page again. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL. He had the four walls of his song.
He was tempted to stop the car; he thought he’d have to. Get off the road, up onto a path.
Noeleen could fuck off. Marching around with the accountant — her fuckin’ cousin, for Jesus’ sake.
— Got a minute, Jimbo?
No, he fuckin’ didn’t. He wasn’t taking the blame for whatever the accountant had lined up there on his iPad. Gavin was his name. Middle-class culchie cunt. Jimmy wasn’t going to give her the chance to tell him she had no choice, and blah fuckin’ blah.
He’d start all over again if he had to. Him and Aoife.
He had to stop. He put on the hazards — there was a van too close behind him. The driver put his fist on the horn. Fuck him. Jimmy saw a place where the kerb was a bit low. He aimed at it, got up on the path. Stopped the car. Left the hazards on. Got the phone out. He couldn’t read the names on the screen. He closed his eyes. He remembered her number — he thought he did. He found the digits.
— Hi.
He couldn’t talk.
— Jimmy?
She sounded frightened now. This was fuckin’ dreadful.
— Are you alright?
— I —
— Jimmy?
— I can’t drive.
— Where are you?
He knew the answer. But he couldn’t look — he didn’t know.
— Jimmy, I’m getting a taxi. If I phone you in a minute, will you be able to tell me?
What she’d said — what was it?
— Jimmy?
— No. I —
— I’ll leave the phone on. I’m calling the taxi with the landline. Jimmy?
— Yeah.
— I’m phoning for the taxi. Try to see where you are. I’m coming.
He could hear her. Moving in the kitchen.
It was shifting, receding — the wave. He could breathe. He knew where he was — he couldn’t remember the street. But he saw the sign.
— Mattress Mick.
— Jimmy?
— Mattress Mick.
— Great. Brilliant.
She knew what he meant. They’d seen the billboard the first time together. The sham with the glasses and the ’70s footballer’s hair.
— Mattress Mick.
— You’re great, she said. — I’m on my way.
He heard her shoes in the hall. Heard the front door opening — closing. He read the billboard.
— The Mattress Pricefighter.
He read another bit.
— Finance available.
— A few minutes, Jimmy, she said. — I’m on my way.
She was outside. The sounds — the wind.
— Here’s the taxi now. I told them it was an emergency. They’re brilliant. Remember with the kids? When we had to get them in to Temple Street? They were always here in a few minutes.