He heard her getting into the taxi. He heard her door close.
— Aoife?
He heard her talk to the driver.
— Do you know the Mattress Mick sign? I can’t remember the name —.
He couldn’t hear the driver.
She had the phone up to her mouth again.
— I’m in the taxi. Jimmy?
— Yeah.
— We’re moving. He knows the sign. Seville Place. How long?
She spoke again.
— We’ll be there in a few minutes.
— I love you.
— Oh, Jimmy.
— I’m sorry.
— There’s no need.
— I’m sorry.
— Stop saying that.
He was frightening her.
— Jimmy?
— Yeah.
— Have you any money? I came out without —
— Yeah.
— Great. Phew.
He could hear the radio in the taxi. Nova. Fuckin’ Genesis.
— Aoife.
— Yes?
— Tell him to put on Lyric, will yeh. John Kelly’s on.
He heard her asking him to change the station.
— Blues, Marv.
— Too American, said Marvin.
He was right.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Good man.
He was sitting on a couple of pillows with his back to the cold radiator. He could manage it that way; he was fine. He was wearing the cancer trousers. He knew there’d be no slagging or objections, not the way he was, his face the colour of rain.
The boys were sitting on the bed, making sure their toes didn’t touch him. It was awkward, fuckin’ excruciating. But — strangely, and brilliant; he couldn’t wait to tell Aoife — the fact that he was sick was an advantage. It kept him back, stopped him taking over, smothering the thing before they got going — taking out his fuckin’ trumpet.
He was getting the hang of terminal illness. Fuckin’ typical too, just when he was getting better.
— But maybe, he said, — we could give our man some blues records.
— No, said young Jimmy.
— Why not?
— Modern Irish music tries too hard to be American, he said.
— That’s right, said Jimmy.
Brilliant.
— Where’d you hear that? he asked.
— You.
— Oh.
— When I was about five.
— Oh. Did you understand?
— I do now, said young Jimmy.
He was saying more than Jimmy had heard from him in years.
— You were slagging U2, said young Jimmy.
— When you were five.
— I might’ve been six.
— Grand.
— And you were shouting at the car stereo.
— Oh yeah, said Marvin. — I remember that.
— Why is he pretending to be American?! He’s from fuckin’ Glasnevin!
— Why were you always playing U2, Dad? You hate them.
He took a deep breath — scare them a bit.
— I don’t hate them, he said. — They disappoint me.
— But why —?
— I was educatin’ yis, said Jimmy. — I did it for you.
They were smiling. Beginning to enjoy this new thing.
— Anyway, said Jimmy. — You’re right. He can’t be too American.
He closed his eyes. They were looking at him, he knew. This was madness.
— Just give me a minute.
Marvin strummed away.
— TODAY — IS GONNA BE THE DAY —
— No fuckin’ way, Marv.
He could hear them laughing. He really had educated them. They knew exactly what chords and poxy lyrics could make a dying man feel even worse.
He heard young Jimmy.
— What’s he called?
— The 1932 man? said Marvin.
— Yeah.
— Don’t know.
— Kevin something.
— Kevin — why?
— Don’t know, said young Jimmy. — It’s just — I don’t know — it sounds right.
— Kevin what? said Marvin.
— O’Leary.
— No way.
— Kevin Keegan.
— There’s a real one of them.
— Is there?
— Football. ESPN.
— Pity.
— Yeah.
— Kevin Tankard, said young Jimmy.
— Unreal.
The boys tested the name, with different voices and accents. Jimmy let them at it. He kept his eyes shut.
— With yis in a minute, lads.
— D’you like the name?
— Love it.
He pushed through the last of the nausea. That was what he actually did. He felt it coming up on him and he shoved it away, the plunge, the sweat.
He just kept going.
It was all fuckin’ mad.
Kevin Tankard became a man. He stopped being a joke, although he looked at the boys sometimes and they burst out laughing.
— I WANT HER ARMS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
They’d be sneaking into the studio in a couple of days. He wasn’t sure if he’d told Aoife. He thought he had; he’d tell her again.
— I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Now, Noeleen was saying something.
— I’d say you were drunk.
— What?
— Are you drunk?
— No, I’m not.
She was smiling. It couldn’t have been too bad.
— Painkillers?
That would get him out of jail.
He nodded.
— Go on though, he said. — I’m grand.
They’d gone through the list — the Electric Picnic, the other festivals, the Eucharistic Congress. They’d agreed things, deferred a few things. He’d told her he was on to a song. He agreed, they were running out of time. He’d agreed, it was a pity the Pope was playing chicken, and that no one seemed to know about the Eucharistic Congress. They’d plough ahead. He’d deliver the song by the end of the week, or they’d just go for one of the ones that Ocean had brought in.
That was it — the meeting. He thought he’d read it right. Where was Gavin the accountant? He hadn’t asked. He’d looked for anger, or anxiety, eyes about to give him bad news. He was awake, aware, especially after she’d asked him if he’d been drinking — at half-nine in the morning.
But this was the thing: he wasn’t sure. Hours later, he wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t certain if it was that meeting or another one he’d been to. It was mad — he knew that. But it didn’t worry him.
— I WANT THAT PLACE —
He’d be grand. He’d never felt better.
— I’M GOING TO HELL —
— Sing like a man who really would take eternity in hell for — yeh know —.
— What?
— You know. A girl.
— You hate songs about girls, Dad, young Jimmy reminded him; the little prick had a memory like a fuckin’ PowerBook. — Remember when you played the Rolling Stones?
Jimmy listened to young Jimmy doing a good impression of Jimmy.
— Hear that, lads? It’s women — women! Honky tonk women.
— What age were you tha’ time? Two?
— Eight, said young Jimmy. — And you were wrong.
— How was I?
— Simple. The song says honky tonk girls as well. Honky tonk girls.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But you knew what I meant.
Young Jimmy and Marvin answered him together.
— We do now.
— Leave the girls to the boybands. You said.
— Well, I was right, said Jimmy. — Go on, Marv.
Marvin sang like a man who’d have sawn off his one remaining arm for a ride. Because his dad had told him to.
— I PROWL THE STREETS —
I’M GOING TO HELL —
Jimmy felt like a bit of a pimp. He worried that he might be polluting the boys, shoving their faces into stuff they weren’t ready for.