Every word was clear and separate, so Boris in Bulgaria could understand him.
— Are you still there, Boris?
— Yeah. Sorry if I messed —
— And they’re happy?
— Yeah.
— Great. Great. Great. It’s a great line, isn’t it? You sound like you’re only down the road.
— I am, said young Jimmy.
— Down the road, said Jimmy again. — Yes — no. It just means very near. Anyway. The band is happy. Yes?
— Yes.
Jimmy kept going down the stairs.
— I’ll look at dates and venues and put something together. Do the lads —? Sorry. Do the guys in the band have jobs? Are they students?
— Students.
— Students. Great.
He was down the stairs, out on the street. He was crossing, to Insomnia. But he kept it up, in case Noeleen was looking out at him. Method management — it was the only way. He just hoped he wasn’t frightening young Jimmy.
— Great. That’s useful to know. We’ll make sure they are back in time for the start of college.
He pushed the door, got in.
— Jim?
— Yeah.
— Thanks, said Jimmy. — See yeh later.
— Okay.
— You were brilliant, thanks, said Jimmy. — I owe yeh.
— Big time, said his son.
He got coffees for himself and Noeleen. He was happy. But something was pulling him back. His cop-on had grabbed hold of his shirt. He remembered how elated he’d felt, how fuckin’ high and powerful, before he’d crawled into bed. This was different though — it had to be.
He was back out on the street. That was it. Earlier in the year he’d have been striding out, indestructible. Now though, he looked left and right and made sure he didn’t spill the coffee over his fingers.
Aoife came with him. A tenner each, and up the stairs. Outspan was at the bar, looking miserable.
He looked at Aoife.
— Howyeh, Eve.
The place was full of people Jimmy used to know, bald men he’d gone to school with, fat oul’ ones he’d kissed or wanted to. They’d all paid their tenners for Outspan.
— Howyeh, Missis Foster.
— Ah, Jimmy.
— Great night.
— Massive, said Outspan’s ma. — I had a bit of a blubber earlier.
She must have been over seventy, like his own parents. But she looked exactly the same, the only one in the room who did.
— An’ come here, she said.
She grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder and pulled him down so her mouth was at his ear.
— You’re a great lad, doin’ what you’re doin’ for Liam.
— I’m doin’ nothin’.
— Fuck off now, said Missis Foster. — He won’t let yeh know, but he’s delighted. An’ come here.
She grabbed Jimmy’s hand and pulled him through tables and familiar faces. The men were in suits or football jerseys. Jimmy in his jeans and a shirt was under-dressed and over-dressed.
Missis Foster was still holding his hand.
— Howyeh, Rabbitte.
— Here, Jimmy! Don’t let her drag you ou’ to the jacks!
— Fuck off now, you, said Missis Foster.
They were heading for a corner. And the thought hit him. Imelda! She’d be here. She lived just down from Outspan’s house. Grand, grand. He’d introduce her to Aoife. Christ, his life was full.
— He’s droppin’ the hand, Missis Foster!
— It’d make my night, said Outspan’s ma. — Don’t mind those fuckers, she told Jimmy.
She’d dragged him right across the lounge. There was no sign of Imelda.
— Here now.
Outspan’s ma let go of his hand. She was beaming at a kid, a little young one, in her party dress. She was seven or eight, a beautiful little thing.
— This is Alison now, said Missis Foster. — Say hello, Alison. This is your daddy’s friend, Jimmy.
Jimmy held the kid’s hand.
Outspan’s daughter.
Has she won?
— I don’t know, I don’t know.
They were all in the room, waiting for the result.
— What’s keeping them?
They watched Katie Taylor and the Russian young one, the ref between them holding their arms, down.
— Did she win?
— I don’t know — Jesus, wait.
They were all there, the whole family, Marvin as well; he was home. It was the first time in ages — since Christmas — that they’d been like this.
It was agony.
— The poor girl.
Jimmy Magee, the commentator, was going mad now, but it was hard to tell with that gobshite. Then the ref lifted Katie’s arm.
— She’s won!
— Oh God, she’s won it!
— Cool.
— She’s fuckin’ won — sorry!
They were up out of the couch, off the floor, hugging, laughing.
— Kay-tee! Kay-tee!
— God is my shield!
The dog was barking and jumping at them but he seemed happy enough.
— God is my shield!
— She’s brilliant.
— God is my shield!
— Jesus, Jimmy, said Aoife. — If you keep saying that, I’ll think you’re serious.
— God is my shield!
He didn’t know why he was so happy. It was just a young one after winning a medal. She was barely older than his own kids. But that was it — that was it. An Irish girl had won an Olympic gold. She’d done something brilliant and now, today, it meant everything.
A text from his da.
Its 1990 over here!
— Kay-tee, Kay-tee!
He sent one back.
God is my shield.
He could hold his kids for as long as he liked. He could love being Irish. There’d be Chinese tonight, thanks to Katie.
— Jimmy.
Aoife tried to hold onto his new hair. Her mouth was in his ear. He was on top of her; she’d wanted all of his weight. He had Katie Taylor to thank for this as well.
— Jimmy.
— Yeah?
He lifted his head, so he could look at her. She’d have wanted that.
— It was funny the first time, she said. — It really was. But if you whisper God is my shield once more, I’ll pack a bag and never come back.
— Sorry — okay.
Her hands were back in his hair.
— Say something else, she said.
— Okay, yeah. Good idea.
They had a Wikipedia page ready, himself and young Jimmy.
Kevin Aloysius Tankard (1905-unknown) was an Irish musician and singer. He is thought to have been born and lived in the Liberties area of Dublin, although little is known of his early life.
It looked good, the real thing.
There is only one recording known to exist, the recently discovered I’m Goin’ To Hell (1932).
— It’s a bit short, said Jimmy.
— Yeah.
— How did he die?
— A pact with the devil.
— No, said Jimmy. — People will start thinkin’ of Robert Johnson.
They’d kept looking at the Robert Johnson page while they constucted Kevin’s.
— Plane crash?
— Too modern.
— Drug overdose?
— Might ring true, said Jimmy. — Google old-fashioned drugs there, till we see.
They looked through the lists.
— Opium.
— It’s hard to imagine opium in Dublin in the ’30s or ’40s, isn’t it?
— Who says he stayed in Dublin? said young Jimmy.
— I do, said Jimmy. — But it’s a good point. What else have we?
— Peyote.
— Too Mexican, said Jimmy. — How would it’ve got here?
— Okay, said young Jimmy. — Heroin.
— There’s a thought.
Young Jimmy pointed at something on the screen, a date.