— I bet he has a Swiss Army knife, said Jimmy.
— Shut up, said Aoife.
— And a fuckin’ compass.
The three of them had walked down to Outspan’s. Past Imelda’s. Her car wasn’t there.
Outspan was standing in the garden.
— Will it rain?
— Between now an’ Sunday night? said Jimmy. — Bring your fuckin’ coat. This is Les an’ Des.
He only copped on now how stupid that sounded.
— Leslie an’ Des, he said.
— Leslie an’ Dezlie, said Outspan.
Outspan didn’t do smiling, so it was a good few seconds before the four of them were laughing together. Then they were all in the car, and gone.
It was a bit awkward at first. Les in the back said nothing to Des, and Des said nothing to Les.
Outspan had the atlas.
— Left or right here, Outspan?
— Do they do left an’ rights down here?
Jimmy said nothing about the rain, even when he’d had to slow down because he could see fuck all through it. He could already imagine it seeping through his clothes. Before he’d heard one note or eaten a chip. He’d be soggy for the whole weekend; he wouldn’t be able to bend his legs because of all the water in his jeans.
— They say it’ll be nice tomorrow and Sunday, said Des.
— Cunts, said Outspan.
It was just four men who didn’t know one another, including — especially — the two brothers. They were going through Kildare before they laughed again, when they passed a dead fox at the side of the road.
— Left or righ’, me bollix, said Outspan.
They’d parked in a field that must have had hay in it the day before. They followed the line of cars, further and further in. The ground felt solid enough under the car.
— It’s well organised, isn’t it?
That was always a surprise.
— Should be an Olympic event. Synchronised parkin’.
— We’d be in with a shout.
They were really starting to enjoy themselves, until they got out and opened the boot.
— Tents, said Jimmy.
— Yeah, said Outspan.
— We don’t need tents, said Jimmy.
— We kind o’ do, said Outspan.
— What abou’ the yurt?
— Too dear.
— You said it wasn’t a problem.
— Well, it was, said Outspan. — I did me sums wrong.
If the other two lads — the pair of liggers who were getting in for nothing — were embarrassed, they weren’t showing it.
— Why didn’t yeh tell me? said Jimmy.
Outspan looked at Jimmy like he was going to jump on him, or sink into the ground. What’s the worst that can happen?
— It’s fine, said Des.
Les took a tent out of the boot.
— Sorted.
Jimmy took the other one — it was very light — before Des or Outspan could grab it. He pushed a blanket to the side and saw the oxygen.
He thought he’d fuckin’ die.
— It’s just in case, said Outspan.
— Will we bring it?
— No, said Outspan.
Jimmy knew now why Outspan had borrowed the ex’s car. Or stolen it. He could have done with a blast of the oxygen himself, and so could Leslie and Dezlie, judging by the pair of earnest heads on them.
The slabs of beer saved them.
— Never heard of this one, said Jimmy. — Excelsior?
— It’s not the worst, said Outspan. — An’ it was good value.
— Where?
— Lidl.
— Grand.
— I got the tents there as well, said Outspan.
— How much?
— Seventeen euro.
Les laughed. He looked at Outspan.
— You’re serious.
— Each, said Outspan.
Les hoisted a tent onto his back and got one of the slabs out of the boot. And that was a new worry. Jimmy thought there might have been a bit of history there, Les and the drink. It might have been something his mother had once said. Or just something he’d imagined; there was something too careful about the way Les carried himself. But, fuck it, he grabbed a slab — or he tried to. It was heavy. He got it up onto his shoulder but it was immediately awkward, and sore. He’d his bag as well. He’d never make it.
— Let’s go.
Now they stood at the edge of Darfur. Jimmy was sweating like a bastard. The walk from the car to the gate — the wrong fuckin’ gate — to the right gate, to here, had killed him. He was glad he’d let the hair grow because the sweat — the fuckin’ lard — would have been running straight down his face, into his eyes.
But he’d made it and he was happy enough. His breathing would be normal again in a minute and the breeze was already working away at the sweat.
They weren’t ready to go in deeper yet, although the sun was out and the field of tents looked quite pleasant.
— Jesus, men, said Des. — We’re old.
The truth of that was funny. It loosened them up, made them feel a bit brave. A steady line of kids kept passing them, to grab their places further in. It was early afternoon — Jimmy checked his watch — only just after two.
— We’re missin’ Joe Duffy.
— Who’s Joe Duffy? Les asked.
— Cunt on the radio, said Outspan. — We righ’, lads?
They picked up the gear, the tents, the bags, the sleeping bags, the slabs of beer, the wellingtons, and got ready to walk into the heart of darkness.
Les led the way. Jimmy could see none of the young Les in him. There was nothing of the kid left. Young Outspan was still in the current Outspan. But young Les was gone. It made Jimmy sad — and guilty. He couldn’t really remember what Les had been like. When Jimmy had met him the night before, the only reason he’d known it was Les was the fact that he was standing in their parents’ kitchen and he couldn’t have been anyone else. But it wasn’t like he was damaged, or twitchy or anything like that. He seemed grand. He was fit. He didn’t have much to say. But that was alright too. He’d gone ahead a bit and Jimmy wanted to run after him, chat to him — ingratiate himself, make up for the decades.
— Look.
It was someone their own age.
— That’s a fuckin’ relief.
There were more, over near the edge of the camp. Normal-looking people. The Picnic was supposed to be for the more mature music lovers, and there were about nine of them here. There’d be more arriving later, Jimmy supposed, after work.
Outspan was struggling.
— Alrigh’?
— Grand.
— D’yeh want a rest?
— No.
He stopped. He looked lost for a second, gone. Then he was alive again. It was fuckin’ madness, though; he was going to die. Here.
Les had found them a spot. Himself and Des were sitting on the tent packs by the time Jimmy and Outspan got there, and Les had opened a can. Outspan dropped — dropped — beside them and grabbed a can too, before he slipped back into his little coma, and woke again.
— The business, wha’, he said.
He was some boy.
They clinked cans.
— We’re here.
— We fuckin’ are.
— I like this, said Les.
— Jesus, said Outspan. — Over there, over there, look — quick!
They looked.
— D’yis remember when tits used to look like tha’? said Outspan.
They weren’t alone now. In the minute they’d been sitting there, they’d gone from outer suburbs to inner city. Girls pulling wheelie suitcases and boys hauling two-wheeled trolleys with multi-storey slabs of drink were surrounding them, claiming their space. The girl that Outspan was pointing out had just gone past in a wheelbarrow, pushed by two young guys who looked like they played serious rugby. Outspan’s mouth was about a foot away from her ear.