He texted Marvin. Excited?
He texted Noeleen. Halfbreds brilliant. We’ll make a few €.
He texted Ned the Celtic wanker, the Bastard of Lir himself.
On way. Looking forward to it.
He was dreading it.
The only reason Ned was on the ticket was because Jimmy still felt guilty for calling the da’s attention to the daughter’s arse at the Christmas do. It still made him weak — the guilt, not the arse. And there was the awful fact that the Bastards of Lir sold. No one went to see them live, but middle-aged men and women who didn’t venture out after dark still craved the sound.
The Body and Soul stage, when he found it, was like something from Lord of the Rings. It was in among the trees, in a hollow, a tiny natural amphitheatre.
The Bastards of Lir were waiting there.
— Ned.
— Jimmy.
Five men, four ponytails. Three leather waistcoats.
— You’re being looked after?
— We expected a tent, said Ned.
— This is your venue, Ned.
— It’s an afterthought.
— It fuckin’ isn’t, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t taking this.
— Some of the best gigs happen here, said Jimmy. — Look at it.
Now that he was down in the hollow, it was great, and a bit magic. The place would fill.
— The whole festival is built around Body and Soul, said Jimmy.
Ned wasn’t looking at him.
— What if it was raining? he said.
— It isn’t rainin,’ said Jimmy. — How many times have you played the Picnic before?
Ned didn’t answer.
— Do you think they actually wanted you? said Jimmy.
He got to an answer before Ned could.
— Yes, they fuckin’ did, said Jimmy. — And they wanted you here. In Body and Soul. That was the ask.
He was saving the day, lying through his arse, and impressing himself again.
— Okay, said Ned. — I hear you.
— Read the email I sent you, said Jimmy. — You knew what you were gettin’.
The tin whistle player spat on the ground.
— You’ll be brilliant, said Jimmy.
He looked at his watch. The stage manager was waving at them. — You’re on, said Jimmy.
The hollow was filling. There were no bald patches. Ned looked a bit happier.
The fiddle player sawed the strings with his bow.
— Whooo, said Ned, into the mic. — He’s raring to go. No introductions, you know who we are. Here’s one you might recognise.
Jimmy got off the stage.
— ON TARA’S HILL THERE STANDS A MAN —
For fuck sake.
— IN THE MISTY EARLY MORNING —
Jimmy climbed out of the hollow. He had to get away.
— HE LOOKS ACROSS HIS SACRED LANDS —
In the fuckin’ mist — fair play to him.
— HE’S THE LAST OF IRELAND’S HIGH KINGS —
Jimmy didn’t look back but he knew the hollow was a mass of diddley-eye-Provos, clapping and whooping.
— Toilet paper.
It was Aoife. Mahalia and Brian were behind her.
— Howyeh, love.
— Toilet paper.
He got the bag from his back and pulled out the roll.
— You’re lookin’ lovely, by the way.
It was true, but she grabbed the roll and Jimmy watched her go.
— HE HOLDS HIS SWORD UP TO THE SKIES —
— Wha’ d’yeh think of tha’ shite? he asked Brian.
— Class, said Brian.
— AND CALLS TO HIS LOYAL CLAN —
And here came the last of the High Kings, Outspan Foster, on his purple Celtic plastic fuckin’ armchair. Les and Des parked him on the lip of the hollow.
— LET BLOOD FLOW RED FROM SAXON VEINS —
— Now we’re fuckin’ talkin’.
— AND ENRICH THIS SACRED LAND —
It was Riverdance for Nazis and the hollow was full of them.
— Here, Les, said Jimmy. — This is Mahalia. And Brian.
— Hi.
— This is your Uncle Les, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like a bollix. He was getting at Les.
Les shook hands with both of the kids.
— Great to meet you.
— I’ve to go, said Jimmy. — Tell your mam I’ll see her at the Cosby.
— What’s the Cosby? said Mahalia.
— A tent, said Jimmy. — Where Marvin’s playin’.
— We’ll follow you there, said Les.
— Grand.
— These guys are great.
Jimmy escaped. He felt like a cunt, abandoning the kids, his brother, his dying buddy and his wife. But he was working. He was genuinely working.
He texted Ned as he went. Superb. Ned would find it when he came offstage.
He was out of Body and Soul, running, back through Artists and Crew, into the vastness of backstage. He found the Bulgarians stuffing their faces at a table covered in sandwiches held down by little plastic swords.
— Everything okay?
— For — sure, said Marvin
— Nervous?
— Fock — narvus, said Marvin.
Then he whispered.
— Shittin’.
— You’ll be great.
The other two, Docksy and Mush, seemed calm enough. He could see they had a plan. They stood at a platter till it was empty, then moved on to the next one. They were hoovering up the food for twenty bands.
The Halfbreds’ daughter stood beside Marvin.
— Hi.
— Yes, said Marvin.
— I saw you, like, on YouTube.
— What — is — Oo-toob?
Marvin was overdoing it but Jimmy left him at it. He was safe enough there with the Halfbred daughter. The possibility of Barry and Connie joining the family scared him a bit — already — but she seemed like a nice, normal kid and she’d keep Marv occupied till they went onstage — Jimmy looked at his watch — in ten minutes.
The Halfbred daughter laughed. Marvin’s English was improving all the time. She was a lovely-looking kid. Just like her ma.
Now Jimmy saw a guy he knew he had to stop from getting to Moanin’ At Midnight. He moved, to get between the lads and Nathan Early. Jimmy had been in a room once — at a music e-zine Christmas do, a few years back — when he’d had to listen to Early list all the gigs he’d reviewed but had never attended. The man was a slug.
— Howyeh, Nathan.
Early hadn’t a clue who was talking to him.
— Hey.
— Enjoyin’ yourself?
— Well, said Early. — It’s work, you know.
— You have to actually listen to the bands, do yeh? said Jimmy.
— That’s rough.
Early looked at Jimmy, then past him.
— They’re not available, said Jimmy.
— They?
— Moanin’ At Midnight, said Jimmy. — They’ve no English.
Early nodded at Marvin with the young one, and Jimmy wanted to kill him.
— He seems to be managing okay, said Early.
— Sorry, Nathan.
— Have a heart, man. I just want a sense of how they feel about being in Ireland.
— Make it up, said Jimmy.
Early looked at him properly.
— Who are you?
— Jimmy Rabbitte, he said.
— Gotcha, said Early. — You work for Noeleen.
It was quiet in the Cosby tent.
— That’s righ’, said Jimmy.
He realised now, there’d been no music coming from there for a good while. Marvin and the lads were on next.
— And she thinks you’re a cunt as well, he said.
He turned and went across to Marvin.
— You’re on.
— What?
— You play music now, the Halfbreds’ daughter told him.
— For sure.