— Is she nice? said Bimbo.
— Lovely, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuckin’ lovely.
— Go ’way. That’s great.
— Miranda, her name is.
— Oh I like tha’, said Bertie. — Mirr-andaah. Si; very nice. Is she a big girl, Jimmy?
— She’s a daisy, said Jimmy Sr.
— An’ you’re a tulip, said Paddy.
— Fuck off, you, said Jimmy Sr.
— Lads, lads, now, said Bertie, and he leaned forward to get between Jimmy Sr and Paddy as if to break up a fight, even though there wasn’t one. — Birds in their little nest, said Bertie.
— Wha’ abou’ them? said Paddy.
— They agree, said Bertie. — Righ’?
Paddy didn’t argue with him.
— Now, said Bertie. — If yeh had, say, a thousand quid, righ’—
They sat up. They loved these ones.
— An‘, Bertie continued, — yeh knew for a fact tha’ the most gorgeousest woman — now, the best fuckin’ thing yeh’d ever seen in your life, righ’. An’ yeh knew for a fact—
Bimbo started laughing.
— Shut up, you. — Yeh knew for a fact tha’ she’d let yeh get up on her if yeh gave her it, the money. Would yis give her it?
— All of it? said Jimmy Sr.
— Si, said Bertie.
He looked around at them. They were thinking about it, even Bimbo.
— Wha’ would she give me for half of it? Paddy asked him.
They roared.
— Where is it? said Jimmy Sr.
They were outside in the carpark, watching poor Bimbo getting sick. He was finished now, for the time being anyway. But he still looked very pale around the gills.
They’d been the last to leave; out of their trees, especially poor Bimbo. He could hardly talk. Darren had been giving the air a few squirts of Pledge, to let the manager think he’d done the cleaning.
— Tan ver muh, Darr-n, Bimbo’d said, and that was as much as he could manage.
They were outside now.
— Oh God, said Bimbo again, for about the thousandth time.
— You’re alrigh’, said Bertie.
— Terrible waste o’ fuckin’ money tha’, said Paddy.
He was looking down at what had come out of poor Bimbo.
Jimmy Sr had to agree with Paddy.
— Still though, he said. — He got the good ou’ of it.
— True, said Paddy.
Jimmy Sr didn’t feel too bad at all, considering he was out of practice. He was swimming a bit. He’d had to hold on to the wall there when he thought he was going to fall. He was pleased with himself though.
Bimbo straightened up.
— Are yeh alrigh’ now, son? Bertie asked him.
— He is, o’ course, said Jimmy Sr. — Aren’t yeh?
Bimbo didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he spoke.
— Yeah. — Yeah—
— Are we goin’ or wha’? said Paddy.
The plan was, they were all going down to the seafront with a couple of sixpacks. They’d decided this after Paddy had been complaining about all the kids that were down there every night.
— All ages, he’d told them. — Polluted out of their heads.
— That’s shockin’, Bimbo’d said.
And then Bertie’d said that they should go down there themselves after they were flung out of the boozer, and that was where they were going now. So—
— Are we goinV or are we? said Paddy.
— Lead the way, compadre, said Bertie.
— Ah, I don’t—, said Bimbo. — I don’t know if—
— Come on for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr. — The fresh air will fix yeh.
— There—, said Bimbo. — There’s nothin’ wrong with me.
— Come on then, said Jimmy Sr.
— Are — Hey, lads, said Bimbo. — Are — are we goin’ on a boat?
— Will yeh listen to him, said Paddy.
Bimbo started singing.
— Ah shite! said Paddy.
— WE COME ON THE SLOOP JOHN B—
— Ah si, said Bertie.
He liked this one, so he joined in with Bimbo.
— ME GRAN‘FATHER AN’ ME—
— Where’s it gone? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.
— Wha’?
— The chipper van, said Jimmy Sr.
— Wha’ about it?
— Where is it?
— I don’t know!
— LET ME GO HOME—
LEHHHHH’ ME GO HOME—
— I want some fuckin’ grub, said Jimmy Sr. — Shut up, will yis.
And then he joined in.
— I FEEL SO BROKE UP—
I WANNA GO HOME—
They were finished. Bimbo looked much better. He started again.
— BA BA BAH—
— Hang on a minute, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.
— BA BARBER ANN—
— Shut up!
Jimmy Sr nearly fell over, the shout had taken so much out of him.
— We’ve no fuckin’ chipper, he told them.
— That’s righ‘, said Bertie. — I thought there was somethin’ missin’ alrigh’.
There was always a van outside the Hikers, not just at the weekends either; always.
It wasn’t there tonight though. Bimbo looked up and down the road for it, and behind him.
— He must be sick, said Bimbo.
— He must’ve eaten one of his own burgers, said Bertie.
— What’ll we do? said Jimmy Sr.
— No problem, amigo. We’ll go to the chipper.
He meant the real chipper, the one not on wheels; the one over the Green between the Gem and the place where the Bank of Ireland used to be.
— No, way, said Jimmy Sr.
He shook his head and nearly went on his ear again.
— What’s wrong with yeh? said Bertie.
— WEEHHL—
THE WEST COAST FARMERS’ DAUGHTERS—
— Shut up, Bimbo.
— The chipper’s down there, said Jimmy Sr. — Righ’?
— Eh — si.
— An’ the fuckin’ seafront’s up there, said Jimmy Sr.
— Si.
— So there’s no way I’m goin’ all the way down there, then all the way back up here again.
— Paddy’ll go for us an’ we’ll wait for him.
— I will in me brown, said Paddy.
They sat on the carpark wall.
— May as well liberate these an’ annyway, said Bertie, — wha’.
He got his sixpack out of its paper bag.
— While we’re makin’ up our minds. Alrigh’, Bimbo?
— Yes, thank you.
— Annyone got an opener?
— I fuckin’ told yeh we should’ve got cans, said Paddy. — I told yeh.
— Fuck off.
— The cans don’t taste as nice, said Jimmy Sr.
— Si, said Bertie. — Correct.
He stood up and put the neck of the bottle to the edge of the wall.
— Let’s see now, he said.
He tried to knock the cap off the bottle.
— You’re goin’ to break it, said Paddy.
— Am I? said Bertie.
He lifted the bottle and held it out so the froth ran over his hand but not onto his clothes.
— Well done, Bertie, said Jimmy Sr.
— There y’are, Bimbo, said Bertie, handing him the opened bottle.
— My turn next, said Jimmy Sr.
— Do your own, said Bertie.
He put the top of the bottle to the edge of the wall, then pulled it down but he missed the wall and scraped his knuckles and dropped the bottle.
— Shite!
— Watch it.
A Garda car was crossing the road towards them.
The guards didn’t get out but the passenger opened his window.
— What’s goin’ on here?
Bertie took his knuckles out of his mouth.
— We’re waitin’ on your wife, he said.
Paddy started whistling the Laurel and Hardy music. Jimmy Sr nudged him but Paddy didn’t stop.
— None of your lip, said the garda to Bertie.