The Guts (30 page)

There was something else Aoife had said to him last night.

—When I went through your phone.

Here goes
.

—Yeah?

—Your address book, she said.

—What about it?

—You’ve no friends.

He looked up from the Mike Scott book. He kept having to start it again, even though he liked it.

—I’ve a few, he said.

—Not many.

—No, he agreed.

—It made me sad, she said.

—I’m grand.

—How can you fucking say that, Jimmy?

He slid through the emails now and deleted the ads and spam, the daily stuff he had sent to him but never looked at, StumbleUpon, RCRD LBL.com, PledgeMusic. All that shite. He was down to less than two hundred.

He was finishing a reply, just the one, to the Halfbreds’ sixty-two messages when he knew Noeleen had come into the room.

—Barry and Connie want to support the Stone Roses at the Phoenix Park, he told her.—No – hang on.

He read their last one again.

—They want the Stone Roses to support them. Are they too late?

—That was last weekend, she told him.

—Okay, he said.—I’ll offer them the Ballybunion Arts Festival.

—When is that?

—Doesn’t exist, said Jimmy.—Yet.

—Welcome back, said Noeleen.

—Thanks.

He actually wrote that he was looking into a slot at the Electric Picnic for them, apologised for the delay in answering – holidays, kids, family bereavement, no mention of health or the state of his head – and finished up with the hope that their eldest got the points she needed for veterinary – he remembered Connie saying something about it.
JXx
. Then he hit Send, and listened to the whoosh.

—Good to be back?

—Yeah.

He stood up and they hugged. She held his shoulders and looked straight at him.

—How are you? she asked.

—Grand.

—Great.

It was a bit awkward, a bit embarrassing. But she wasn’t sacking him.

—You can unfold your arms now, Jimmy, she said.—You’re safe.

It occurred to him now, properly; she’d been talking to Aoife. They’d been swapping the notes. Aoife was always on about him folding his arms. He even did it in his sleep, apparently.

They sat in the meeting corner. She’d brought him a coffee from across the street. They were the only two people in the place.

She looked at him, and laughed.

—Where will I start?

—Give me the bad stuff first, he said.

—We’re fucked.

She laughed again, sent her hair behind her head.

—No, she said.

She put a hand on his knee, and took it away.

—It’s not too bad, she said.—And it ain’t too good.

She had her own iPad now, and she started flicking through pages. He’d have sold the house to buy an iPad, the way she was using it there.

—So, she said.

The news was actually dreadful. He hated spreadsheets; they made him dizzy and useless – the numbers never stayed put. But he was able to listen, and every aspect of the business was being hammered.

—So, she said.—There you go.

—Jesus.

He didn’t feel too bad.

—You said it wasn’t too bad, he said.—All bad.

—It could be a lot worse.

—Could it?

—We’re still here, Jimmy, she said.—We’re surviving. Sales are down but they’re not gone, totally. We just need a haircut. Actually, needed.

He looked around.

—There’s no one else comin’ in, is there?

—No, she said.—Sorry. I didn’t want to tell you – to start with that. I let them – I had to let them go. It couldn’t wait.

—Okay.

He’d always been on his own, his own branch of the business. That wasn’t going to change. But it was bad. He’d loved the fact that he’d made some of those jobs. It had been one of the measures of the thing. When Jimmy had been the same age as the twit – he couldn’t even remember the poor kid’s name – he’d never had a proper job. He’d always done stuff, sold things that needed selling, organised gigs, done a bit of band promotion. He’d sold sandwiches at the early festivals – sandwiches and toilet paper. He’d hired a taxi for himself and about two thousand egg sandwiches, all the way to Lisdoonvarna, with the windows wide open all the way, and he’d still made a fuckin’ fortune. And T-shirts – always weeks ahead of the official merchandise. He’d sold Smiths T-shirts, printed by a chap called Smelly Eric, outside the Smiths’ first Dublin gig at the SFX, long before the Smiths copped on that selling their own T-shirts might be a good idea.

When things picked up in the country, he’d ignored it. All the pyramid schemes, timeshares in Bulgaria, ‘it’ll pay for itself’ deals, the no-brainers – he hadn’t been interested. It had always been about music – even the egg sandwiches; he’d sold them to people like himself. There’d been guys making fortunes selling ad space on the jacks walls of pubs, an idea Jimmy had every time he went for a piss. They were welcome to it. Because it was boring. He’d
taken the old records down from the attic because he loved music. They’d invented shiterock because of the music. It had made work for him, a good income, jobs for others – success.

The times had caught up with him.

Fuck it.

Fuck them.

—What’s the good news? he asked.

—Well.

She started doing the flick thing with the iPad again. Then she stopped.

—You might have seen this already, she said.

—What?

—Our big success story, she said.

—What?

—More Songs About Sex and Emigration
, she said.

He’d nearly forgotten about it.

—Really?

—It’s done okay, she said.—We won’t be retiring on it. And we still have to move.

—Hang on, said Jimmy.—We’re movin’?

—Did I not mention it?

—No.

—Sorry. Yes.

—Shite.

—Agreed. But it has to be done. But – now. This.

She still wasn’t offering to show him what was on the screen – the tablet – in her hand.

—This is where we’re going to make money, said Noeleen.—Just look at this.

She moved, and sat beside him.

—Can you see?

—Yep.

It was YouTube – hard to make out. A low-roofed room, a lot of crowd noise, a whoop. The camera was all over the place; it never settled.

—Is it a gig?

—Watch.

She pointed to the title under the screen.
I’m Goin’ To Hell
.

—Jesus.

She pointed to the views. 5,237,016.

He began to understand it. The camera, more than likely a
phone, was being held over people’s heads. The guy holding it was moving through the crowd, pushing. The guy – the camera – turned. And Jimmy saw it – him. His son. He saw Marvin.

He said nothing.

The camera got no closer.

Marvin stood sideways to the microphone stand, and sang.

—I WANT HER ARMS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

Marvin’s pals, the other lads, were there too. Mush and Docksy – the rest of the band.

—I WANT HER LEGS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

He sat back a bit. The screen swam when he was too close to it, and he wanted to get a look at Noeleen looking at it. She loved it. She was melting there, listening to a great song. And watching the handsome man singing it.
For fuck sake
.

—I PROWL THE STREETS —

I’M GOING TO HELL —

He tried to remember when Noeleen had last seen Marvin. It would have been years ago, when she’d bought into shiterock. There’d been a barbecue, a few things like that. They’d been friends, partners. There’d been genuine affection. Actually – he looked at her now – there still was. Looking at her there, leaning into the sound. She hadn’t a clue who she was watching. That was Jimmy’s guess. Kids grew so quickly; Jimmy himself could have been persuaded that it wasn’t Marvin.

But it was.

He wanted to cry.

—Who’s that? he asked.

—A Bulgarian band, said Noeleen.

—Bulgarian?

—Yep, she said.—It’s the bomb. Isn’t it?

—Fuckin’ amazin’.

—That’s a club in Stara Zagora, she said.

—That’s in Bulgaria, is it?

—According to Google.

—I’LL GET MY HOLE —

—I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

—Oh my fucking God.

That was Noeleen, and Jimmy wasn’t sure she knew she’d spoken. He decided to step out on the ice.

—He sounds very like —

He couldn’t remember the name – the guy who’d recorded the song in 1932.

Noeleen rescued him.

—He sounds exactly –
exactly –
like Kevin Tankard.

—Unbelievable, said Jimmy.

The three minutes were up.

Noeleen sat back.

—Well?

—I don’t know wha’ to say, said Jimmy.

It was the truth.

—It’s so great, said Noeleen.—So – just exciting. You found this song and a few months later there are kids in Bulgaria playing it. And more kids all over the world watching them. Millions of them. How does that make you feel, Jimbo?

—Great.

—Ah, come on! Give us a bit of the old Jimmy.

—Fuckin’ great.

He grinned.

It was fuckin’ unbelievable. But he couldn’t tell anyone. Except Marvin, when he got home. If he got home. He was obviously a superstar over there. He’d be Marvin Rabbeettski or something. And young Jimmy – he could tell him. If he didn’t know about it already.

—So, said Noeleen.

She stood up.

The place was a bit ridiculous with just the two of them in it.

—They’re ours, said Noeleen.

—Who?

—We’re going to sign them.

—The Bulgarian lads? said Jimmy.

—Yep.

—Great, he said.—Good idea.

He stood up too.

—Have you made contact with them yet? he asked.

—No.

—I’ll do that, he said.—What’re they called? I didn’t notice there.

—Moanin’ At Midnight.

—Great, he said.

—Wild.

—It’s a Howlin’ Wolf song, by the way, he told her.

—What is?

—Their name, he said.—They know their stuff.

An hour back at work, and he was already ahead of her. They hadn’t been called Moanin’ At Midnight when Jimmy had seen them months – a year – ago, or when they’d recorded the song. They were untouched and untraceable, until Jimmy decided to find them.

—Did you look for a website? he asked her.

—No, she said.—I only saw it on Friday.

—Who told you about it?

—My niece, she said.

—What age is she?

—Sixteen.

—She liked it, yeah?

—Oh God. Jimmy. We have to sign them. This isn’t just a bit of crack, like the Halfbreds. It’s the real deal. It’s rock ’n’ roll.

He grinned – he couldn’t help it. This was all mad and brilliant.

—Leave it with me, he said.

—I’m phoning John Reynolds, she said.

—The Electric Picnic chap?

—Yes.

—To get them on the line-up, yeah?

—Yep.

—Good idea, he said.—Great idea. Bulgaria’s in the EU, isn’t it?

—Yes, she said.—Why?

—Visas, said Jimmy.—They won’t need them. They can come over whenever we want them. And come here. Put a word in for the Halfbreds as well, will yeh?

—I’ll mention them.

—Thanks, he said.—There might be a cancellation or somethin’. And while you’re at it —

—You’re back.

—I am. Ned – the Bastard of Lir.

—Still feeling guilty, Jimbo?

—You said it.

He needed to get out – just get out, move, march the excitement off himself. But he couldn’t. He had to sit down now
and search for Moanin’ At Midnight. He couldn’t disappear and come back with them, delivered. Noeleen had to see him working for it.

—There’s no point in googlin’ Moanin’ At Midnight, he told her.

She was behind him somewhere.

—Why not?

—The song, he said.—Thousands of blues sites.

—What about Bulgarian Moanin’ At Midnight?

—Leave it with me.

He texted Marvin while he spoke.

How r things? X

—Where’re we movin’ to, by the way? he asked.

What was the time difference, between Dublin and Bulgaria? Marvin wouldn’t get back quickly anyway; he never did.

—Well, she said.

She was sitting now too, with her back to him. Just the two of them in a space made for twenty. Although there’d never been more than twelve. Still though, it was sad. And it was frightening. Things were shrinking. It was the same all over Dublin. People wandering around empty spaces.

He missed her answer.

—Sorry?

—My mum’s back garden, she said.

—You’re jestin’.

—She’s letting me build a Shomera, said Noeleen.

—A fuckin’ prefab?

—They’re lovely, she said.—The one I chose. I’d have included you in the decision if —

—Grand.

He said it nicely; he hoped he did. It couldn’t have been easy for her, moving from here to her ma’s back garden.

—Two rooms, she said.—Offices.

—Jacks?

—God, yes.

He wouldn’t have to be banging on the oul’ one’s back door, walking across her kitchen with
Mojo
or the Mike Scott book under his arm.

—Where does she live?

—Clontarf.

—That’s handy.

It was nice, tapping away, throwing the chat over their shoulders.

—Why your ma’s?

—What?

—Why not get the Shomera installed in your place? I know it’s a good bit out —

—I’ve moved back.

—Oh.

—It’s okay.

It wasn’t. It was shite, having to move back to her mother’s house.

—I’m sorry about that, he said.

—It’s fine.

He hated asking but he thought he’d better. He did the Aoife test: would she be furious if Jimmy told her that Noeleen had moved back home but he didn’t know why? Yes, she would. Although she probably knew already. But that probably didn’t matter.

He stopped typing. He rolled back his chair a bit, so she’d hear it move. He swerved, so he could see her.

—What happened?

The phone hopped. It was Marvin.

Grand
.

He put the phone back down.