—They’re invitin’ the fuckin’ Pope, he said.—It was on the news this mornin’. Remember the last time?
—Not really, she said.
That was right; she was younger than him. He hated that – he fuckin’ hated that.
—It was mad, he said.—The whole country shut down. The year after there were tons of babies called John Paul.
—What’s the current pope called?
—Don’t know, said Jimmy.—And I know what yeh mean. The times are different. Benedict – that’s it. But you’re right. But so am I.
—Benedict the what?
—Haven’t a clue, he said.—There’s probably about three people in the country that know or give a shite. But —
He was loving this.
—It’s still not the point.
—Go on, said Noeleen.
He had her by the entrepreneurial curlies.
—So, he said.—There’s big religion rollin’ towards us.
—It’s not rock ’n’ roll.
—Everythin’s rock ’n’ roll.
He’d no idea what that meant.
—It’ll all be back to 1932. People will be cryin’ for it, rememberin’ their parents and grannies talkin’ about it.
—Faith of Our Fathers.
—Exactly, said Jimmy.—All that shite.
—It’s been done.
—The CD, I know. And it proves my point. It was only a few years back, wasn’t it? A CD full of hymns outsold every legitimate album released that year. Bang in the middle of all the child abuse inquiries. And people bought it anyway, even though they hated the Catholic Church.
—Nostalgia.
—It was deeper than that, but yeah.
He loved that – it was deeper than that. He was a philosopher, a theologian. He’d ride the Sisters of Mercy, every fuckin’ one of them, to sell a record.
—So, said Noeleen.
—So, said Jimmy.—The songs of 1932.
—More hymns?
—Hymns an’ everythin’, he said.—Every song we can find that was recorded in 1932 – in Ireland. We’ll root through them all and come up with an album’s worth.
—Are you sure about this, Jimbo?
—I am, yeah, he said.—Look it. It’s 1932. If it was America, it’d be speakeasies and the Great Depression. The archives – for fuck sake, Noeleen. Jazz, country, prison songs, gospel, the blues. Some o’ the coolest stuff that was ever recorded. Alan Lomax an’ his da. And your man, the other archive fella – Harry Smith. There’s box sets. iTunes sells them. We’ll do the same. We could trace the roots of punk to some whistlin’ bogger in 1932.
—How would you go about it?
—No idea, said Jimmy.—Not yet. I only thought of it this mornin’.
The office was filling again, as much as it ever did. Lunch was over.
—It’s possible, he said.—Listen to this. It’s possible we could find someone still alive who recorded a song in 1932. For the radio. Even just into a tape recorder or on acetate.
Acetate. He loved saying that.
—RTE will never give us their archive, said Noeleen.
—Fuck RTE, said Jimmy.—We’ll go after tapes. Parish stuff, family stuff. Lost records. Someone who sang – some teenager back then is ninety-four or five now.
They both smiled; they grinned.
—It’s so cool, said Noeleen.
—It fuckin’ is, he agreed.—There’ll be no blacks, fair enough. But even then, you’d never know. But anyway, it could nearly be as cool as an American archive. Why wouldn’t it be? I’ve a feelin’ already. I think —
The twit was beside them, watching his bosses. He’d never really seen them like this before, the way they’d been back before they’d solidified.
—What? said Noeleen.—What do you think?
—I think –, said Jimmy.
Ocean was there now too. Looking on.
—I think, he said again,—we might find somethin’ we were never supposed to find.
—What?
—Somethin’ hidden, said Jimmy.—Music that never made it onto the radio. Our own blues, say. Suppressed – deliberately forgotten. Cos it didn’t tally with De Valera’s vision for Ireland.
What a word. Suppressed. Commercial fuckin’ dynamite. Suppressed nostalgia? For fuck sake.
—You’re losing the run of yourself, Jimbo, said Noeleen, but she approved.
—Probably, said Jimmy.—But who knows? The official picture is never the real one.
Jesus though, he was impressing himself again. It was years since he’d felt like this.
They’d moved away from the others. They looked out at the street.
—Will you be able for it? said Noeleen.
—What? said Jimmy.—Oh. With the chemo an’ that?
—Yes.
He gave it a gap. He actually gave it thought.
—I should be, he said.—I don’t see why not. Mister Dunwoody said I’d probably be grand. But we’ll see. Alright?
She nodded, smiled. He knew: she wanted to hug him. He liked her, he liked her.
—But a bit of help wouldn’t be any harm, he said.
—Ocean, said Noeleen.—She’ll stomp up to every door in Ireland and smile.
—Grand, said Jimmy.—Okay. Would she be up to it but?
—What d’you mean? said Noeleen.—She’s beyond efficient, Jimbo. She’s actually amazing.
—Great, said Jimmy.—But, being American, like. Does she know the place well enough? The culture, like.
—Of course she does, said Noeleen.—With a father like Ned. Jesus, she’d have to.
—Wha’?
The chemo saved him.
—I can’t phone him again, he told Aoife.—I just can’t.
—Noeleen can, said Aoife.
—No, said Jimmy.—I don’t want that. Like she’s my boss? Moppin’ up after me or somethin’.
—Well, it needs a mop, Jimmy.
—I know.
—Jesus, Jimmy.
—I know.
—I’ll do it, said Aoife.
—No.
—Yes.
—Why?
—If it’ll help.
—But it’s my mess, said Jimmy.
—That’s right. But it’s ours really, said Aoife.—We both reached the same nasty conclusion about Ned.
—True, said Jimmy.—But it doesn’t mean he actually isn’t —
—Don’t.
—Only messin’.
—I know. But anyway, I’ll do it. We’re both shareholders.
—True, said Jimmy.—It’s ours. We should never have sold. Sure we shouldn’t?
—Not now, Jimmy. We did well out of it.
—Okay.
They were in bed. It was a strange new world. Brian was the only other one in bed. The others were still up, moving around downstairs, homing in on the fridge.
—So I’ll phone him, said Aoife.—Alright?
—Okay.
—I’ll explain who I am and then I’ll play the chemo card.
—He’s been through it himself, said Jimmy.—He’s been through chemo.
—Great, said Aoife.—So he’ll understand.
—He might.
—Ah, he will. But, God, you’re stupid.
—I know.
—And you can apologise to his daughter.
—Okay, righ’.
—Just say sorry, said Aoife.—Don’t elaborate. Don’t attempt to justify it.
—I hear you.
—Don’t joke. Are you listening to me, Jimmy?
—Yeah, he said.—They suit yeh.
She was wearing her new reading glasses.
—Thanks.
—What’s that you’re readin’?
—A book about cancer, she said.
—Is it any good?
—Yes, she said.—It’s very good. It’s a history —
—It has a fuckin’ history?
—Yes, of course. Attitudes, beliefs. It’s re
ally interesting.
—Oh good. I’m glad it’s interesting —
—You’ve had your quota of sympathy today, James.
—Okay.
—Asking a man to – what? – give her one for you. Jesus – with his own daughter.
—You’d want to have been there, said Jimmy.—There was a context.
—Don’t laugh.
—I’m not.
—You are.
—So are you.
—You’re such an eejit, she said.—Seriously though, you should read this.
—I’ll bring it with me to the chemo, said Jimmy.—Don’t tell me the endin’.
He picked up his own book, Jah Wobble’s autobiography. He put on his own new reading glasses.
—Do they suit me?
—Do you remember Harry Worth?
—Ah fuck off now. I only got them to keep you company. I don’t really want to know.
—What?
He pointed at Aoife’s Kindle.
—I read the first page there. When you were brushin’ your teeth.
—And?
—A quarter of all deaths in America are caused by cancer.
—I know, she said.—It’s frightening.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—But actually, really – it’s not. The figures mean nothin’. But it’s supposed to be the history of cancer, yeah?
—Yeah.
—But it’s still killin’ a quarter of all Yanks, said Jimmy.—So it’s not history at all.
—It is.
—And the chemo’s a waste of time.
—No.
—Because nothin’ works.
—That’s ridiculous. Jimmy —
—I know, said Jimmy.—I agree with yeh. But if I read that one, or the others you’re hidin’ there in your Kindle —
—I’m not.
—I’m only messin’, he said.—But even the Chemotherapy for Dummies one you gave me. If I read too much of it, I start havin’ doubts. More doubts than I have already. Cos the optimistic stuff is just fluff, and I’m better off not knowin’ the pessimistic stuff. Cos it’s way more believable.
—Okay, she said.—That makes sense.
—The fuckin’ Dummies book would tell me to love my tumour.
—Probably.
—I’d have to bend over and shout it up my hole. I love you, little tumour!
—Play your trumpet to it.
—That’ll definitely kill it.
—You’re doing very well.
—The trumpet?
—Yes.
—No, he said.—It’s shite.
—Well, I like hearing it.
—Thanks, he said.—Good. Thanks.
They took off their reading glasses. She turned off the light. They lay in the dark, said nothing for a while. They listened to the sounds downstairs. They listened to the feet on the stairs, Mahalia using her cop-on, going up to bed at just the right time. They heard her in the bathroom. They heard her bedroom door. Then there was nothing.
—No sign of life next door, said Jimmy, softly.
—No.
—Any word there?
—No.
—Is it still cold out there?
—It’s been cold since November, said Jimmy.—Have you not been out since then?
—Oh God, said the nurse.—A character.
He watched her work. The saline bag, the stand, the red digital numbers going on, off. Why did they have to be fuckin’ red? She hooked the bag to the top of the metal stand.
—Can I’ve ice an’ lemon with that? he said.
—You’re gas.
He turned on the radio. Joe Duffy. Good, he could get annoyed. Joe was doing one of his poxy polls. Should the Pope visit Ireland?
—Fuckin’ hell.
The lights ahead were red. He texted Noeleen. Joe Duffy poll. Shud pope vist. Txt yes. Get evyone. Green again, mission accomplished. He was delighted. He’d just been nuked and he was still working.
He was down near the Grand Canal Theatre. He didn’t really know this part of the world but the new corners and blocks seemed to have been finished just in time, seconds before the bust. He found a parking spot and texted Aoife. Chemo was grand X.
The cold was good. He was walking fast, cutting through it. He’d felt a bit shiny leaving the hospital, but this was great.
The phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was Noeleen. Poll says yes to pope.
Brilliant.
That was his job now, saving the Catholic Church.
He found the door, a windowless slab of grey-painted iron, and the line of buzzers, more grey against the grey of the cement. He could hardly read the signs. He needed the light on his phone. Live Studios. He pressed.
—Yeah?
—Howyeh. Can yeh hear me?
—Yeah.
—Is that Lochlainn?
—Yeah.
—It’s Jimmy Rabbitte.
—They’ve gone.
—The Halfbreds?
—Yeah.
—Can I come in anyway?
He heard the buzz, and a slight click. There was no handle on the door but there was room for his fingers, so he pulled it back and found the light switch before he pulled the door shut again. The switch was on one of those timers. He had thirty seconds, and a set of concrete steps in front of him. He was Tom fuckin’ Cruise. He went up, no bother, onto a landing, a turn, and more steps, and another switch. He gave it a thump and kept going, and came to another iron door, this one painted red with a single badly painted eye staring at him. He knocked, and stepped back as the door slowly came at him.
—Lochlainn?
—Yeah.
—Jimmy.
—Hi.
It was disappointing, even before he saw anything. Lochlainn obviously lived there, but it wasn’t like one of those New York lofts. This was a tiny kip. The studio was a corner of what might have been the bedroom – Jimmy wasn’t sure.
—They’ve gone, you said.
—Yeah.
These guys were always fuckin’ autistic; he’d forgotten.
—But they recorded the song? said Jimmy.
It was a prayer more than a question.
Lochlainn shrugged.
—Yeah.
—Is it anny good?
He shrugged again. Or at least his Nine Inch Nails T-shirt moved.
—Can I hear it so? said Jimmy.
—Yeah, said Lochlainn.—But.
—But?
—They only did one take.
—Is that a problem? Jimmy asked.—There was only ever one successful take of ‘Like a Rolling Stone’. Did you know that, Lochlainn?
—They, like, said Lochlainn.—I think they broke up.
—Ah Jesus, again?
—He – eh —
—Barry.
—Yeah. His phone rang before the end.
—Of the first take?
—Yeah.
—The only take?
—Yeah.
—Ah shite.
Lochlainn shrugged. He drew breath and spoke.
—She —
—Brenda.
—She said Connie.
—Same woman, said Jimmy.—Go on.
—She shouted.
—I’d better hear it, said Jimmy.
Bollix to it.
But he’d come this far. He wanted something to attach to the day, his first day of chemo. And he was curious.
—They’re old punks, he told Lochlainn.
—Maybe, said Lochlainn.—But he left because the Minister needed a file for questions in the Dáil tonight, yeah? And she had to pick up their daughter from hockey.
—And you reckon they broke up?
—Looked like that.
—That’s just their way, said Jimmy.—They love each other, really.
—Cool.
—Can I hear it?
Lochlainn shrugged again.
—It’s yours.
Jimmy looked around for somewhere to sit, bu
t changed his mind. He was too giddy to sit. And Lochlainn had the only chair.
It was rough.
—I’M DOWN ON MY KNEES —
It was dreadful.
—A MUNCHIN’ MUNCHIN’ MUNCHIN’ —
It was brilliant. Lochlainn was yawning but he hadn’t a clue.
—AND THE GIRL DON’T KNOW —
I GOT ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION —
Jimmy was listening to the howling kid inside every middle-aged man, and Brenda on the drums was the howling middle-aged woman.
—OH YES SHE DO —
—OH NO SHE DON’T —
—OH YES SHE DO —
—OH NO SHE DON’T —
—Was their bassist with them? Jimmy shouted.
—No, said Lochlainn.
—I didn’t think so, said Jimmy.—Just the two of them, yeah?
—Yeah.
—They fill the room but, don’t they?
—SHE’S SMILIN’ BACK AT ME —
SHE’S SHOWIN’ ME HOWTH JUNCTION —
AND THE BITCH DON’T KNOW —
I GOT ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION —
There was no getting away from it, the senior civil servant could sure make that guitar scream. There wouldn’t have been room for the bass.
—OH YES SHE DO —
—OH NO SHE DON’T —
This was the scream of a shocked and angry man. And Brenda’s drums boomed, brutal as ever. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. It was fuckin’ wonderful.
—BUT NOW SHE KNOWS —
—I GOT ERECTILE —
The phone – Barry’s phone – went off. ‘Ace of Spades’. It was perfect and it sounded distant, fading. And Barry’s voice.
—Sorry.
And Brenda’s.
—Ah, for fuck sake!
—I’ll have to take it.
Brenda kept at it. Waiting, wanting, wanting, wanting. And stopped.
—Then fucking take it, Barry!
—Stop it there, Lochlainn.
Brenda’s shout was still in the room.
—Exactly there, said Jimmy.
—What?
—I want it to end on Barreeeee – the way she says it, okay?
Jimmy loved this.
—Make the eeee hang there, he said.—Three beats. No, four. Then done. Can you handle that, Lochlainn?
Lochlainn shrugged – no problem, no interest, your funeral. He hadn’t a fuckin’ clue. And Barry and Brenda. They hadn’t a clue either. They’d left, gone back to their other lives. It was a classic, and Jimmy was the only man in the world who knew it. He’d probably need the rights to ‘Ace of Spades’, even that poxy phone version. But that was grand, easily done – he thought.