The Deportees

  They had eight Guthrie songs now, and some more to make up the gigful. 'Get Up Stand Up' – Gilbert's choice; 'Life During Wartime' – Kerri's choice; 'Inner City Blues' – King Robert's. It was beautiful, pared down to djembe and voice. —MAKE ME WANT TO HOLL–ERRR.

  —Want to, King Robert explained, —not Wanna. Mister Marvin Gaye was a genius but his diction, I am sorry to say, was very bad.

  'Hotel California' was Dan's; 'La Vida Loca,' Young Dan's, and a good one from Agnes.

  —I'M – SEEENG–ING IN THE RAIN – I'M SEEENG–ING IN THE RAI–NNN – IT'S A WON–DERFUL FEEE–LEENG – I'M HAHHH—

  —Fuckin' nice one, said Kenny.

  He was a bit in love with Agnes. His own choice was 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'.

  —You're jestin', said Jimmy.

  —Why not? said Kenny.

  Jimmy looked around the room.

  —Who'll sing it?

  Before they had time to mutter, Paddy Ward stepped forward.

  —I'm the man for that job.

  And, sixty last birthday, Paddy grabbed the mike. He knew the words; they suddenly made sense. Mary's bass went with Paddy, and Boris caught up and kept them company. Kenny hit the two famous notes – DEH–DUHHH – and disappeared behind his hair so he could cry in peace. Inside an hour, they had it broken. 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' was theirs, a brand new thing, and Kurt Cobain was an Irish traveller.

  They sat on the floor, gasping and sweating, laughing a bit, and Jimmy made the announcement.

  —You're playing on Wednesday.

  —Will that be football or tunes? said Paddy.

  They laughed, but they were leaning out for more.

  —Tunes, said Jimmy.

  —Please, where?

  —It's an unusual one, said Jimmy. —But it'll be great for exposure.

  —Where?

  —Well, said Jimmy. —You know the Liffey?

  11 Civil War

  It was a fuckin' disaster.

  They played on a raft below the new pedestrian bridge, the warm-up act for a sponsored swim that didn't happen. The thing was cancelled because of reports of rats pissing in the water at Lucan.

  —Weil's Disease, the organiser, the husband of one of Jimmy's cousins, told Jimmy on the mobile. —It's transmitted by rats' urine. Anaemia, sore eyes, nose bleeds, jaundice. And that's just for starters.

  Jimmy was standing on the bridge, trying to hold onto a rope. There was an inflatable bottle of Heineken on the other end of the rope, a giant green yoke, that kept bashing into the raft. Leo's high-hat had already gone into the water. And the wind was making waves that Jimmy had never seen on the river before.

  —Rats' piss? he said. —Jesus, man, if you took the piss out of the Liffey there'd be nothin' left.

  —I know where you're comin' from, said the cousin's husband. —But we can't take the risk.

  —So you're at home and we're fuckin' here.

  —I'm at work.

  —Whatever.

  —Sorry, Jim, but the medical advice is to stay out of the water.

  —Ah, go drink a glass of it, yeh fuckin' bollix.

  Jimmy pocketed the mobile and concentrated on the rope. The Heineken bottle was charging at the raft again. Mickah was at the south side of the bridge, guarding the gear; they'd caught a couple of young fellas trying to toss Kerri's spare guitars into the river. Jimmy looked at the raft. It was up against the quay wall, in under the boardwalk, being lifted and dropped by those waves. Paddy was on his knees, searching for grip. Leo was lying across his drums; he'd given up playing. Agnes was trying to grab the boardwalk rail and climb. The gig was well and truly over, although King Robert wouldn't admit it yet – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE – and Jimmy was in trouble.

  He helped them all and their instruments over the quay wall, back onto solid land.

  —Well done. Yis were great.

  But he got nothing back for his efforts, just wet-eyed glares and angry words diluted by seasickness.

  —I do not like these kind of concerts, said Dan the elder as he wiped his eyes.

  —Sorry, Dan, said Jimmy.

  —Yes, said Dan. —Me too.

  The two Dans held each other up as they walked away. King Robert was gone before Jimmy had a chance to say anything to him. Paddy was falling into the back of a taxi. And Kerri slapped Jimmy.

  —With her guitar strap, Jimmy told Aoife later, in the bed. —Across the back of me legs.

  —Show, said Aoife.

  —There's nothing to see, really, said Jimmy.

  —Show me anyway, said Aoife. —Ouch.

  Smokey had just bitten her nipple.

  —Brian, Brian, Brian, said Aoife.

  —Just like his da, said Jimmy.

  —Jesus, I knew you'd say that, said Aoife. —So, what'll you do?

  —Don't know, bitch, said Jimmy. —What d'you think?

  —Phone them all, apologise, and ask for another chance.

  —No way, said Jimmy.

  But he did. He stayed at home from work the next day, sick, and tried to contact all of them. It was easier said than done. Some had no phones, and Leo and Gilbert weren't living where they should have been. And, seeing as he was at home, Aoife went into town – her first adventure since Smokey'd been born – and she left Jimmy to look after the kids.

  —That'll teach you to mitch, she said, the wagon, as she took the car keys from his pocket.

  —Spuddies! said Mahalia. —Now!

  They listened, all of them – Mary, Kerri, Paddy, the Dans, Agnes. They were all ready to give it another go.

  —Under a fuckin' roof, though, boy, said Kenny.

  And Jimmy was getting excited again. Later on, after dark, he went out and tracked down Gilbert. The African guy who answered the door to his old flat stared at Jimmy for a long time, then sent him on to another flat, in a house of flats off the North Circular.

  —When will be the next concert? asked Gilbert.

  —Don't know yet, said Jimmy.

  —Before Friday? said Gilbert.

  —Wouldn't think so, said Jimmy. —Why?

  —I am being deported, said Gilbert.

  —No, said Aoife when Jimmy asked her if Gilbert could stay with them for a while.

  —He's nice, said Jimmy.

  —No.

  —You'll like him.

  —No.

  —His family was wiped out in the civil war, said Jimmy.

  —There's no civil war in Nigeria. You should be ashamed of yourself, Jimmy Rabbitte.

  —Okay, okay, said Jimmy. —I'll tell him.

  He got out of the bed.

  —Jesus, Jimmy. Can it not wait till the morning?

  —Not really, said Jimmy. —He's up in the attic.

  12 Fat Gandhi's Back Garden

  Jimmy was right. Aoife did like Gilbert. She made him a rasher sandwich, and one for herself, and nothing for Jimmy—

  —Only two left; sorry.

  when Jimmy got him down from the attic.

  —Was it cold up there? she asked him.

  —No, said Gilbert. —It was quite comfortable.

  —See? said Jimmy. —I told you.

  —Shut up, you, said Aoife. —He didn't charge you, did he? she asked Gilbert.

  —No, said Gilbert.

  —I wouldn't put it past him, said Aoife.

  —That's a fuckin' outrageous thing to say, said Jimmy. —Are you eating the rest of that rasher?

  It was Mickah who got them the next gig. His born-again pal, Fat Gandhi, owner of Celtic Tandoori, was organising a party for his daughter's twenty-first, and he'd given up looking for a local band that would promise to play only songs of a suitable nature.

  —They're not coming into my house so they can sing about the devil and blow-jobs, he told Mickah as he double-checked the order. —Ah, look it, I'm after putting in too many samosas. So, anyway, I'll have to fork out five hundred for a disc jockey.

  —I have a band for yeh, brother, sa
id Mickah. —Kind of a gospel group.

  —How much? said Gandhi.

  —Four hundred and ninety-nine, said Mickah.

  So, they were The Deportees again, and on the road, all three miles north, to Sutton and Fat Gandhi's back garden. In the meantime, Gilbert stayed at Jimmy's. He slept on the couch, and was up before the kids every morning. He made their school lunches, sneaked in stuff that Aoife would never have given them.

  —What's in yours?

  —Two cans of Coke and a Lanky Larry.

  The kids loved him.

  —Again! said Mahalia.

  Gilbert whacked his head with the spatula.

  —Again!

  They explained the situation to Marvin and Jimmy Two.

  —And sometimes, if the bell rings, he might go up to the attic.

  —Rapid, said Marvin. —Like Anne Frank.

  —A bit, said Jimmy. —Happier ending, but.

  —And don't tell anyone, said Aoife.

  —No way.

  —Good lads, said Jimmy. —I'm proud of yis. Here.

  He put his hand in his pocket.

  —It's alright, Dad, said Jimmy Two. —This one's on us.

  Gandhi's back garden ran the length of a good-sized supermarket, right down to the sea.

  —Big, said Dan the elder.

  —Slightly smaller than Nigeria, said Gilbert.

  Gilbert was wearing shades and a silver wig that Aoife had bought for her sister's hen party.

  —Hey, Rabbitte, said Kenny. —You said there'd be no more outside gigs.

  —There won't be, said Jimmy. —Look.

  Then they saw it, the circus tent; they'd missed it.

  They lugged the gear the long way, around the house, escorted and growled at by Fat Gandhi's dog, a mutt called John the Baptist. They were set up, in front of the dance floor, plywood sheets that didn't quite meet, when the guests started poking their heads into the tent.

  —There's all sorts in there, they heard a voice from beyond the flap.

  Gandhi himself stuck the head in.

  —Are yis alright for samosas?

  —Grand, thanks.

  Gandhi looked at Mickah.

  —Why are they dressed like that, Michael?

  They wore dungarees, all of them, and felt fedoras, unlaced runners or Docs.

  —It's just their look, said Mickah.

  —I see, said Gandhi.

  Jimmy had bought some old cardboard suitcases and covered them with stickers – Lagos, Dublin, Minsk, California, Budapest and Trim. The cases were piled in front of the mic stands. Mickah finished hanging the banner, BOUND FOR GLORY, painted by Marvin and Jimmy Two.

  The tent began to fill. The relations were first, the aunties and uncles, a granny, wheeled in by Gandhi's wife.

  —They'll hate yis, said Mickah.

  Then the birthday girl, a surly-looking young one, and her pals; they began to outnumber the aunties and uncles.

  —They'll hate yis as well, said Mickah.

  —Shut up, Mickah.

  They stood and stared at the Deportees. Not a smile among them. It was suddenly very hot in the tent.

  —Better get it over with, said Jimmy.

  He nodded to King Robert but, before the King could grab the mic, Fat Gandhi had it.

  —Lord, said Fat Gandhi. —We thank you for this day. We thank you for the gift of Orla and the joy that she has given us every day of these twenty-one wonderful years.

  Gandhi smiled at the birthday girl but she was staring at the plywood.

  —And we thank you for Orla's sisters, Sinéad, Ruth, Miriam and Mary.

  More eyes hit the plywood.

  —We thank you for the food and refreshments. And, last but not least, Lord, we thank you for the talented people behind me here who have come from, well, all over the place, to entertain and inspire us. And I'm sure they'll do their level best. Amen.

  He handed the mic to King Robert.

  —It's all yours.

  —Exactly, said King Robert.

  13 Drugs and Christianity

  King Robert took the mic from Fat Gandhi.

  They were ready and nervous, dying to take on the silence that was sucking the air from the tent. King Robert lifted his arm, and dropped it. Leo smacked the drums, and the world ended; the dead arose and Satan stepped into the tent. So Gandhi thought, until he saw John the Baptist falling out of the bass drum.

  While Gandhi brought the Baptist up to the house, to see if he could sedate him with a mix of Pal and paracetamol, King Robert tried again. He lifted his arm, and dropped it.

  And they were The Deportees.

  —HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?

  They roared into the song. Paddy joined King Robert at the mic.

  —HAVE YOU SEE-EEN—

  THAT VIG–IL—

  AH–HANTI MAN?

  Jimmy watched the walls of the tent pushed back by the power of the sound. One of the aunties dropped her glass. Jimmy watched it hit the plywood, but he didn't hear it smash. He watched faces, and feet.

  They were winning.

  —HAVE YOU SEE–EE–EN THAT VIG–IL–AH– ANTIMA–AN—

  There were feet tapping, no one charging to the exit. They were curious, and some were already impressed. Agnes was singing now too.

  —CAN YOU HEAR HIS NAME ALL OV–ER THIS LAND—

  God, they were good, the real thing. They looked, sounded, were it – Jimmy Rabbitte's band. Kerri was sex on a stick up there, and so, mind you, was Mary, in an early-middle-aged very nice kind of way. The dungarees suited her, and so did the anger.

  —WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—

  But why was she angry?

  —WHY WOULD A—

  VIG–IL–AH–HANTI MAN—

  Then Jimmy saw the answer right beside her, the ghost of Kurt Cobain. Kenny was whirling and dangerous; he was losing it. Jimmy looked at Kenny's eyes; they weren't there at all. He'd taken something.