The Deportees (6 page)

Jimmy did nothing about the phone call. Yeah, he was furious and a bit scared, but he didn't know what to do about it and he didn't want it interfering with him. He hoped, half decided that it wouldn't happen again. It was just some creep out there, killing the night. But he made sure that the kids never had the phone, to be on the safe side.

—
My
phone! said Mahalia.

—Mine, love, said Jimmy. —Daddy needs it for his work.

—Want it!

The doorbell went, thank Christ, and he escaped.

The phone was still hopping, three weeks after he'd put up the posters. The
Hot Press
ad was out there catching fish as well. And the local word was out: Jimmy Rabbitte was forming a group. They were coming to the door.

This time it was a kid, a young fella of about fifteen.

—Yeah? said Jimmy.

—Can I be in your band?

—What's your name?

—Pedro.

—No, it isn't, said Jimmy. —It's Wayne. I went to school with your da.

—Can I be in it, annyway?

—Sorry, said Jimmy. —Tell your da I was askin' for him.

He shut the door.

The bell again.

Pedro again.

—D'yeh want to buy a wheelie-bin?

—No, thanks, Wayne.

A nice kid.

—D'yeh want to help with the equipment? said Jimmy.

—Serious? said Wayne.

—Yeah.

—Ah, thanks, m'n.

—No problem, said Jimmy.

He liked to see enterprise in the young; it was a great little country. And he was having a ball.

There'd been no more midnight phone calls.

He was driving Marvin to a match in Malahide when he saw the Romanian. More importantly, he saw the accordion on the Romanian's back. A guy about his own age, selling the
Big Issue's
Irish edition at the traffic lights in Coolock, strolling down the line of cars when the lights were red. Jimmy rolled down the window.

—Want to join a band? he said.

—Want to buy a magazine? said the man.

—If I buy one, will you join the band?

—For sure. My son, too.

He pointed at a kid walking another line of traffic.

—Plays trumpet. Very good.

—Fair enough, said Jimmy. —Hang on till I park the car.

—What about the match? said Marvin.

He was changing into his gear in the back of the car.

—We've loads of time, said Jimmy.

And he was right. He signed up the two Dans, father and son, and Marvin won two-nil; he didn't score but he passed the ball to the fella who passed it to the fella who scored the second one.

It was weird, thought Jimmy that night. He was lying in bed; the phone was off. If it had been an Irishman with an accordion, he'd have run him over. Up to the moment he saw it on Dan's back, he'd hated accordions, everyone and everything to do with accordions. But Dan had played his, a Romanian jig or something, on the side of the road, just down from the Tayto factory, and Jimmy had loved it. He'd left the Dans with his number, their number in his pocket, and the promise that he'd contact them in the next couple of days.

—I'm thinking of getting all the band together, said Jimmy, now.

—Fine, said Aoife; she was drifting off to sleep.

—Here, said Jimmy.

—Fine.

—I thought, maybe, we'd have some finger-food, said Jimmy.

—Fine.

—So, said Jimmy. —Will you handle that department, or—

She screamed.

—Or I can go to Marks and Spencer's, said Jimmy. —No bother.

—Jimmy!

—Yes, bitch?

—The baby!

—What baby?

—The bay-beee!

—Oh Jesus! The baby. Is it comin', is it?

—Yes!

—It's a bit early.

—Jimmy!!

—Right, love; I'm in control.

And he was. Head clear of the band, accordions, tours of the world and the midlands. He phoned his parents, checked on Aoife. She was staying in the bed, less jumpy now that they were getting ready to go to the hospital. He put on the kettle, packed her bag, flew around the bedroom and bathroom as she told him what she did and didn't need. What did she want with a hair-dryer, for fuck sake? But he packed it, said nothing.

His parents arrived.

—Did you get your remote control fixed? said his da.

—Shut up, you, said his ma.

They watched at the door as Jimmy helped Aoife into the car.

—Don't worry about anything here, said his ma.

Aoife smiled out at them, and they were on the road to the Rotunda.

—How're yeh doin'? said Jimmy.

—Okay, said Aoife.

—It's alright, said Jimmy. —I can cancel the band meeting.

He was grinning when she looked at him.

—Aretha if it's a girl, he said.

—No way, said Aoife. —Andrea. FORGIVEN, NOT — Oh, Christ; Jimmy! Stop the car!

Here?

Fairview.

—Stop!

—It's only up the road!

—Stop!!

Smokey was born right under the pedestrian bridge in Fairview. And thank Christ for mobile phones. The head was well on its way – TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT MY FACE – when Jimmy heard the ambulance and suddenly he felt confident enough to deliver the baby himself. The shakes were gone; he was in control, all set to catch the head.

—Jimmy!

—Right here, love.

—Jimmy!

—Looks like a boy from here, love.

But the lads in the ambulance hopped out and took over and, with her arse hanging over the bus lane, Aoife gave the one last shove and Jimmy was spot on: it was a boy. A beautiful, red, cranky boy, already giving out shite about the state of the public health service. There wasn't room for Jimmy to get in at Aoife, to hug and adore her, but he laughed and whooped and hopped over the park railings. He waved at the kids up on the pedestrian bridge.

—What is it? yelled one of them.

—Boy!

—Ah, nice one. Well done, Mister.

—No problem, said Jimmy.

And he meant it. He was a da again, a father, and it was just fuckin' wonderful, what he'd always wanted, what he was on earth for. Marvin, Jimmy Two, Mahalia and now this one, delivered by Jimmy himself, more or less, another boy, another star – Smokey.

—Brian.

—Wha'? said Jimmy.

—Brian, said Aoife ...

They were in the back of the ambulance, on their way to the Rotunda.

Fair enough, Brian was her father's name, and he was sound. But, Brian? As the ambulance took a sharpish right onto the North Circular and sent Jimmy flying and the baby squalling, he ran through his Stax, Chess, Hi and Atlantic albums, mentally flicking through all of them, but, for the life of him, he couldn't find a Brian, not a drummer or a sound engineer, not even a fuckin' sleeve designer.

But he said nothing.

They made it to the Rotunda. Smokey was checked and weighed. Seven pounds, no ounces.

—A fine boy, said the Filipino midwife.

—Can you sing? said Jimmy.

—Jimmy, said Aoife.

But she was smiling at him as she fell asleep.

It was four in the morning. AND ONCE MORE THE DAWNING JUST WOKE UP THE WANTIN' IN ME-EE, Jimmy sang it to himself as he walked out onto Parnell Square. A great song that. The first country song he'd ever liked. By Faron Young. Faron Young. Not
Brian
Young.

But it was all great. The seagulls were up, and no one else. He had the world to himself. He'd left the car in Fairview; he'd walk.

His phone rang in his pocket. That would be his da. He flipped it open.

—A boy, he said.

He recognised the absence of voice, remembered it too late.

—Nigger lover.

And Jimmy dropped, he actually fell to the path, and cried. He couldn't stop. He was exhausted, angry, hopeless. He cried. He couldn't explain it, not really. Just some sick bollix, getting his life from his late-night calls, a sad bastard with nothing and no one else, but Jimmy couldn't help it, he couldn't stop. That evil out there, on a night like this. He looked at the windows across the street. He searched.

The phone rang again. It was his own number this time.

—Well?

His da.

—Boy, seven pounds, said Jimmy.

—Grand, said his da.

—I'm on my way home, said Jimmy.

—No hurry, said his da.

Jimmy felt better. He walked to O'Connell Street.

The phone again. His da again. Jimmy knew the routine.

—What I really meant to ask was, will you get us a bottle of milk on your way back?

—No problem, said Jimmy. —Seeyeh.

It used to irritate him, the absolute certainty that his father would come back with the last say, sometimes funny, often not, but always certain. It used to really get on Jimmy's wick but he'd copped on a few years back, when his own kids started arriving: it was love.

He was grand again. He wasn't tired any more either. He was wired, raring to go. When the kids woke up he told them the news.

—So?

—Cool.

—
I'm
the new baby!

He brought them to the zoo.

—Look at the baby monkey, Mahalia.

—No!

And, while they wandered the zoo till it was time to bring them to meet their new brother and Mahalia refused to look at anything under the age of twenty-seven, Jimmy made some calls.

—So, tomorrow night; okay.

—Yes, said King Robert.

—D'you think you'll be able to find it?

—For sure, said Dan.

He was bringing them all together.

—Got a name for this band? said the young one from New York who wasn't white.

—Yeah, Jimmy lied.

He had the rest of the day to think of one.

They were all there in the kitchen, their first time together.

Jimmy Rabbitte: manager.

Kenny Reynolds: guitar.

Gilbert Boro: djembe drum and scream.

Agnes Bunuel: vocals.

Kerri Sheppard: vocals and guitars.

—Am I black enough for you, Mister Rabbitte? she asked when Jimmy climbed over the kids and opened the door for her.

—You're grand, said Jimmy. —Come on in.

In actual fact, she was hardly black at all, but she did have dreadlocks. And she was gorgeous.

Dan Stefanescu: accordion.

Young Dan Stefanescu: trumpet.

Leo Ivanov: drums.

Last to arrive was King Robert. Marvin had opened the door and the three kids were staring up at him.

—Hey, Mister, said Marvin.

Don't mention his colour, Marv, said Jimmy to himself; please.

—Who do you follow? said Marvin.

—Follow? said King Robert.

—Support, said Marvin.

—I follow Bray Wanderers, said King Robert.

And the kids fell around laughing.

—Don't mind them, said Jimmy. —Come on in. No problem getting here, no?

—Your directions were adequate, Mister Rabbitte.

It was quiet in the kitchen, just Dan and Young Dan chatting together and Kenny trying to chat to Agnes. And it got even quieter when King Robert walked in after Jimmy. He stared at them all, gave them a long, hard second each. Even Jimmy was sweating. He filled the kettle and introduced everybody. They smiled, and nodded, or didn't smile, and didn't nod. He filled cups and mugs, handed around the coffee and tea. Then he tried an old trick, an ice-breaker he'd used when The Commitments first met. He got out the Jaffa Cakes.

—Soul food, he said.

It didn't really work with this gang, though. The dynamic was different; they were older, foreign, the country was too prosperous, they weren't hungry – something. Kenny from Roscommon was the only one to dive at the plate.

This was no party. Jimmy was all alone there in the kitchen. There was no spark here, no energy at all. They were stiff, nervous, ready to leave. King Robert stood against the wall, well away from all of them. Gilbert was looking at the back door. It wasn't going to happen; Jimmy could feel it. But he pressed on.

—So, he said. —The music.

They looked at him.

—Woody Guthrie, he said.

—Pardon me?

—Listen to this, said Jimmy.

There were eight in the kitchen, not counting himself, but it wasn't the full band. He needed bass, more vocals; he needed age and protection. And belief.

He was working on it.

He played 'Vigilante Man' for them. A Guthrie song, but Woody wasn't singing this one. That was for later. Jimmy played them the Hindu Love Gods – three-quarters of REM backing Warren Zevon. Released in 1990, it was the fifth CD Jimmy had ever bought. 'Vigilante Man' was the last track.

—HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?

They listened. And Jimmy watched them loosen and fall in love. It was music they wanted to play; he could tell already. It rolled and growled; it was angry and confident, knocking shite out of the enemy. Agnes was tapping her foot. Young Dan was tapping the dishwasher. Kenny was tapping his belt buckle.

—WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—

King Robert's ear was aimed at the nearest speaker, already taking the words.

—CARRY A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—

It was over.

—HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.

And Jimmy was pleased with himself. He'd done it again. He had his band. He had the music and the name. He looked at his watch: half seven. His mother would be coming in ten minutes. She was looking after the kids so he could dash in to see Aoife and Smokey. They were coming home from the hospital tomorrow, so he had to go on to his brother Darren's house in Lucan, to get the crib and a few bags of baby-gros and other stuff. And there was nothing left in the fridge for the kids' lunches for school tomorrow, so he'd have to stop at the 24-hour shop on the Malahide Road on the way back. And his da had said something about them going for a pint. And, before all that, he had to help Jimmy Two with his Irish homework and Marvin with his sums.

But Jimmy was a satisfied man. This time the silence was comfortable.

—That's the kind of thing yis'll be playin', said Jimmy. —Alright?

—I fuckin' like the bit about the shotgun, said Kenny.

Kerri the Yank got ready to object but, before she got to words, King Robert started singing.

—OHHH—

HAVE YOU – SEE–EE–EEN THAT VIGIL— ANTEE—MA–AN.

And that was it. The nine people in Jimmy's kitchen were all together.

—So, said Kerri. —Who are we?

—The Deportees, said Jimmy.

—Fuckin' ace, boy, said Kenny.