The Guts (34 page)

—We’re missin’ Joe Duffy.

—Who’s Joe Duffy? Les asked.

—Cunt on the radio, said Outspan.—We righ’, lads?

They picked up the gear, the tents, the bags, the sleeping bags, the slabs of beer, the wellingtons, and got ready to walk into the heart of darkness.

Les led the way. Jimmy could see none of the young Les in him. There was nothing of the kid left. Young Outspan was still in the current Outspan. But young Les was gone. It made Jimmy sad – and guilty. He couldn’t really remember what Les had been like. When Jimmy had met him the night before, the only reason he’d known it was Les was the fact that he was standing in their parents’ kitchen and he couldn’t have been anyone else. But it wasn’t like he was damaged, or twitchy or anything like that. He seemed grand. He was fit. He didn’t have much to say. But that was alright too. He’d gone ahead a bit and Jimmy wanted to run after him, chat to him – ingratiate himself, make up for the decades.

—Look.

It was someone their own age.

—That’s a fuckin’ relief.

There were more, over near the edge of the camp. Normal-looking people. The Picnic was supposed to be for the more mature music lovers, and there were about nine of them here. There’d be more arriving later, Jimmy supposed, after work.

Outspan was struggling.

—Alrigh’?

—Grand.

—D’yeh want a rest?

—No.

He stopped. He looked lost for a second, gone. Then he was
alive again. It was fuckin’ madness, though; he was going to die. Here.

Les had found them a spot. Himself and Des were sitting on the tent packs by the time Jimmy and Outspan got there, and Les had opened a can. Outspan dropped –
dropped –
beside them and grabbed a can too, before he slipped back into his little coma, and woke again.

—The business, wha’, he said.

He was some boy.

They clinked cans.

—We’re here.

—We fuckin’ are.

—I like this, said Les.

—Jesus, said Outspan.—Over there, over there, look – quick!

They looked.

—D’yis remember when tits used to look like tha’? said Outspan.

They weren’t alone now. In the minute they’d been sitting there, they’d gone from outer suburbs to inner city. Girls pulling wheelie suitcases and boys hauling two-wheeled trolleys with multi-storey slabs of drink were surrounding them, claiming their space. The girl that Outspan was pointing out had just gone past in a wheelbarrow, pushed by two young guys who looked like they played serious rugby. Outspan’s mouth was about a foot away from her ear.

—Shut up, for fuck sake.

—Wha’?

They sat there for a bit, and relaxed.

—Ground’s damp.

—Stop whingein’.

—I don’t hear any music.

—It hasn’t started yet.

—So we paid a fortune for fuckin’ silence?

—Fuck off, said Jimmy.—It’ll kick off at four – I think.

He took the programme from his back pocket. He’d printed it out the night before. He had to bring it up to his eyes; he hadn’t brought his reading glasses.

—A quarter to four, he said.

—Who’s on tonight?

—Sigur Rós.

—Who?

—The xx.

—Fuckin’ who?

—Christy Moore.

—Ah, for fuck sake.

—I like Christy Moore, said Les.

—We all like Christy Moore, said Outspan.

Jimmy hated Christy Moore.

—But it’s like havin’ one o’ the neighbours gettin’ up onstage, said Outspan.—Who else? Someone we know – come on.

—Well, I’m going to Christy Moore, said Les.—A good old sing-song.

—Grand, said Jimmy.

Maybe Noeleen was right; he just automatically hated everything Irish.

—Why Christy? he asked Les.

—What d’you mean?

—Is it cos you live in England?

—Come on, said Les; he looked happily angry.—You think I cry into my pint, pining for home?

—No.

—He’s good, Jimmy.

—Okay.

—You haven’t changed.

How could he tell? How could Les know what Jimmy had been like twenty-five years ago, when Jimmy hadn’t a clue what Les had been like?

—I’m happy enough, said Jimmy.—I’ll watch Christy too.

—He’ll be fuckin’ delighted, said Outspan.

—Fuck off.

—He’ll write a fuckin’ song about yeh.

—Fuck off.

—Will we put up the tents?

—In a minute.

—Annyone hungry?

—No.

Jimmy could feel the heat now, on his neck and hands. The ground was cold under them though, even under plastic.

—When’s it open? Des asked.

—Three – I think.

—You didn’t answer me question, Rabbitte, said Outspan.

—Wha’ question?

—Who else is playin’? said Outspan.—That we’ve heard of.

—Tonigh’?

—Tonigh’. Come on.

—Grizzly Bear.

—Never heard of them.

—I have, said Des.

—Anny good?

—I don’t know, said Des.—I know the name. But I don’t think I’ve actually heard them.

—Ah now, Dezlie. For fuck sake.

—Dexys Midnight Runners, said Les.

—Tomorrow, said Jimmy.

—Fuckin’ brilliant, said Outspan.—Thirty thousand cunts singin’ ‘Come On Eileen’.

They were on their second cans.

—We should o’ brought some o’ those fold-up chairs.

—We might be able to buy some.

—My arse is numb.

—Like your fuckin’ head.

It was a great few hours. Doing nothing, getting to know the other lads. Jimmy liked Les. He liked being with him. He texted Darren.
At the Picnic wth Les. Hows the baby?
Les was a can ahead of the others but Jimmy made himself relax. Some of the passing kids stared at them, like they were afraid they’d find their parents with them.

—We’d better get the tents up or there’ll be no room.

—Good thinkin’.

It was hard standing up –

—Fuck.

– but good crack erecting the tents. Although they seemed a bit light and small, and useless.

—We should’ve brought some of those inflatable mattresses.

—Not at all. We’ll be grand.

They watched Les unrolling a rubber mat.

—Do we have annythin’ like that? Jimmy asked Outspan.

—What is it?

—A yoga mat.

Aoife had one like it, except hers had the dog’s teeth marks on it, and a corner missing.

—No, said Outspan.

—Wha’ have we?

—Wha’ d’yeh mean?

—To lie on.

—The fuckin’ ground.

Jimmy tapped the roof of the tent. It was like tapping a stretched silk shirt.

—Hope it doesn’t rain, he said.

—You’re startin’ to annoy me, Rabbitte, said Outspan, although Jimmy could tell that Outspan wasn’t annoyed. And he liked that, that they were slipping into their old selves, the way they’d known each other years ago.

—Just fuck off whingein’, said Outspan.—It’ll keep the rain ou’, no bother. Most of it, annyway.

—Grand.

—We’ll go for a wander, will we?

—Okay.

They threw all the stuff into one of the tents.

—Will it be safe?

—Probably not.

They followed Les. The grass was intact nearly everywhere. The boggier patches had been filled with wood chippings and bark, small bits of tree. There were people cooking, a gobshite playing a guitar, a few lads already skulled. Jimmy always thought of his own kids when he saw other kids drunk. But he’d park that for the weekend; he’d try to.

—Any sign of the jackses?

—The middle-aged bladder.

—Fuckin’ terrible, isn’t it?

—Over there – look it.

The muck looked more sinister as they got nearer the toilets, a line of plastic, windowless phone boxes that looked like they’d already taken a hammering. There was a urinal too, a long yellow plastic trough of a thing that was probably used for feeding cattle when the field wasn’t full of teenagers from Dublin. It was up against a wire fence, so they pissed while gangs of young ones and lads passed on the other side of the fence, and a group of older women who looked like they were normally a book club.

Outspan had gone into one of the phone boxes and he’d been in there for a fair while.

—Is he okay?

—He’s dyin’.

—Not now though – is he?

—Will I knock?

—Don’t know.

But Outspan spared them the decision. He climbed out of the thing, like he was getting out of a car. The kid who was next in line for Outspan’s jacks waited till Outspan had gone past, then moved to the back of a different queue.

—Alrigh’? said Jimmy.

—Grand, yeah, said Outspan.—That’ll do me till Sunday, I’d say.

—Ah good.

—Look.

Darfur had grown four or five times bigger since they’d arrived. The average age had gone up too, and some of the tents had seen serious use – these were people who’d brought families camping. There was movement; the kids were starting to migrate towards the stages and the main arena.

—I’ve changed me mind.

—Wha’?

—We’re not the ugliest nation in the world.

—Some of them are lovely, aren’t they?

—Most of them.

—Fuckin’ all o’ them. ’Cept your woman over there in the Donegal jersey.

—Were their mothers as good-looking?

—No way.

—Yeh sure?

—Positive, said Des.—I’d remember.

They could hear a band tuning up now, the noise drifting across at them.

—Who’s that?

—Don’t know, said Jimmy.

He hated having to admit it.

—Sounds shite anyway, he said.—Are we righ’?

They went back across to their tents. They packed jacks paper, rain jackets, middle-age hoodies, and Ambre Solaire –

—You’re fuckin’ optimistic.

– into two backpacks. They left everything else. The sun came out, sudden and strong, and Jimmy could see right through their tents. If the sun could do that what would the fuckin’ rain do?

—Will we bring the wellies?

—Fuck the wellies.

There were two young lads sitting on folding chairs outside
their tent, a better-looking tent than Jimmy’s. Les turned to them.

—Gentlemen.

—What’s the crack, man? said one of the young lads, a bogger. They were both wearing Kilkenny jerseys.

—You staying here for a while? Les asked – actually, he said it; it wasn’t a question.

—Probably.

—Keep an eye on our stuff, a’righ’.

—Oh. Right.

They wouldn’t budge for the night, the poor fuckers. Les wasn’t big or muscle-bound or anything like that. But there was something about him – certainty, solidity. And the English tail on his accent – it made him a bit of a Kray twin. The drink was safe. They could have left their watches and wallets.

—Thanks, lads.

—No bother, man.

They were on their way. Back through expanding Darfur, back past the jacks. They’d been given wristbands at the outside gate and now they had to show them again to a stoned-looking security man – and they were through, in. At the Picnic.

—Brilliant.

It was, immediately. It was like someone’s huge mad back garden. There was a helter-skelter and a ghost train, and Jimmy could see four big tents, and the outdoor stage was off to the right somewhere. There was a row of great-looking food places, and a bar or something that was already hopping, even though nothing had really started yet. And as they walked further in, they could see huge wooden sculptures and all kinds of hippy stuff going on in under the trees.

But Outspan was struggling again. They’d had to slow down. The year’s rain was right under them, sloshing at their soles.

—Alrigh’? Jimmy asked Outspan.

—Grand, said Outspan.

It was as if he’d got over some sort of obstacle, and he started to look around again.

—I wasn’t expectin’ this, he said.

—It’s cool.

—Body an’ Soul, said Outspan.—Wha’ the fuck is tha’?

—Yoga an’ knittin’.

—At a fuckin’ rock festival?

—Just ignore it.

They stood at what seemed to be a corner. Four men – one decision.

—How many stages are there? Des asked.

—Five, said Jimmy.—I think. More.

—Five gigs at the same time?

—Think so.

—Brilliant.

—Hungry, lads?

—Starving.

—Wouldn’t object to a nibble, said Les.

Outspan had the money. Or Jimmy hoped he did. Des hadn’t a bean, and Jimmy hadn’t a clue about Les. He had a couple of hundred quid himself.

—Liam?

He spoke quietly.

—Wha’?

—You know – the yurt an’ tha’. And how you were short o’ funds?

—Yeah?

—Are we okay?

—We are, yeah, said Outspan.—I just thought we could put it to better use.

—Grand.

—What do we fancy? said Outspan.

—Burger.

—Excellent.

Outspan and Les queued at the Gourmet Burger, and Jimmy and Des went across to another queue, to get the beer.

—It’s Heineken, Heineken or fuckin’ Heineken. Or look – Tiger.

—Fifty cent extra for the Tiger.

—Then fuck it.

There was no change out of twenty quid and they spilt about a fiver’s worth on the way back to Outspan and Les. They were sitting on a plastic poncho under a tree. There were no real sounds, no songs, coming from any of the tents, or the main stage. Just the occasional chord, or a testing one, testing two.

Outspan looked angry and happy.

—Enjoy these burgers, men, he said.—They’re the last you’re gettin’.

—What’s up?

—Price o’ the fuckin’ things.

—Steep, said Les.

—Fuckin’ criminal.

—Are they anny good but?

—That’s beside the fuckin’ point.

—Okay. The beer’s dear as well, by the way.

—Good burger.

—Great burger. Good chips.

—Great fuckin’ chips.

—They’re hand-cut, said Outspan.—An’ the burger’s organic.

—Hand cut?

—So it says on the van.

—How else would they be fuckin’ cut?

—Fuck knows, said Outspan.—Unless it’s Christy Brown. Left-foot-cut. Ah fuck it, I’m after gettin’ goo on me front.

—There’s jacks paper in the backpack there, said Jimmy.