— Loveyoutoo, he said, like one of the kids.
He was a fuckin’, fuckin’ eejit.
— I’d better do it now, he said.
— You’d better.
He put on his jacket.
— Not here but, he said. — See you later.
— No rush.
He went out to the snow. He pulled up his collar and walked down towards the barber. He took out the phone. He found the number — he rubbed snow off the screen. He phoned Imelda.
He’d phoned Darren and his da. He’d told them they’d have to have biopsies, that the cancer might be hereditary. And he’d decided — again: he’d find Les.
He’d asked his da about his dead uncles, his grandfather.
— How did Grandda die?
— Stopped breathin’.
— Nice one. Why?
— Why? Look it, son, I know you’ve your problems. But I’ll be honest. You’re startin’ to talk like a righ’ little prick.
— Wha’?
— You’ve just told me I might have cancer, said Jimmy Sr.
— I didn’t —
— Fuck off a minute. Yeh told me I’ll have to have a biopsy but yeh didn’t bother explainin’ what exactly a fuckin’ biopsy is. An’ I don’t like the sound of it. It’s too fuckin’ medical for me. Opsy.
— Sorry.
— I’m not finished.
— Ah fuck off, Da, would yeh.
He’d phoned back a few minutes later and apologised, and talked to him — finished up — properly.
This decision to find Les. It had been more than twenty years, and he’d let Les stay out there; he hadn’t given a shite.
He was lacerating himself — he knew it. He didn’t believe what he was thinking.
But here he was now, on Facebook. He’d signed up more than a year ago, nearly two; it was part of the job. And this was the first time he’d typed in Les Rabbitte.
He hit return.
Nothing. A few Lee Rabbittes, a Liz Rabbitte.
He typed Leslie Rabbitte.
Jesus. There he was.
No. There is no e at the end of this Rabbitt. There was no photo either, but the outline was female. It wasn’t Les, unless he’d had a sex change.
The wife, a daughter. The Lee Rabbittes, or the Liz Rabbitte. Maybe all of them, some of them, were connected to Les. There were more than twenty years to fill.
His parents had sent Les over to England in 1989, to get him away from trouble and the law. He’d stayed with their auntie, his ma’s sister — Jimmy couldn’t remember the auntie’s name. Then he was gone. Not a word since.
He typed in Imelda.
If Noeleen glanced over his shoulder when she was passing, she’d think he was chatting to Imelda May. She’d like that. There was money in Dublin rockabilly.
He left it there — Imelda.
He hadn’t met her. The snow had saved him.
The twit beside him got up.
— Anyone want anything?
It was part of his job, keeping the team in coffee and hot chocolate, some bright idea Noeleen had brought back from a conference.
— You’re grand, said Jimmy. — Thanks.
The coast was clearish. He typed in Quirk.
Nothing. She wasn’t on Facebook. That was kind of comforting. He remembered his da telling him about Bertie’s son picking up older women on Facebook.
Imelda was an older woman.
Anyway, the snow had stopped him — a few days before. He’d texted her. I’m stuck. And she’d got back, Me 2xx. He’d stared at the xx. He’d sent one back. Another timexx. And she’d got back to him. Ah wellxxx. Three of the fuckin’ things.
— Who’s texting you? Aoife had asked.
— Darren.
— What does he want?
— A new life.
It was an old joke.
— Say hello to him for me.
— Will do.
Not a second of guilt, sitting beside the woman he loved, texting the woman he probably wanted to ride. That was death for you.
Work.
He actually loved the job. And it was his own invention. Finding old bands, and finding the people who’d loved them. Loved them enough to pay money for their resurrected singles and albums.
Shiterock.com. His and Aoife’s secret name for it.
He’d been rooting in the attic — this was about five years before — and he came down with a rake of old singles, and himself and Aoife started flicking through them.
— The Irregulars?
— They were good, said Jimmy.
—’Fuck England’?
— The B-side’s better.
He’d gone up to get the old cot, so they could pass it on to one of Aoife’s cousins. Some cousin Aoife was very fond of — they’d gone to the Gaeltacht together or some oul’ shite that women insisted was important. Anyway, he came down with the cot and went back up for more of the singles. He passed handfuls of them down to Marvin.
— What are they?
— Just take them. I’ll explain when I come down. Be careful with them.
— Why?
— Because I said so!
He’d heard them laughing.
He’d climbed back down. He took the risk; there was no one holding the ladder. They’d all gone down to the kitchen. They’d forgotten about him.
The singles were in piles on the table, four towers of the things.
— And you hung on to them all, said Aoife.
She’d guarded the records while the boys and Mahalia circled the table, dying to bring them out the back and throw them.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I did.
— They’re lovely.
They were. A lot of them had picture sleeves. One of the singles on top was lime green.
— What are they? Marvin asked.
And Jimmy explained. Music in the grooves, the turntable, the needle — the stylus. The whole fuckin’ history.
— But why are they so small? Marvin asked. — I’ve seen the big ones.
— LPs, said Jimmy.
— Yeah.
— These are singles, said Jimmy. — Only one song on each side. The LPs usually had ten tracks — songs, like.
— I know what a track is, said Marvin.
— Good man, sorry.
He took one of the records from its sleeve and showed it to Marvin.
— See?
Marvin put his hand out and Jimmy let him take the vinyl. Marvin held it exactly as he should have. There was religion in the kitchen. A Lion King moment. The other three had seen Marvin, how he’d held the little disc at its sides. They copied him. Jimmy let them.
— Body of Christ, he said, as he handed Mahalia hers.
— Stop that, said Aoife.
She was laughing.
— Would everybody be like you? she asked.
— Wha’ d’you mean? A bit blasphemous?
— No, you eejit.
This was long before the cancer. She hadn’t called him an eejit in ages.
— Would they have held onto all their old singles? she asked. — Like you.
— Some would’ve, said Jimmy. — I suppose.
— There’s no need to be defensive.
— I’m not.
— You are, said Aoife.
He flicked through the singles.
— Well, said Aoife. — Are you going to answer?
— What was the question again, love, sorry?
— Would people like you, said Aoife, — collectors —
— I’ll accept that.
— Would many of them have kept them, like you?
— Some, said Jimmy.
— But a lot wouldn’t.
— No, said Jimmy.
— They wouldn’t all be as obsessive as you.
— No.
And the idea was born in the kitchen. shiterock.com. Her idea — he’d stolen it quickly. But they’d done it together at first. A team — a real one. He’d tracked down old bands, phoned people he’d known who might still know people. He became a private detective for an hour every night.