— What the fuck is Alex? Jimmy whispered to Aoife.
— A school.
— I thought they were after sendin’ their young one off to Egypt or somethin’.
— It’s Alexandra College.
— Mad pair o’ cunts.
They’d been mad back then, before kids and fees — before Aoife — famous for it and not a lot else. And somehow they’d brought their madness with them into their current lives. Insanity cuddled up to respectability, in their clothes and on their faces, in everything about them.
— Mad as shite, said Aoife.
Jimmy loved the way she said that.
They watched Connie Cunte eat a brown bread sandwich straight off the wall, no hands. She was licking the paint.
— It’s not the right brown bread, said her loving husband, Barry.
— Barry, said Jimmy. — Fuck off.
— Hey!
Barry pointed at Jimmy.
— Who’s going out there tonight?
He pointed at the wrong door.
— I don’t know, said Jimmy.
He felt Aoife’s hand on his knee.
— I fucking am! Barry yelled.
They heard Connie swallow and laugh.
— So, Barry yelled, and took a breath. — No sandwiches, no show! Read the fucking rider!
Barry worked in the Department of Finance. He often had the Minister’s ear.
— Will you go out there and tell the fucking crowd? he yelled.
— I will, yeah, said Jimmy. — No problem. There’s only about ten out there anyway. So I’ll tell each of them individually. In fact —
He waited till Connie had turned from the wall and was listening properly.
— You not showin’ up, said Jimmy, — is probably a much better night out than you actually goin’ onstage.
— Fuck off!
— No problem, said Jimmy.
Barry and Connie huddled again. It was what they did. They huddled, then roared at each other.
— No!
— Go on!
— No! Okay, okay — fuck!
Aoife squeezed Jimmy’s knee as Barry turned to them.
— I misunderstood, he said.
— I know, said Jimmy. — It’s not a problem.
Jimmy put his hand out, and Barry took it.
— Is the Heineken okay? Jimmy asked him. — The cans are the right shape, are they?
— Fuck off.
— Grand.
Jimmy hadn’t been accurate when he’d told Barry that there were only ten in the audience. There were twelve. But that figure grew to thirteen when the drummer left the band halfway through their crowd pleaser, ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke,’ but hung around for the rest of the gig so she could drive Barry home.
— I’m the designated driver, you stupid cunt!
It was a great night.
One of many.
Aoife did the sums — the accounts — one night. (Jimmy ran away from money and adding. Aoife did all that.) She looked across at Jimmy. This wasn’t too long ago, although it felt like decades.
— D’you know what? she’d said.
— What?
— It’s paying the mortgage.
— What is?
— shiterock.
— Go ’way.
— It is.
— That’s brilliant, isn’t it?
— It’s fantastic.
They’d laughed; it just burst out.
It got better. It became their business, his job.
His company.
Their company.
He’d jacked in his old job. He’d hated it, especially after he’d decided to leave; the last few weeks had been hell. But if he hadn’t resigned back then, he’d more than likely — almost definitely — have been out of a job eighteen months later when people stopped buying cars.
kelticpunk was suddenly their living. It was great, but frightening. There were great months and slow months, but the mortgage was always the same, hanging there, always more than they could afford. And the kids still ate the same amount. Actually, more. The first September had nearly creased them, with new school books and uniforms and black shoes, and the extra money for this and that. Football gear, a camogie stick, a deposit for a trip to Wales.
— Who in the name of Jesus’d want to go to Wales?
— Everyone else is going, said young Jimmy.
— Okay, okay.
And two ukuleles.
— Two?
— They’re cheap, said Mahalia.
— Two but? said Jimmy. — And don’t raise your eyes to the ceilin’, May. Please.
— One for school, said Mahalia.
— For school?
— Yeah, said Mahalia. — Music.
— Thanks for the clarification.
He’d gone too far; he could see that on her face.
— Sorry. Go on.
— And the other one for home, she’d said.
— What? said Jimmy. — Do they make yeh leave the one for school in school?
— No, she’d said. — But music — double class, like — is the same day as camogie and I can’t carry it all, like, the camogie gear and the ukulele and the ukulele would probably break, like, or get stolen.
So two ukuleles. Forty-four quid instead of twenty-two. It wasn’t much but it was real. And it was coming up to Christmas. Jimmy was getting Marvin a guitar and amp; he’d been in town with Marvin, and Marvin had stopped at the window of Music Maker, just down from the International, and stared at the electric guitars.
— Why not just get him an acoustic one? said Aoife.
— Cos he’ll turn into a singer-songwriter, said Jimmy. — No fuckin’ way.
Sales had gone up the year before, in October, November and December. But they’d sold nothing — almost literally — in the first two months of the new year. And this was before the recession, the crunch, the collapse — whatever the fuck they were calling it.
So they’d sold it. Most of it, seventy-five per cent. To Noeleen. They’d held onto a quarter — Noeleen’s suggestion. And they’d got rid of the mortgage. They owned their own house, and everything was easier. They didn’t know how much it was worth just before the crunch and they decided not to find out just after it.
— We don’t need to know what negative equity means, said Aoife.
— You probably know already, do yeh?
— Of course I do, said Aoife.
Three years into a recession that still felt like it was just starting, life was a bit safe — if he forgot that he had cancer for a minute. He got paid every month and still owned a chunk of the business. He still ran kelticpunk, but Noeleen ran him. He worked where she could keep an eye on him.
That wasn’t fair — it wasn’t true. It was a chat they’d had before they’d signed. Where was he going to work? He’d opted for her office.
— Sure?
— Yeah, he’d said. — Makes sense. Is there room?
— Yes, she’d said. — Plenty.
The decision — all the decisions — had been his, and Aoife’s. His — they’d been his. He’d always admit that. He had the safety of a salary, a pension, the VHI, a home he owned, and a bonus — so far — at the end of every year. The world was in shit but shiterock was making money.
And it killed him.
He liked Noeleen. He had to root through himself and pull out the resentment. Noeleen hadn’t put her heel on his neck. She’d made the offer and she’d left him and Aoife alone to pick at it.
They’d made the right decision and their timing had been accidentally perfect. They owned their house. The banks, the IMF, all forms of government could fuck off.
But it killed him. There was once — just once, and he never mentioned it to Aoife — the thought it had kicked off the cancer. He was literally going to end up what he was — gutless. And dead. He’d pushed the thought away. But the decision, the weeks leading up to it, had felt like physical pain, across his head, in his face, in his shoulders, through his stomach. They’d celebrated — they’d gone out to the Indian in Dollymount — after they’d signed the deal with Noeleen. He’d felt good about it, and right. But sad too. That was the word — sad. He’d had something special, and he’d lost it. He’d given it away.