He’d chickened out.
The anger never lasted. But the sadness, the grief, had never left. Like losing the kids, them growing up and away from him, one by one. This was the same feeling — grief. The risk, the excitement, at a point in his life when it would have been perfect, the two of them doing it together. But bills — fuckin’ money — terrified him. The blood, when he’d noticed it first — and what the fuck had he been doing, examing the toilet paper? — when he’d watched it dyeing the water in the jacks, for a second, for a bit more than a second, it had made sense and he’d deserved it.
There was no photo, just a kid’s drawing of a rabbit there instead. But the drawing was good — deliberately bad. There might have been an adult there, hiding behind the bunny.
Maisie Rabbitte.
Could he send her a message? Could he ask her if her dad was called Les? Maisie only shares some information with everyone. If you know Maisie, add her as a friend or send her a message. He’d do it, send her a message. But anything he wrote or thought of writing looked creepy.
He fired off a real message. Hi Andrew. Got those snaps, ta. Any of the band post Eric? Raining here — as usual. J.
Andrew — Andy Belton — had been lead singer and one of three guitarists with the Dangerous Dream, a prog rock group that, judging by the sales of their only album, My Life on the Planet Behind You, still had a following, and maybe a new following. Jimmy thought they were shite and — he loved this — it didn’t matter. It was business, and Andrew seemed sound. They hadn’t met. Andrew lived somewhere near Nairobi — near in an African way. He worked for one of the Irish NGOs, and he was probably driving across a desert or something, boiling his head. Jimmy didn’t know. But he knew this: the rain remark in his email made sound business sense. All his clients were middle-aged and most of them seemed to accept it, and they needed to know that the man who was looking after them was one of their own, another hip but middle-aged lad. And the weather did that. Information valuable to the middle-aged — raining here — handed over with a bit of timeless sarcasm — as usual. With clients he’d met, it could become as fuckin’ usual. But Jimmy hadn’t met Andrew.
He loved that too. The fact that he could find the man, excite the man, get the man to excite the other men, become a new big thing in their lives, without actually meeting them. He’d found Andrew on Facebook and Andrew had agreed to let Jimmy resurrect the Dangerous Dream, before Jimmy knew that Andrew was in Kenya. Jimmy had never heard Andrew’s voice, except on his poxy record. And he loved that as well. He could like the man without liking the music, without actually knowing the man. And he knew: he’d never tell Andrew that his music was shite. Big Jimmy would tell the little bollix in Jimmy to keep all that to himself.
— You’re maturing, said Aoife.
— Is that what it is?
— Yes.
— It took its time, said Jimmy. — And too fuckin’ late.
— Stop.
— Sorry, he said.
— Okay.
— I didn’t mean it. But — I don’t know — I have to let it out sometimes.
— I know.
— Even when I’m only jokin’.
— I know. Just —
— What?
— Maybe be a bit careful of what you say, said Aoife.
— I know, said Jimmy. — The kids.
— No, said Aoife. — Me.
— Okay.
Hi. My name is Jimmy Rabbitte. I live in Dublin. Do you know anyone called Les Rabbitte? Or Leslie? Thanks. Jimmy.
He sent it.
He ran his fingers around the back of his head, from ear to ear. He hated it when he found a patch, a few missed bristles that felt like a harvested field. He leaned right over the sink, brought his face bang up to the mirror.
It looked alright; he’d done the job.
In the corner of the mirror — he saw something. He looked behind him.
It was Marvin.
Gone.
— Marv?
Marvin didn’t answer.
— Alright?
No answer. And he couldn’t hear feet on the stairs, or a door being opened or shut. But Marvin had definitely been there at the bathroom door. Looking at Jimmy shaving his head.
Rehearsing for the chemo.
He threw cold water over his head, bent down over the sink. He liked that. He felt wild, like he was out in the woods or something. He rubbed his head with a towel, looked at himself again. His eyes were tired, a bit dirty looking. He was tired.
He knocked on the boys’ bedroom door. No one answered, but that meant nothing.
He knocked again. He waited, and went in.
Marvin wasn’t there, or Brian. But young Jimmy was. Lying back, eyes closed — actually asleep.
Jimmy bent down and kissed his forehead. It was a while since he’d been able to do that. It was there for him now. The big, clear, beautiful forehead.
Something caught in Jimmy’s throat. A sob.
He held young Jimmy’s earphones and gently took them from his ears.
Young Jimmy’s eyes were open.
— Alright? said Jimmy.
— Yeah.
— You were asleep.
— Yeah.
— You okay?
— Yeah.
— Just sleepy?
— Yeah.
Jimmy sat on the bed. Young Jimmy lay there, waiting for him to go. He would, but he wanted a few more seconds. He put the earphones into his own ears.
The Dangerous Dream.
Jimmy had emailed the album to the boys and Mahalia.
Our cool dad.
Another fuckin’ sob.
He choked it. No way was he going to inflict it on young Jimmy. He took out the earphones.
— I’ll leave yeh to it.
— Yeah.
— Later.
— Yeah, later.
— I want to show you somethin’.
He’d brought the laptop into the kitchen. He sat at the table and Aoife stood at his shoulder. He had it open on his Facebook page.
— You changed it, she said.
She pointed at his photograph in the left-top corner.
— Thought I’d better, he said.
— It’s nice.
— Thanks.
It was him looking straight at the camera, the glass hole above the laptop screen. The shaved head, no smile.
— A bit fierce maybe, he said.
— No, she said. — Sorry to disappoint you. Serious. Interesting.
— Keep goin’.
— That’s as far as I was going to take it, said Aoife. — Not fierce.
She patted his head.
He liked that.
— Anyway, he said. — This is — it might be — I don’t know. Remember I told you I sent a message to someone called Maisie Rabbitte?
— Yes, said Aoife. — I do. What a name though.
— Yeah.
— She’d have to be lovely.
— Yeah. Look.
Aoife read it.
He’s my dad.
— God, she said.
The sob again.
Aoife heard it. She put her hands on his head and pulled it back to her stomach.
— What’ll you write back to her? she asked.
— I don’t know, he said.
He was grand — he could talk.
— But I’m just after thinkin’. I changed my profile picture after I sent her the first message. I think I did anyway. So she sent her message to a man with hair and she’ll be gettin’ the answer from a fuckin’ serial killer.