— 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.
— Sound.
They watched Outspan dipping a wad of paper into his Heineken and rubbing the ketchup off his hoodie. It came off without a struggle.
— Jesus, said Des. — What’s it doing to our insides?
— I couldn’t give a shite, said Outspan. — I’m not even sure I have any fuckin’ insides.
He looked around for somewhere to put the wad. It was funny how they’d all been tamed by age. Making sure they didn’t get damp, looking for places to put the litter.
Outspan dropped the paper beside him.
— Here, he said to Jimmy. — You never told me Leslie was in the club as well.
— The club?
— Cancer.
Des’s mouth stopped working, even though he was dug into his burger.
Something — some band — started in one of the tents.
— What’s tha’?
— Don’t know, said Jimmy.
— The fuckin’ expert.
— Fuck off, said Jimmy.
He got the programme from his pocket.
— It might be Gypsies on the Autobahn.
— Sounds more like Gypsies on the M50.
— They’ll survive without us.
— What’s the first band worth seeing, Jim? said Les.
— Grandaddy, said Jimmy. — I’d say.
— One of the tents, yeah?
— Tha’ one over there — I think.
— Great.
— All tha’ way?
— Fuck off.
— What sort o’ stuff do they play?
— It’s kind o’ unique, said Jimmy.
— Oh fuck.
Des needed rescuing. He was eating again, but he didn’t look like he was enjoying himself.
— You’re the odd man out, Des, said Jimmy.
— Far as he knows, said Outspan.
Les laughed.
— Les had the same version as me, Jimmy told Des. — But he’s grand now. Righ’, Les?
Les nodded.
Des would be fine. He’d already known about Jimmy, and Jimmy had warned him about Outspan — although a warning could never come close to meeting the man himself. So Les was the only surprise addition.
It was getting cold. Jimmy could feel the damp pawing his arse, and he was ready for another piss. But he felt great. The anxiety had gone out of his neck and shoulders and the burger was probably the best he’d ever eaten. He didn’t give much of a shite about food. But it was the context — the time, the place, the company, the hand-cut chips.
— Could’ve done with a bit more salt, Liam.
— Fuck off.
None of Jimmy’s acts were on till the next day, the Saturday. He had the Halfbreds and the Bastards of Lir, Ocean’s da’s poxy band, and the one he was planking about — and giddy about — Moanin’ At Midnight. He was a free man till then.
He smiled at Des. He lifted his beaker.
— Another?
— Go on.
Outspan threw his empty beaker across at Jimmy. Jimmy waited for him to send a twenty across with it. But not for long — Outspan’s hands didn’t go anywhere near his pockets.
Des stood up with him.
— I’ll give you a hand, he said.
— I’m going via the jacks, said Jimmy.
The place — the park, whatever it was; the grounds — it was really filling now. Going anywhere in a straight line wasn’t an option. It was vast, it really was. But they spotted a sign for the jacks. They sank a bit, but they were grand — they were okay. It was a bigger version of the jacks back in Darfur, and already well broken in. They got places beside each other at another yellow urinal. Jimmy held the empty plastic beakers high in his left hand.