— Alright? said Les.
— Yep.
Outspan pointed.
— Them.
It was a line — two lines — of girls. They’d a chair each and they were standing behind them. Their tight T-shirts said Mobile Massage.
— Wha’ about them?
— Massage, said Outspan.
The girls were busy bullying the necks and shoulders of people, mostly women, in the chairs in front of them.
— You want a massage? said Jimmy.
— No, said Outspan. — But.
— Wha’?
— Massage, said Outspan. — It’s usually a wank, isn’t it?
— Do you see annyone bein’ wanked there, Liam?
— No, said Outspan. — But.
— Wha’?
— I’d love a tug, said Outspan.
— Will a pint do yeh?
— G’wan.
— My twist, said Des.
He looked at Jimmy.
— Grand, said Jimmy. — Thanks, Des.
— Good man, Dezlie.
Les went up to the bar with Des.
— See, if this was a film, said Outspan.
— Wha’?
— Yis’d arrange a wank for me cos I’m dyin’.
— True.
— You’d go up to the big bird there an’ whisper in her ear.
— That’s righ’.
— An’ next of all we’d be back at the tents an’ she’d be in one o’ them.
— Yeah.
— She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?
— Yep, said Jimmy. — But Liam?
— Wha’?
— It’s not goin’ to happen.
— Ah, I know, said Outspan.
The other two came back with the beer, and they made their way along the side of the field, and down, nearer to the stage.
— She was gorgeous though, wasn’t she? said Outspan.
He looked back, and Jimmy waited for him to start moving again.
— Alrigh’?
— Ah yeah, said Outspan. — A bit sad. Come on so.
— She’s a real masseuse, Liam. She doesn’t —
— Fuck off, Jimmy, for fuck sake. I’m not stupid.
They kept walking.
— I know, said Outspan. — Even if I wasn’t in the state I’m in. An’ if I was twenty years younger. I still wouldn’t have a fuckin’ hope.
— In shite.
— I agree, said Outspan. — I fuckin’ agree. It’s just —. Remember Imelda Quirk?
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — ’Course I do.
— We all fancied her, remember?
— Yeah.
— An’ we all knew we hadn’t a hope.
— Yeah.
— But we could still hope. You with me?
The band — Sigur Rós — were coming onstage, but they were easy to ignore because Jimmy and Outspan were standing a good bit back and on their own. Anyone near them was moving closer to the stage or away from it.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I know what yeh mean.
— An’ listen, said Outspan. — It isn’t the young one. I wouldn’t — I don’t think I would. But, say, she was older — her ma, say. Sometimes things like tha’ — seein’ a beaut like that. It just reminds me that I’ll be dead in a couple o’ months.
Jimmy said nothing. He put his hand on Outspan’s shoulder. Outspan didn’t object. He stared at the stage as he spoke.
— Give us a wank later, Jimmy, will yeh?
— No problem.
Jimmy didn’t know much about Sigur Rós but he liked what he saw and heard. It was slow, songless stuff, like classical music by men who wanted to be in a band, not an orchestra. He liked that. The singer — Jimmy thought his name was Jonsi — had a voice so unlike Mark Lanegan’s it was nearly hard to accept that they were both human. Actually, there was something not quite human about Sigur Rós, and he liked that too. They were David Bowie’s foster kids or something. They’d have been better under a roof but, still, Jimmy liked them a lot.
But they were losing the crowd. There were dozens of people walking away, back past them.
— Wha’ d’yeh think? Jimmy asked.
— Interesting, said Des.
— Utter shite, said Outspan.
It was cold now and dark. Outspan had a black cap pulled down past his eyebrows — where his eyebrows used to be.
— Where next?
Jimmy got the programme out of his pocket. He couldn’t read it.
— Can’t fuckin’ see.
— Here, said Les.
He took the paper from Jimmy and held it up and at an angle.
— Ah yes.
— Who?
— Christy Moore.
— Let’s go. Where?
— Crawdaddy.
They were veterans now. They knew where to go.
Jimmy wanted to lead the charge into the tent, to get over the hump, the fuckin’ barbed wire fence that was his snobbery. His head was well up for it but his body was holding him back. He could feel it, just above his kneecaps, around his waist, pulling the back of his hoodie. He was fighting himself to stay up with the lads and have a good wallow in Christy. And he was fighting everyone else at the Picnic as well. All thirty thousand — whatever the number was — the population of Darfur and the other Darfurs, the posh tents and the yurts; there were kids dashing to Christy who hadn’t been born when Christy was starting to think about retirement. It was a good-sized tent but it hadn’t been built for a population this size.
— Fuckin’ hell.
Les kind of gathered them up. He wasn’t a big man — no bigger than Jimmy — but he seemed able to shield the other three and push backwards through the entrance, and in. Jimmy wondered — the thought popped up — if Les had served time in the army, the British Army. There was something so efficient about the way he moved and commanded the bodies to get out of his way without a word or an elbow.
They were in now and sweating in honour of Christy.
— JOXER MET A GERMAN’S DAUGHTER ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER RHINE.
They’d arrived in the middle of ‘Joxer Goes to Stuttgart’.
— AND HE TOLD HER SHE’D BE WELCOME IN
BALLYFERMOT ANY TIME.
And it was great to be there, to be right in there, in all the love and the steam. Jimmy hadn’t been in as packed a crowd as this since — he couldn’t remember — years ago, the ska days. And it was the only gig he’d been to so far where no one around him was talking. All eyes, all mouths, were on Christy.
It was over. They stayed put. They held one another’s sleeves like kids on a school trip while the solid mass around them loosened and they could get back out into the cold.
— Wha’ did yeh think? Jimmy asked Outspan.
— Brilliant.
— You actually liked somethin’?
— Fuck off, he was fuckin’ brilliant.
Jimmy took a breath and crossed the line.
— Yeah, he said. — He was incredible.
He wanted to cry. The rest of his life was going to be great.
But Outspan looked bollixed.
— Nightcap? said Les.
— Back at HQ, said Jimmy. — Sound.
— Are there any more gigs? Des asked.
— Just DJ stuff, I think, said Jimmy. — Dum-dum, fuckin’ dum-dum.
— Oh fuck, come on.
They grabbed a few hotdogs on the way.
— For fuck sake — look.
There was a photograph pinned beside the hatch; the pigs on the organic farm before the organic farmer knifed the poor fuckers.
— Here, said Jimmy to the lad with the ponytail in the truck. — Which pig did ours come from?
The lad leaned over the hatch and put his finger on a pig. He was wearing dentist’s rubber gloves.
— That one.
— Did he have a name? said Les.
— Janice.
— Brilliant.
— Worth the seven euro.
They went slowly — the ground, the food, the crowds, the dark, Outspan. There were parents shoving buggies through the muck and trying to keep count of the kids on legs. The music from the funfair bashed against the techno coming from one of the tents. They weren’t the only ones going back to Darfur but there were as many coming at them, heading back in.