Roddy Doyle - The Guts

The hollow was filling. There were no bald patches. Ned looked a bit happier.

The fiddle player sawed the strings with his bow.

— Whooo, said Ned, into the mic. — He’s raring to go. No introductions, you know who we are. Here’s one you might recognise.

Jimmy got off the stage.

— ON TARA’S HILL THERE STANDS A MAN —

For fuck sake.

— IN THE MISTY EARLY MORNING —

Jimmy climbed out of the hollow. He had to get away.

— HE LOOKS ACROSS HIS SACRED LANDS —

In the fuckin’ mist — fair play to him.

— HE’S THE LAST OF IRELAND’S HIGH KINGS —

Jimmy didn’t look back but he knew the hollow was a mass of diddley-eye-Provos, clapping and whooping.

— Toilet paper.

It was Aoife. Mahalia and Brian were behind her.

— Howyeh, love.

— Toilet paper.

He got the bag from his back and pulled out the roll.

— You’re lookin’ lovely, by the way.

It was true, but she grabbed the roll and Jimmy watched her go.

— HE HOLDS HIS SWORD UP TO THE SKIES —

— Wha’ d’yeh think of tha’ shite? he asked Brian.

— Class, said Brian.

— AND CALLS TO HIS LOYAL CLAN —

And here came the last of the High Kings, Outspan Foster, on his purple Celtic plastic fuckin’ armchair. Les and Des parked him on the lip of the hollow.

— LET BLOOD FLOW RED FROM SAXON VEINS —

— Now we’re fuckin’ talkin’.

— AND ENRICH THIS SACRED LAND —

It was Riverdance for Nazis and the hollow was full of them.

— Here, Les, said Jimmy. — This is Mahalia. And Brian.

— Hi.

— This is your Uncle Les, said Jimmy.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like a bollix. He was getting at Les.

Les shook hands with both of the kids.

— Great to meet you.

— I’ve to go, said Jimmy. — Tell your mam I’ll see her at the Cosby.

— What’s the Cosby? said Mahalia.

— A tent, said Jimmy. — Where Marvin’s playin’.

— We’ll follow you there, said Les.

— Grand.

— These guys are great.

Jimmy escaped. He felt like a cunt, abandoning the kids, his brother, his dying buddy and his wife. But he was working. He was genuinely working.

He texted Ned as he went. Superb . Ned would find it when he came offstage.

He was out of Body and Soul, running, back through Artists and Crew, into the vastness of backstage. He found the Bulgarians stuffing their faces at a table covered in sandwiches held down by little plastic swords.

— Everything okay?

— For — sure, said Marvin

— Nervous?

— Fock — narvus, said Marvin.

Then he whispered.

— Shittin’.

— You’ll be great.

The other two, Docksy and Mush, seemed calm enough. He could see they had a plan. They stood at a platter till it was empty, then moved on to the next one. They were hoovering up the food for twenty bands.

The Halfbreds’ daughter stood beside Marvin.

— Hi.

— Yes, said Marvin.

— I saw you, like, on YouTube.

— What — is — Oo-toob?

Marvin was overdoing it but Jimmy left him at it. He was safe enough there with the Halfbred daughter. The possibility of Barry and Connie joining the family scared him a bit — already — but she seemed like a nice, normal kid and she’d keep Marv occupied till they went onstage — Jimmy looked at his watch — in ten minutes.

The Halfbred daughter laughed. Marvin’s English was improving all the time. She was a lovely-looking kid. Just like her ma.

Now Jimmy saw a guy he knew he had to stop from getting to Moanin’ At Midnight. He moved, to get between the lads and Nathan Early. Jimmy had been in a room once — at a music e-zine Christmas do, a few years back — when he’d had to listen to Early list all the gigs he’d reviewed but had never attended. The man was a slug.

— Howyeh, Nathan.

Early hadn’t a clue who was talking to him.

— Hey.

— Enjoyin’ yourself?

— Well, said Early. — It’s work, you know.

— You have to actually listen to the bands, do yeh? said Jimmy.

— That’s rough.

Early looked at Jimmy, then past him.

— They’re not available, said Jimmy.

— They?

— Moanin’ At Midnight, said Jimmy. — They’ve no English.

Early nodded at Marvin with the young one, and Jimmy wanted to kill him.

— He seems to be managing okay, said Early.

— Sorry, Nathan.

— Have a heart, man. I just want a sense of how they feel about being in Ireland.

— Make it up, said Jimmy.

Early looked at him properly.

— Who are you?

— Jimmy Rabbitte, he said.

— Gotcha, said Early. — You work for Noeleen.

It was quiet in the Cosby tent.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy.

He realised now, there’d been no music coming from there for a good while. Marvin and the lads were on next.

— And she thinks you’re a cunt as well, he said.

He turned and went across to Marvin.

— You’re on.

— What?

— You play music now, the Halfbreds’ daughter told him.

— For sure.

Early homed in on the daughter.

— When did you two meet?

— Like, a minute ago.

— You’re into him, yeah?

The daughter looked at Early.

— Fuck off, like.

She followed Jimmy and Marvin and the other two lads. One of them — Jimmy thought it was Docksy — leaned over, puked, and kept going.

— Alrigh’?

— Alright.

There were steps to climb, more security to get past. Jimmy felt like puking himself. He could tell before he saw: the tent was packed.

— Fuck —, said Marvin, quietly.

— You alrigh’, Marv?

— Yep.

The puker puked again.

— Irish — meat — bad — meat, he said.

That got them giggling.

Jimmy put his arm on Marvin’s shoulder.

— I’m proud of you.

— Thanks.

Marvin didn’t try to escape.

— It’ll be brilliant.

— Yeah.

They were well back, but Jimmy went a few steps nearer the stage. The place was heaving. The crowd stretched to well outside the tent, as far as he could see. He got the phone out, texted Aoife. R u in?

He didn’t know the capacity of the tent but there were more in it than there should have been. He was sure of that. The stage people, the men and women in the know, clicked into action. It was the time. Someone held back the black drape and Marvin and his pals walked through, and on, and the place went mad.

The band moved like everything they had to do was rehearsed and timed. The guitar and bass were up and on, the drummer had his sticks ready before he sat. He hit the snare as his arse hit the seat.

It was noise. A big cloud of the stuff — screech and thump. Then words came out — Marvin’s mouth was right up to the mic — and they were playing the blues. How was it possible? How was his eighteen-year-old son able to sing like Howlin’ Wolf? Fuckin’ better than Howlin’ Wolf.

— OH OHH TELL ME BAB-EH —

It was ‘Smokestack Lightnin” and it was perfect. Marvin’s howl at the end of each verse was spot on. Only a man who’d actually heard a wolf, who’d stood and faced one in a forest clearing in Bulgaria, could have made that howl. Marvin howled and women screamed.

For fuck sake.

The phone buzzed in Jimmy’s hand. It was Aoife. On wheelchair access platform. Cant believe it .

Jimmy couldn’t see her. He was well to the side and he wasn’t going to move any nearer to the stage. The lads got into the second song while the crowd was still roaring its approval of the first one. Again, it came out of the noise and it became ‘Mannish Boy’.

— EVERYTHING —