The Deportees (4 page)

Laurence.

It was Laurence who'd kicked him.

—What was that for? said Larry.

Bang on the shin.

—Apologise, said Laurence.

It was years since Larry'd been kicked.

—What for? he said.

Thirty-seven, as far as Larry remembered. A little get called Moocher Mooney had slid in on him, over the ball.

—You told him to go back to Nigeria, said Laurence.

—No, I didn't.

He looked across at Ben.

—I didn't.

—I understand, said Ben.

—I was only wondering. Why you hadn't been back; that's all.

He looked at Laurence.

—That's all.

—The journey would be too expensive, said Ben.

—Of course, yeah, said Larry.

He'd been thinking that, himself. It would have cost a packet, all the way to Lagos. Especially if you didn't have a job.

—And, said Ben, —if I were to leave Ireland, it would be difficult for me to get back in.

—But, said Larry. —D'you mind me asking? If your brother's grand about it. If he's happy to stay there. And he's going to study his doctoring, or whatever—

Ben finished the question for him.

—Why do I not go back?

—D'you see what I mean? said Larry.

—I want to live here, said Ben. —For now. I want my children—

Larry looked at Stephanie. But there was no blush there, no hidden eyes.

—to live as children do here. I want them to take comfort for granted. I want money in my pocket. Is that wrong, do you think?

—No, said Larry. —Good luck to you. Is that last bit going spare? he asked Mona.

He leaned out to take the last bit of the pudding; it looked miserable there, all on its own. But, before he got to it, Mona had it up off the plate, on her knife, and she was bringing it over to Ben. But Stephanie's knife met Mona's and, for just a second or two, less, Larry's wife and his daughter were fencing each other – for the right to serve Ben the goo.

It fell onto the plate.

—Thank you, said Ben.

He brought a piece to his mouth while, there in front of his nose, two fine women fought to the death.

But they didn't. They copped on, even grinned.

—So, you're staying, said Larry to Ben.

—Yes, said Ben.

Larry was a hoor for saying things on the spur of the moment, just to be nice, things he often regretted saying, even before he'd finished. So, he waited; he held on.

And then he spoke, before anyone got there before him.

—Well, he said. —I'm sure yis'll make a very happy couple.

He meant it. He could see his grandchildren – he had to blink fast, to keep his tears to himself.

—What're you on about? said Stephanie.

—Well, said Larry.

He shrugged. There was nothing else he could say.
You have my blessing
was too formal,
fire away
was much too crude.

—We're not going with each other, said Stephanie.

—What? said Larry. —After all that?

—What?

—This, said Larry.

He nodded at the table. —All of it, the whole thing. All the chat and that.

He looked over at Ben.

—Not that you're not welcome, mind.

And back at Stephanie.

—And you're not even going with the poor lad.

He tried not to sound too devastated.

—Why not?

—We're just friends, said Stephanie.

—But, said Larry, —he's—

He gave up.

He shrugged again.

—Sorry.

—
You
can go with him, Da, said Nicole.

—Feck off, you, said Larry.

He was happy enough. He wasn't a racist. There was a black man sitting across from him and he wanted to be his father-in-law. He wasn't sure why, but that didn't matter. Larry was happy with himself.

Ben stood up.

—I must go, he said. —The bus.

—I'll see you off the premises, said Larry.

He was surprised that none of the women followed them, after Ben had kissed all the cheeks and said his goodbyes.

And now they stood at the gate, just the pair of them.

—So— said Larry. —That went well, I thought.

—Yes, said Ben.

—They were fine, weren't they? said Larry. —The girls.

—Yes, said Ben.

—Tell us, said Larry.

He looked over his shoulder, into the empty hall.

—That stuff you have on you, said Larry.

—Yes? said Ben.

—The scent, said Larry. —The perfume; whatever the fuck. What's it called?

—Towering Ebony, said Ben.

—Grand. Thanks. Eh—

Larry looked over his shoulder again, and back at Ben.

—Where would I get a bottle? he said.

—There are several shops on Parnell Street.

—Of course, yeah. That sell all the African stuff. Would I be welcome in one of them places?

—Yes, of course.

—Grand, said Larry. —Well. Seeyeh so, Ben. It was nice meeting you.

—Yes, said Ben. —That name was Towering—

—I remember, said Larry.

They smiled at each other.

Jimmy Rabbitte knew his music. He knew his stuff alright. Jimmy was slagging Moby before most people had started liking him. He once heard two kids on the DART talking about Leftfield, and he was able to lean over and tell them they were talking through their holes and know that he was absolutely right. Jimmy knew that Radiohead's last album was so bad that it was cool to defend it – but he didn't. Not Jimmy. It was too important for fashion. Hip-hop, jungle, country, big beat, swing – Jimmy loved and hated it all. But he was thirty-six, with three young kids and a wife who was six months pregnant and tone-deaf.

He stood at the bathroom door and listened to her in the shower. She was singing some shite by The Corrs, the one about forgiving but not forgetting.

Jimmy spoke.

—Are you singin' that because it came into your head or because you like it?

—Shut the door after you, Slim, said Aoife, and she went back to singing the shite.

There were 730 albums in the house, and Jimmy knew where to find every one of them. He'd bought most of them himself. Twelve had been presents, and one of them had been in the house when they'd moved in.
Brothers in Arms
by Dire Straits, on the floor when they walked in, and Jimmy would have fuckin' left it there. But Aoife had picked it up.

—Oh, I like this one.

And they still had it. He knew where, kind of hidden between the blues and acid jazz. He'd been tempted to smuggle it out and lose it, but he loved her and he'd never caught her looking for it. They were married nine years and in that time she'd brought exactly six albums into the house, and that didn't include Nick Cave's
Murder Ballads,
which he'd given her for their anniversary.

But it did include the
Titanic
soundtrack.

Jimmy had refused to file it in the Soundtrack section.

—Why not?

—I'm giving it a section of its own, he'd said. —Utter shite.

She'd laughed.

—You're such an eejit.

And they'd made love on the kitchen table, while Celine Dion rode the vast Atlantic.

Now, Jimmy shut the bathroom door and he went downstairs to the sitting room. He stood in front of the telly.

—Do any of youse like The Corrs?

—Yeah!

—No way.

—Cwap.

He went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. Lite FM. —For fuck sake.

He attacked the dial, until he found Pet Sounds. That was better. Lambchop. 'Up with People.' Great music no one had heard of. Jimmy shut the kitchen door and turned up the volume. St Germain followed Lambchop – I WANT YOU TO GET TOGETHER. And Jimmy lay back on the kitchen table.

It was months since he'd been to a gig. Months. He used to go to gigs all the time. He used to
make
gigs. He'd managed bands, some great ones. There was The Commitments. ('The best Irish band never recorded' –
d'side.
'Shite' –
Northside News
.) There was The Brassers. ('Sex and guitars' –
In Dublin.
'Shite'
– Northside News
.) Great days, when twenty-four hours weren't enough, when sleeping was a waste of time.

Now, he had the kids and sleeping was an impossibility. He never woke up in the same bed; he'd even spent a night in the cot, because Mahalia, the youngest, had refused to stay in it.

—
Not
my comfy bed.
That
my comfy bed, she'd yelled, pointing at
his
comfy fuckin' bed.

It was past midnight now. He'd been listening to
The Marshall Mathers LP.
That was another problem. A lot of the stuff he liked had the Parental Advisory sticker on the cover, so he had to wait till the kids were asleep.

He crept into the bedroom. The floorboard creaked, and Aoife started singing again, the crap about forgiving and forgetting. She'd been waiting for him. Married nine years, and they still slagged each other. He got into the bed and slid up to her back, and wondered which she'd noticed first, the gut or the erection. He'd been putting on the pounds; he didn't know how. He never ate and it was ages since he'd had a pint, weeks, months – fuck.

—How's the real Slim Shady? said Aoife.

—Not too bad, bitch, said Jimmy. —Grand.

—Why the sigh? she said. —Are you okay?

—I'm grand. It's just—

—Oh wow, she said. —There's a kick.

She took Jimmy's hand and put it on her stomach. He waited for the baby's next kick. He was suddenly exhausted. The kids would be coming in soon, climbing in on top of them. He tried to stay awake. Kick, for fuck sake, kick. He was gone, and awake again. Did it kick? Did it? Stay awake, stay awake.

—I'm thinking of forming a group, said Jimmy.

—Oh Jesus, said Aoife.

What sort of a group, but? That was the question.

But, actually, it wasn't.

—You're not serious, said Aoife, after Jimmy made the announcement in bed that night.

There was silence, long enough for the baby to kick Jimmy's hand twice and for Jimmy to regret having opened his stupid big mouth.

—Are you? said Aoife.

And
that
was the question.

—There's a kick now, said Jimmy. —That's some left foot he has on him, wha'.

—
Are
you? said Aoife.

—Well, said Jimmy. —Yeah. I am.

—Why?

—Well, said Jimmy.

Another kick.

—You know. Me and the music. You know yourself.

—Why now? said Aoife.

—It just came up, said Jimmy.

—Stop being thick, Jimmy. Why
now}

—With you pregnant and that?

Another kick, this time from the baby's mother. It didn't hurt but Jimmy didn't tell her that.

—Stevie Wonder's wife was up the stick when he recorded
Innervisions,
he told her instead.

She said nothing. She didn't move.

She loved that album. Or so she'd said anyway. Mind you, no one loved music the way Jimmy loved it. He'd met Simon Le Bon once – at least, he'd said he was Simon Le Bon – in Cafe en Seine, in town, years ago, and he couldn't believe it when Le Bon couldn't remember the name of his own first album. It was just as well, because Jimmy had been going to tell him it was shite.

Still nothing from Aoife.

Jimmy kissed her shoulder, and sang.

—FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN. FORGIVEN—

—Jimmy, said Aoife.

—Yes, bitch?

—Get out of the bed.

He climbed into the top bunk in the boys' room. Marvin, the eldest, had got in beside his brother, Jimmy Two, in the bottom bunk, and soon both of them would go into Jimmy and Aoife's bed. It was the same every night. So, this wasn't unusual; he was just a bit early. But it was different tonight, and he knew it.

It was the first time she'd ever told him to get out.

He listened. He thought he heard her crying. But he couldn't be sure.

He couldn't hear anything. He'd tell her in the morning. He'd bring her a cup of tea and tell her he hadn't been serious. Which was true enough. He really didn't want to go through it all again.

It was the only time he'd ever been really depressed, in the weeks after The Commitments broke up. It was years ago now, before he'd met Aoife, but he could still feel it. There he'd been, sorting out their first record deal, with Eejit Records, and the next thing they'd exploded, just like that, blood and egos all over the shop, no more band, no more record deal. He hadn't gone out for weeks after it, hadn't spoken to anyone or listened to anything, especially not soul. The Brassers' break-up hadn't been as painful. The vocalist, Mickah Wallace, went to Mountjoy for eighteen months, for robbing his uncle's Ford Capri.

—Me ma bate the head off him for reportin' it, said Mickah. —But it wasn't his fault. He didn't know it was me that robbed it.

—Why did you do it?

—I didn't know it was his, said Mickah. —How was I supposed to know he'd bought a fuckin' car? Sorry about the band but.

—We'll wait for you, said Jimmy.

—Yeh'd fuckin' better, said Mickah.

But by the time Mickah got out – he did the full eighteen months, the first man in the history of the state to serve his full sentence – Jimmy was three weeks away from getting married and The Brassers weren't even a memory.

Then there was Northside Deluxe, Jimmy's boy band. Years before your man, Louis Walsh, invented Boyzone, Jimmy came up with the idea of getting five good-looking lads together and grooming them for stardom. He held auditions in their new house, with Aoife there to point out the contenders. But, by the end of the fifth night, after 173 young men had walked in and walked out of their fridgeless, cookerless kitchen, Jimmy had to conclude that there wasn't one decent-looking young fella on the northside of Dublin, let alone five.

—God love them, he'd said.

Aoife had been taking notes.

—Ninety-two of them sang 'I'm Too Sexy', she told him.

So, he really didn't fancy going through it again, the non-starters and bloody endings. He really didn't want it. He didn't have the time. He didn't have the energy. He was happy enough as he was.

When Aoife got up the next morning, she found Jimmy and the kids on the kitchen floor, surrounded by hundreds of CDs.

Jimmy smiled up at her and put his arms around the boys.

—Dad's forming a group, said Marvin.

—Oh Jesus, said Aoife.