The Deportees (8 page)

Jimmy was right. Aoife did like Gilbert. She made him a rasher sandwich, and one for herself, and nothing for Jimmy—

—Only two left; sorry.

when Jimmy got him down from the attic.

—Was it cold up there? she asked him.

—No, said Gilbert. —It was quite comfortable.

—See? said Jimmy. —I told you.

—Shut up, you, said Aoife. —He didn't charge you, did he? she asked Gilbert.

—No, said Gilbert.

—I wouldn't put it past him, said Aoife.

—That's a fuckin' outrageous thing to say, said Jimmy. —Are you eating the rest of that rasher?

It was Mickah who got them the next gig. His born-again pal, Fat Gandhi, owner of Celtic Tandoori, was organising a party for his daughter's twenty-first, and he'd given up looking for a local band that would promise to play only songs of a suitable nature.

—They're not coming into my house so they can sing about the devil and blow-jobs, he told Mickah as he double-checked the order. —Ah, look it, I'm after putting in too many samosas. So, anyway, I'll have to fork out five hundred for a disc jockey.

—I have a band for yeh, brother, said Mickah. —Kind of a gospel group.

—How much? said Gandhi.

—Four hundred and ninety-nine, said Mickah.

So, they were The Deportees again, and on the road, all three miles north, to Sutton and Fat Gandhi's back garden. In the meantime, Gilbert stayed at Jimmy's. He slept on the couch, and was up before the kids every morning. He made their school lunches, sneaked in stuff that Aoife would never have given them.

—What's in yours?

—Two cans of Coke and a Lanky Larry.

The kids loved him.

—Again! said Mahalia.

Gilbert whacked his head with the spatula.

—Again!

They explained the situation to Marvin and Jimmy Two.

—And sometimes, if the bell rings, he might go up to the attic.

—Rapid, said Marvin. —Like Anne Frank.

—A bit, said Jimmy. —Happier ending, but.

—And don't tell anyone, said Aoife.

—No way.

—Good lads, said Jimmy. —I'm proud of yis. Here.

He put his hand in his pocket.

—It's alright, Dad, said Jimmy Two. —This one's on us.

Gandhi's back garden ran the length of a good-sized supermarket, right down to the sea.

—Big, said Dan the elder.

—Slightly smaller than Nigeria, said Gilbert.

Gilbert was wearing shades and a silver wig that Aoife had bought for her sister's hen party.

—Hey, Rabbitte, said Kenny. —You said there'd be no more outside gigs.

—There won't be, said Jimmy. —Look.

Then they saw it, the circus tent; they'd missed it.

They lugged the gear the long way, around the house, escorted and growled at by Fat Gandhi's dog, a mutt called John the Baptist. They were set up, in front of the dance floor, plywood sheets that didn't quite meet, when the guests started poking their heads into the tent.

—There's all sorts in there, they heard a voice from beyond the flap.

Gandhi himself stuck the head in.

—Are yis alright for samosas?

—Grand, thanks.

Gandhi looked at Mickah.

—Why are they dressed like that, Michael?

They wore dungarees, all of them, and felt fedoras, unlaced runners or Docs.

—It's just their look, said Mickah.

—I see, said Gandhi.

Jimmy had bought some old cardboard suitcases and covered them with stickers – Lagos, Dublin, Minsk, California, Budapest and Trim. The cases were piled in front of the mic stands. Mickah finished hanging the banner, BOUND FOR GLORY, painted by Marvin and Jimmy Two.

The tent began to fill. The relations were first, the aunties and uncles, a granny, wheeled in by Gandhi's wife.

—They'll hate yis, said Mickah.

Then the birthday girl, a surly-looking young one, and her pals; they began to outnumber the aunties and uncles.

—They'll hate yis as well, said Mickah.

—Shut up, Mickah.

They stood and stared at the Deportees. Not a smile among them. It was suddenly very hot in the tent.

—Better get it over with, said Jimmy.

He nodded to King Robert but, before the King could grab the mic, Fat Gandhi had it.

—Lord, said Fat Gandhi. —We thank you for this day. We thank you for the gift of Orla and the joy that she has given us every day of these twenty-one wonderful years.

Gandhi smiled at the birthday girl but she was staring at the plywood.

—And we thank you for Orla's sisters, Sinéad, Ruth, Miriam and Mary.

More eyes hit the plywood.

—We thank you for the food and refreshments. And, last but not least, Lord, we thank you for the talented people behind me here who have come from, well, all over the place, to entertain and inspire us. And I'm sure they'll do their level best. Amen.

He handed the mic to King Robert.

—It's all yours.

—Exactly, said King Robert.

King Robert took the mic from Fat Gandhi.

They were ready and nervous, dying to take on the silence that was sucking the air from the tent. King Robert lifted his arm, and dropped it. Leo smacked the drums, and the world ended; the dead arose and Satan stepped into the tent. So Gandhi thought, until he saw John the Baptist falling out of the bass drum.

While Gandhi brought the Baptist up to the house, to see if he could sedate him with a mix of Pal and paracetamol, King Robert tried again. He lifted his arm, and dropped it.

And they were The Deportees.

—HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?

They roared into the song. Paddy joined King Robert at the mic.

—HAVE YOU SEE-EEN—

THAT VIG–IL—

AH–HANTI MAN?

Jimmy watched the walls of the tent pushed back by the power of the sound. One of the aunties dropped her glass. Jimmy watched it hit the plywood, but he didn't hear it smash. He watched faces, and feet.

They were winning.

—HAVE YOU SEE–EE–EN THAT VIG–IL–AH– ANTIMA–AN—

There were feet tapping, no one charging to the exit. They were curious, and some were already impressed. Agnes was singing now too.

—CAN YOU HEAR HIS NAME ALL OV–ER THIS LAND—

God, they were good, the real thing. They looked, sounded,
were
it – Jimmy Rabbitte's band. Kerri was sex on a stick up there, and so, mind you, was Mary, in an early-middle-aged very nice kind of way. The dungarees suited her, and so did the anger.

—WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—

But why was she angry?

—WHY WOULD A—

VIG–IL–AH–HANTI MAN—

Then Jimmy saw the answer right beside her, the ghost of Kurt Cobain. Kenny was whirling and dangerous; he was losing it. Jimmy looked at Kenny's eyes; they weren't there at all. He'd taken something.

—CARRY A SAWED–OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—

He was tearing around, not a drop of sweat on him. He knocked into both Dans, and sent the trumpet flying. Ah Jesus, thought Jimmy; before they'd even started.

—HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.

They were falling apart already.

He found Mickah.

—Give us a hand with Kenny.

The two of them grabbed Kenny. He didn't resist, the stage was tiny – they had him out of the tent in a few big strides.

Jimmy held Kenny's face.

—Kenny! Kenny! What did yeh take?

—Wha'?

—What did yeh take? Come on.

Jimmy pushed the back of Kenny's head, so he had to bend over.

—We'll have to make him puke.

It was Kenny who answered, not Mickah.

—Why?

—To get the fuckin' drugs out of you.

—What drugs?

Jimmy let go of Kenny.

—Did yeh not take anythin'?

—No.

—Well, why were yeh goin' mad in there?

—I was enjoyin' myself, said Kenny. —Sorry, like.

—That's okay, said Jimmy. —Just, eh, take it easy, will yeh. You're not the only one up there.

—Yeah; thanks, said Kenny, and he ran back into the tent. Jimmy and Mickah followed him, in time to see the band launch into the next tune. Some of the aunts and uncles were leaving, but that was grand. The younger gang had room now. The bottles came out, the funny tobacco; hands grabbed hands, faces met faces and mashed. The birthday girl took off her jumper and threw it at the roof. Christianity had left the tent.

—SOO – LONG—

IT'S BEEN GOOD TO KNOW YEH—

This was dance music.

—THIS DUSTY OLD DUSTY IS HITTING MY HOME—

He hadn't known it when he'd thought of Woody Guthrie, ten minutes before that first band meeting, two days after Smokey was born. But that was what it was.

—AND I'VE GOT TO BE DRIFTING AH-LONG—

Dance music. Anything played by this band was dance music. They were that good. Jimmy looked at them. They were happy, sexy; they were cooking and Irish.

Paddy roared.

—I JUMPED THE GULLY—

Agnes and King Robert joined him.

—WE–EE – SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

—I JUMPED THE ROSEBUSH—

—WE–EE – SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

Jimmy whooped; it just came out.

—ACROSS THE PLOUGHED GROUND—

—WE–EE SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

And they all sang now.

—WHE–EH–EN THE GOOD LORD SETS YOU—

FREE–EE–EE—

The birthday girl was bringing her arse for a walk in a clapping circle made by her friends and cousins when Fat Gandhi stooped, and stepped into the tent. His jaw fell.

And Agnes stepped up to the mic.

—THERE'S—

The clapping stopped.

—A—

The birthday girl stopped.

It was a song they all knew but couldn't name. Except Jimmy.

—'Somewhere', he told Mickah. —from
West Side Story.

—Nice one, brother, said Mickah.

—D'you like it?

—No.

Gandhi stared at the stage. His jaw stayed where he'd dropped it. He'd just fallen in love.

Agnes held the mic; her hands were shaking, her eyes were closed.

—THERE'S—

A—

What she was doing was beautiful, but Fat Gandhi wasn't looking at her, or listening. His jaw still hung dead. Agnes's voice and song had brought the aunties back into the tent. But Gandhi didn't notice or care. He was in love. With Gilbert.

Gandhi knew the line: homosexuality was an abomination. He'd known it since he'd seen the light ten years ago, and quickly realised that his loud embrace of Christianity was very good for business. It bored most people, and frightened quite a few, but, even so, Gandhi's weird faith had made him suddenly respectable. Here was a man who could be trusted, a man who took the world seriously. So, he took it for what it was: golf without the exercise.

Agnes wasn't shaking too badly now. She loved the words, how they broke and reassembled. SOME–WHERE. Her eyes were still shut, but she knew they were all looking as she told them there was a place for them, somewhere a place for them.

Gandhi hadn't really looked at a man since. But here he was, in love again. It had happened once before, when he was seventeen. The love of his life, he'd thought ever since, a student from Lyons, a tall lad who'd played table tennis like a gorgeous maniac and never leaked sweat that didn't suit him. And here, out of nowhere, it was back. The feeling, the longing. The happiness and misery.

Gilbert was drawing whispers from the drum. They surrounded Agnes as she stood there and, finally, opened her eyes.

—SOME—

WHERRRR–E.

She stopped. It was over.

There was silence. Gilbert straightened the silver wig.

Gandhi was the first to clap; he had to do something – he brought his hands together with slaps that made his teeth, and everyone else's, rattle. The tent was full of whoops and applause. Gilbert and Leo thumped their drums, forced a rhythm on the crowd. And Paddy stepped up to the mic.

—LOTS OF FOLKS BACK EAST THEY SAY—

Gandhi knew: a Christian couldn't just walk away from his family.

—IS LEAVIN' HOME EVERY DAY—

And take off with a man, any man, let alone that particular man there in the silver wig.

—BEATIN' THE HARD AND DUSTY WAY—

He was stuck.

—TO THE 'PUBLIC OF IRELAND LIY–INE—

But not for long.

Gandhi was the big embodiment of the spirit of the new Ireland. Easy come, easy go. That was then and this is fuckin' now. Right then and there, Fat Gandhi abandoned his religion.

But he didn't tell anyone.

Which was probably just as well because the birthday girl, his daughter, had decided that Gilbert was the second-best-looking man in the tent.

King Robert took it from Paddy.

—ACROSS THE DES–ERT SANDS THEY ROLL—

Big Dan gave them a quick blast of
Lawrence of Arabia,
on the accordion.

—GET–TING OUT OF THAT OLD–DD DUST BOWL—

Gilbert let go of a scream.

—THEY THINK THEY ARE GO–ING–GG TO THE SUG–AR BOWL—

Fat Gandhi and the birthday girl screamed back.

—BUT HERE IS WHAT THEY FIND—

Paddy took the floor behind the mic again. Kenny came out of his hair and saw the birthday girl's little sister staring at him.

—NOW THE GARDA AT THE POINT OF EN–TRY SAY–YYY—

YOU'RE NUMBER FOUR–TEEN THOUS–AND FOR THE—

DAY–YY–YY—

Jimmy watched eyes meeting other eyes, but he couldn't keep up. Paddy, Agnes and King Robert sang huge.

—OHHH—

IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH–RAY–MEEE – FOLKS—

IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH-RAY—

MEEEEE—

And Kenny roared over Agnes's shoulder.

—That's fuckin' euros, boy!

The little sister blinked for Kenny; she'd never been called Boy before.

—WHY – YOU'D BETTER GO BACK TO BEAUTIFUL GHAN–A—

OKLAHOMA, POLAND, GEORGIA, AFRIC–EEEE—

Jimmy was sent flying; a dancing auntie followed, and landed on his chest.

—BALLYFERMOT'S A GARDEN OF EEEE–DEN—

And she wouldn't get off him.

—A PARA–DISE TO LIVE IN OR—

SEE–EEEEEE—

Gilbert screamed again.

—BUT – BELIEVE IT OR – NOT—

The birthday girl was wearing Gilbert's wig. Jimmy rescued his phone; it was buzzing and biting his arse.

—YOU WON'T FIND IT SO – HOT—

He got the phone to his ear, just before the auntie's tongue got there.

—Jesus! Hello!

—Nigger lover.

Jimmy laughed, and held the phone in the air.

—IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH – RAY—

MEEE-EEEE—

He was still laughing as he stood and dried his ear. And he watched as Kerri the Yank took the microphone from Paddy.