Free The Barrytown Trilogy by Roddy Doyle Page B

approve?
    —Oh, very nice. It’s a long, long time since I seen a band all dressed the same.
    He went over to the girls.
    —I know your daddy, he said to Imelda.
    —So? said Imelda.
    She raised her eyes to heaven.
    —You’re just like him, said the caretaker. —A cheeky little fucker.
    Mickah Wallace arrived.
    —How’s it goin’, Mickah, said Outspan.
    —Alrigh’, said Mickah. —An’ yourself?
    —Alrigh’.
    —Guitar, wha’.
    —Yeah.
    —Are yis anny good?
    —Alrigh’.
    —The best, said Jimmy.
    The ones not from Barrytown studied Mickah. He wasn’t what they’d expected; some huge animal, a skinhead or a muttonhead, possibly both. This Mickah was small and wiry, very mobile. Even when he was standing still he was moving.
    —I haven’t a bad little voice meself, yeh know, Mickah told Jimmy. —Give us tha’, please, pal.
    He took Deco’s mike. Deco stood back.
    —Don’t worry, said Mickah. —Your job’s safe.
    He bashed the mike into his forehead.
    —That’s a good strong mike, tha’. Quality’s very rare these days.
    He tapped the mike.
    —Testin’ one two, testin’. Time now, ladies an’ gentlemen, plea-se.
    He tapped again.
    —An’ it’s Ben Nevis comin’ in on the stand side, Lester’s ou’ o’ the saddle. Come on, Ben Nevis, come on, come on. ——Shi’e! He’s fallen over an’ croaked.
    They were afraid to laugh.
    —Now I’ll sing for yis.
    He coughed.
    —RED RED —
WIY —
   YUN——
    STAY CLOSE TO —
ME —
   EE YEAH———
    Wha’ comes after tha’?
    He gave the mike back to Deco.
    —Howyeh, James, he said. —Did yeh read tha’ one I gave yeh?
    —I’m halfway through it.
    —It’s better than Catch 22, isn’t it?
    —I don’t think so, Mickah.
    —Fuckin’ sure it is, said Mickah. —How much in, Jimmy?
    —Two lids.
    —Tha’ all? Yis mustn’t be anny good.
    —Time will tell, Brother, said Joey The Lips.
    —It told on you annyway, pal, said Mickah.
    He was noticing Joey The Lips for the first time.
    —The fuckin’ state of yeh.
    Imelda laughed.
    Bernie stared her out of it.
    —Can we come in?
    A small boy stood at the door.
    —No, Mickah shouted down to him.
    —When?
    —When I say so. Now shut the fuckin’ door.
    Mickah jumped off the stage. He landed in front of the caretaker, back in a clean shirt.
    —I need a table, son, said Mickah.
    Mickah and the caretaker took the table to the door. They sat behind it. Jimmy drew the stage curtain, a manky red thing. The Commitments took turns at peeking through it into the hall. The caretaker got an empty tin for the money.
    —Righ’, said Mickah.
    He slipped down in his chair and stretched so he could swing the door open with his foot.
    —Get in here, he shouted.
    There were about twelve of them outside, all kids, brothers and sisters of The Commitments, and their friends.
    The caretaker took the money. Mickah laid down the rules as each of them passed the table into the hall.
    —Anny messin’ an’ I’ll kill yeh, righ’.
    —I’ve oney a pound, said one boy.
    The caretaker looked to Mickah.
    —Let him in, said Mickah.
    Jimmy was standing behind them.
    —How long are yis on for? Mickah asked him.
    —Abou’ an hour.
    —I’ll throw him ou’ after half, said Mickah.
    —I’m unwaged, said another boy with his pound held out.
    —Yeh weren’t this mornin’ when yeh were deliverin’ the milk, said Mickah.
    —He sacked me after you seen me.
    —Go on.
    The caretaker took the pound.
    It wasn’t a big hall but three hundred could have stood in it. There was room for two hundred and seventy more at halfseven.
    Mickah looked outside.
    —There’s no more ou’ there.
    Jimmy looked at the crowd. Four mates of himself, Outspan and Derek leaned against the back wall. He’d let them in for nothing. Ray Ward (ex And And! And) was with them. He’d paid in. There were six other older ones, in their late teens or early twenties, mates, he supposed, of Deco or Billy or Dean. There