Free The Deportees by Roddy Doyle

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.

14 Spirit of the Nation
    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