Jimmy was going to see if he could recruit Declan Cuffe. He took his tray and went over to where he was sitting.

–Sorry, eh—Declan, said Jimmy.—Is there annyone sittin’ here?

Declan Cuffe leaned over the table and studied the chair.

Then he said:—It doesn’t look like it.

Normally Jimmy would have upended the slop on the tray over him (or at least would have wanted to) but this was business.

He sat down.

–What’s the soup like? he asked.

–Cuntish.

–As usual, wha’.

There wasn’t an answer. Jimmy tried a different angle.

–What’s the curry like?

–Cuntish.

Jimmy changed tactics.

–I’d say yeh did Honours English in school, did yeh?

Declan Cuffe stared across at Jimmy while he sent his cigarette to the side of his mouth.

–You startin’ somethin’? he said.

The women from the Information Desk at the table beside them started talking louder.

–Ah, cop on, said Jimmy.—I was only messin’.

He shoved the bowl away and slid the plate nearer to him.

–You were righ’ abou’ the soup.

He searched the chicken curry.

–Tell us an’annyway. Are yeh in a group these days?

–Am I wha’?

–In a group.

–Doin’ wha’?

–Singin’.

–Me! Singin’? Fuck off, will yeh.

–I heard yeh singin’, said Jimmy.—You were fuckin’ great.

–When did you hear me singin’?

–Christmas.

–Did I sing? At the dinner dance?

–Yeah.

–Fuck, said Declan Cuffe.—No one told me.

–You were deadly.

–I was fuckin’ locked, said Declan Cuffe.—Rum an’ blacks, yeh know.

Jimmy nodded.—I was locked meself.

–I must of had abou’ twenty o’ them. Your woman, Frances, from the Toys, yeh know her? She was all over me.—Dirty bitch. She’s fuckin’ married.—I sang then?

–Yeah. It was great.

–I was fuckin’ locked.

–D’yeh want to be in a group?

–Singin’?

–Yeah.

–Are yeh serious?

–Yeah.

–Okay.—Serious now?

–Yeah.

–Okay.

The next night Jimmy brought Declan Cuffe (by now he was Deco) home from work with him. Deco had a big fry cooked by Jimmy, five slices of bread, two cups of tea, and he fell in love with Sharon, Jimmy’s sister, when she came in from work.

–What age is Sharon? Deco asked Jimmy.

They were up in Jimmy’s bedroom. Deco was lying on the bottom bunk.

–You’re wastin’ your time.

–What age is she?

–Twenty, said Jimmy.—But you’re wastin’ your time.

–I wonder would she fancy goin’ out with a pop star.

The door opened. It was the rest of the group, Outspan and Derek. They smiled when they got in and saw Deco on the bunk. Jimmy had told them about him.

–That’s Deco, said Jimmy.

–Howyeh, said Outspan.

–Howyeh, said Deco.

–Pleased to meet yeh, Deco, said Derek.

–Yeah,—righ’, said Deco.

Deco got up and let Outspan and Derek sit beside him on the bunk.

–How did Ray take the news? Jimmy asked.

–Not too bad, said Derek.

–The cunt, said Jimmy.

–He wasn’t too happy with the eh, And And And situation either. Or so he said.

–Yeah. So he said, said Jimmy.—Me arse.

–He’s goin’ solo.

–He doesn’t have much of a fuckin’ choice.

They laughed. Deco too.

–Righ’ lads, said Jimmy.—Business.

He had his notebook out.

–We have the guitar, bass, vocals, righ’? We need drums, sax, trumpet, keyboards. I threw an ad into Hot Press. Yis owe me forty-five pence, each.

–Ah, here!

–I’ll take American Express.—Now. D’yis remember your man, Jimmy Clifford?

–Tha’ fuckin’ drip!

–That’s him, said Jimmy.—D’yis—

–He was JAMES Clifford.

–Wha’?

–James. He was never Jimmy. What’s your name? James Clifford, sir.

–Righ’, said Jimmy.—James Clifford then. He—

–Tha’ bollix ratted on us, d’yis remember? Said Derek.—When I stuck the compass up Tracie Quirk’s hole.—They had me da up. Me ma—

–Derek—

–Wha’?

–Fuck up—Annyway, said Jimmy,—his ma used to make him do piano lessons, remember. He was deadly at it. I met him on the DART there yesterday—

–No way, Jimmy, said Outspan.

–No, hang on, listen. He told me he got fucked ou’ o’ the folk mass choir.—D’yis know why? For playin’ The Chicken Song on the organ. In the fuckin’ church.

–Jaysis!

They laughed. This didn’t sound like the James Clifford they’d known and hated.

–Just before the mass, Jimmy continued.—There were oul’ ones an’ oul’ fellas walkin’ up the middle, yeh know. An’ he starts playin’ The fuckin’ Chicken Song.

–He sounds okay, said Deco.

No one disagreed with Deco.

–I’ll go round to his gaff an’ ask him tomorrow, will I?

Outspan and Derek looked at each other.

–Okay, said Outspan.

–So long as he doesn’t start rattin’ on us again, said Derek.—When we’re all gettin’ our hole.

–He’ll be gettin’ his too sure, said Outspan.

–Oh, yeah, said Derek.—That’s righ’.

–Does he still wear tha’jumper with the sheep on it?

–They weren’t sheep, said Derek.—They were deers.

–They were fuckin’ sheep, said Outspan.

–They weren’t.—I should know. I drew a moustache on one o’ them.

–Is he workin’? Outspan asked.

–He’s a student, said Jimmy.

–Oh, fuck.

–He’ll be grand, said Jimmy.—He’ll have plenty o’ time to rehearse.—Hang on.

Jimmy put a record on the deck. He’d brought the deck and the speakers up from the front room. He turned to them again.

–D’yis know James Brown, do yis? he asked.

–Was he in our class too? Outspan asked.

They laughed.

–The singer, said Jimmy.—Blackie. He’s deadly.—Did yis see The Blues Brothers?

Outspan and Derek had seen it. Deco hadn’t.

–I seen the Furey Brothers, said Deco.

–Fuck off, said Jimmy.—D’yis remember the big woman singer in the coffee place? (They did.)—Tha’ was Aretha Franklin. D’yis remember the blind guy in the music shop? (—Yeah.) Tha’ was Ray Charles. D’yis remember the preacher in the church? (—No.)

–Well, th’ was James—No? (—No.)—In the red cloak?—The black fella? (—No.)—Yeh have to.—Derek?

–I don’t remember tha’ bit.

–Well, tha’ was James Brown, said Jimmy.

–Hang on—Rocky IV. Livin’ in America, remember? Tha’ was him.

–Tha’ header!

–Yeah.

–Tha’ was a shite film, said Derek.

–He was good but, said Jimmy.

–Ah, yeah.

–Annyway, listen to this. It’s called Get Up, I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine.

–Hold on there, said Derek.—We can’t do tha’. Me ma would fuckin’ kill me.

–What’re yeh on abou’? said Outspan.

–I Feel Like a fuckin’ Sex Machine, Derek explained.—She’d break me fuckin’ head if I got up an’ sang tha’.

–You won’t be singin’ it, son, said Deco.—I will. An’, personally speakin’, I don’t give a fuck wha’ MY ma thinks.—Let’s hear it, Jimmy.

–We won’t be doin’ this one, Derek, said Jimmy.—I just want yis to hear it, yeh know, just to get an idea, to get the feel o’ the thing.—It’s called funk.

–Funk off, said Deco.

Outspan hit him.

Jimmy let the needle down and sat on the back of his legs between the speakers.

–I’m ready to get up and do my thang, said James Brown.

A chorus of men from the same part of the world as James went:—YEAH.

–I want to, James continued,—to get into it, you know. (—YEAH, said the lads in the studio with him.)—Like a, like a sex machine, man (—YEAH YEAH, GO AHEAD.)—movin’, doin’ it, you know. (—YEAH.)—Can I count it all? (—YEAH YEAH YEAH, went the lads.)—One Two Three Four.

Then the horns started, the same note repeated (—DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH) seven times and then James Brown began to sing. He sang like he spoke, a great voice that he seemed to be holding back, hanging onto because it was dangerous. The lads (in Jimmy’s bedroom) smiled at each other. This was it.