The Guts

by Roddy Doyle

  Anyway, he – the cousin – told Aoife that the key word was Celtic.

  —But we won’t be sellin’ stew.

  —It’s just the word, Aoife explained.—Typed into the search engine.

  —Google.

  —Yes, she said.—And Yahoo. All of them.

  —But all we’ll get is people lookin’ for stew and Aran jumpers.

  —Not if we – or they – put another word beside it, Aoife told him.—Celtic draws the business to us. And some other word —

  —Punk, said Jimmy.

  —Celtic punk, said Aoife.—That might be perfect.

  —Celtic for the numbers, said Jimmy.—And punk for the attitude.

  —www.celticpunk.com.

  They’d grinned, they’d laughed. They’d leaned into each other and kissed.

  But someone had got there before them. There was already a celticpunk.com.

  —Fuck it.

  —Ah well.

  It looked like a fan site for people with tattoos who liked their diddley-eye music a bit mad.

  —It’s not even punk, said Jimmy.

  He pointed at the photo on the homepage.

  —That’s a fuckin’ banjo.

  —Look, said Aoife.

  She changed the c to k and that did the trick.

  —What about gettin’ rid of the k in punk.

  —What d’you mean?

  He typed it out. Kelticpunc.com.

  —Too clever, said Aoife.

  —Clever?

  —Okay, said Aoife.—Stupid.

  They were kelticpunk.com. The joy of it. The freedom. Tracking down old bands. Looking after them. And Jimmy had looked after them well. They’d seen a bit of life, the ones he’d found and adopted. They knew what a bit of extra cash meant, and what gratitude was. Some of them were still bastards, unchanged by the years, just wrecked. But even they were good crack. Jimmy and Aoife reared their kids and managed dead bands across the kitchen table and once every month or so they left the kids with the newest babysitter and went to one of their own reunion gigs, in Whelan’s or somewhere else that made sense to people their age. And there was always something – good or bad, but always good – to bring home later.

  —I said brown bread! Fuck!

  They watched Barry Brown fling the tray across the dressing room. The room was about as wide as the tray, so the clatter arrived while he was still swinging his arm and the tray came back off the wall and hit the side of his head.

  Barry was lead singer with the Halfbreds. His drummer, a fifty-year-old girl called Connie Cunte, looked at the mess on the wall.

  —It is brown bread, she said.

  She was married to Barry.

  —Stop being so fucking vain, Barry, she said.—Put your glasses on, dude.

  They had two boys in Gonzaga and a girl in Alex, they’d told Jimmy and Aoife. The fees were killing them.

  —What the fuck is Alex? Jimmy whispered to Aoife.

  —A school.

  —I thought they were after sendin’ their young one off to Egypt or somethin’.

  —It’s Alexandra College.

  —Mad pair o’ cunts.

  They’d been mad back then, before kids and fees – before Aoife – famous for it and not a lot else. And somehow they’d brought their madness with them into their current lives. Insanity cuddled up to respectability, in their clothes and on their faces, in everything about them.

  —Mad as shite, said Aoife.

  Jimmy loved the way she said that.

  They watched Connie Cunte eat a brown bread sandwich straight off the wall, no hands. She was licking the paint.

  —It’s not the right brown bread, said her loving husband, Barry.

  —Barry, said Jimmy.—Fuck off.

  —Hey!

  Barry pointed at Jimmy.

  —Who’s going out there tonight?

  He pointed at the wrong door.

  —I don’t know, said Jimmy.

  He felt Aoife’s hand on his knee.

  —I fucking am! Barry yelled.

  They heard Connie swallow and laugh.

  —So, Barry yelled, and took a breath.—No sandwiches, no show! Read the fucking rider!

  Barry worked in the Department of Finance. He often had the Minister’s ear.

  —Will you go out there and tell the fucking crowd? he yelled.

  —I will, yeah, said Jimmy.—No problem. There’s only about ten out there anyway. So I’ll tell each of them individually. In fact —

  He waited till Connie had turned from the wall and was listening properly.

  —You not showin’ up, said Jimmy,—is probably a much better night out than you actually goin’ onstage.

  —Fuck off!

  —No problem, said Jimmy.

  Barry and Connie huddled again. It was what they did. They huddled, then roared at each other.

  —No!

  —Go on!

  —No! Okay, okay – fuck!

  Aoife squeezed Jimmy’s knee as Barry turned to them.

  —I misunderstood, he said.

  —I know, said Jimmy.—It’s not a problem.

  Jimmy put his hand out, and Barry took it.

  —Is the Heineken okay? Jimmy asked him.—The cans are the right shape, are they?

  —Fuck off.

  —Grand.

  Jimmy hadn’t been accurate when he’d told Barry that there were only ten in the audience. There were twelve. But that figure grew to thirteen when the drummer left the band halfway through their crowd pleaser, ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke,’ but hung around for the rest of the gig so she could drive Barry home.

  —I’m the designated driver, you stupid cunt!

  It was a great night.

  One of many.

  Aoife did the sums – the accounts – one night. (Jimmy ran away from money and adding. Aoife did all that.) She looked across at Jimmy. This wasn’t too long ago, although it felt like decades.

  —D’you know what? she’d said.

  —What?

  —It’s paying the mortgage.

  —What is?

  —shiterock.

  —Go ’way.

  —It is.

  —That’s brilliant, isn’t it?

  —It’s fantastic.

  They’d laughed; it just burst out.

  It got better. It became their business, his job.

  His company.

  Their company.

  He’d jacked in his old job. He’d hated it, especially after he’d decided to leave; the last few weeks had been hell. But if he hadn’t resigned back then, he’d more than likely – almost definitely – have been out of a job eighteen months later when people stopped buying cars.

  kelticpunk was suddenly their living. It was great, but frightening. There were great months and slow months, but the mortgage was always the same, hanging there, always more than they could afford. And the kids still ate the same amount. Actually, more. The first September had nearly creased them, with new school books and uniforms and black shoes, and the extra money for this and that. Football gear, a camogie stick, a deposit for a trip to Wales.

  —Who in the name of Jesus’d want to go to Wales?

  —Everyone else is going, said young Jimmy.

  —Okay, okay.

  And two ukuleles.

  —Two?

  —They’re cheap, said Mahalia.

  —Two but? said Jimmy.—And don’t raise your eyes to the ceilin’, May. Please.

  —One for school, said Mahalia.

  —For school?

  —Yeah, said Mahalia.—Music.

  —Thanks for the clarification.

  He’d gone too far; he could see that on her face.

  —Sorry. Go on.

  —And the other one for home, she’d said.

  —What? said Jimmy.—Do they make yeh leave the one for school in school?

  —No, she’d said.—But music – double class, like – is the same day as camogie and I can’t carry it all, like,
the camogie gear and the ukulele and the ukulele would probably break, like, or get stolen.

  So two ukuleles. Forty-four quid instead of twenty-two. It wasn’t much but it was real. And it was coming up to Christmas. Jimmy was getting Marvin a guitar and amp; he’d been in town with Marvin, and Marvin had stopped at the window of Music Maker, just down from the International, and stared at the electric guitars.

  —Why not just get him an acoustic one? said Aoife.

  —Cos he’ll turn into a singer-songwriter, said Jimmy.—No fuckin’ way.

  Sales had gone up the year before, in October, November and December. But they’d sold nothing – almost literally – in the first two months of the new year. And this was before the recession, the crunch, the collapse – whatever the fuck they were calling it.

  So they’d sold it. Most of it, seventy-five per cent. To Noeleen. They’d held onto a quarter – Noeleen’s suggestion. And they’d got rid of the mortgage. They owned their own house, and everything was easier. They didn’t know how much it was worth just before the crunch and they decided not to find out just after it.

  —We don’t need to know what negative equity means, said Aoife.

  —You probably know already, do yeh?

  —Of course I do, said Aoife.

  Three years into a recession that still felt like it was just starting, life was a bit safe – if he forgot that he had cancer for a minute. He got paid every month and still owned a chunk of the business. He still ran kelticpunk, but Noeleen ran him. He worked where she could keep an eye on him.

  That wasn’t fair – it wasn’t true. It was a chat they’d had before they’d signed. Where was he going to work? He’d opted for her office.

  —Sure?

  —Yeah, he’d said.—Makes sense. Is there room?

  —Yes, she’d said.—Plenty.

  The decision – all the decisions – had been his, and Aoife’s. His – they’d been his. He’d always admit that. He had the safety of a salary, a pension, the VHI, a home he owned, and a bonus – so far – at the end of every year. The world was in shit but shiterock was making money.

  And it killed him.

  He liked Noeleen. He had to root through himself and pull out the resentment. Noeleen hadn’t put her heel on his neck. She’d made the offer and she’d left him and Aoife alone to pick at it.

  They’d made the right decision and their timing had been accidentally perfect. They owned their house. The banks, the IMF, all forms of government could fuck off.

  But it killed him. There was once – just once, and he never mentioned it to Aoife – the thought it had kicked off the cancer. He was literally going to end up what he was – gutless. And dead. He’d pushed the thought away. But the decision, the weeks leading up to it, had felt like physical pain, across his head, in his face, in his shoulders, through his stomach. They’d celebrated – they’d gone out to the Indian in Dollymount – after they’d signed the deal with Noeleen. He’d felt good about it, and right. But sad too. That was the word – sad. He’d had something special, and he’d lost it. He’d given it away.

  He’d chickened out.

  The anger never lasted. But the sadness, the grief, had never left. Like losing the kids, them growing up and away from him, one by one. This was the same feeling – grief. The risk, the excitement, at a point in his life when it would have been perfect, the two of them doing it together. But bills – fuckin’ money – terrified him. The blood, when he’d noticed it first – and what the fuck had he been doing, examing the toilet paper? – when he’d watched it dyeing the water in the jacks, for a second, for a bit more than a second, it had made sense and he’d deserved it.

  There was no photo, just a kid’s drawing of a rabbit there instead. But the drawing was good – deliberately bad. There might have been an adult there, hiding behind the bunny.

  Maisie Rabbitte.

  Could he send her a message? Could he ask her if her dad was called Les? Maisie only shares some information with everyone. If you know Maisie, add her as a friend or send her a message. He’d do it, send her a message. But anything he wrote or thought of writing looked creepy.

  He fired off a real message. Hi Andrew. Got those snaps, ta. Any of the band post Eric? Raining here – as usual. J.

  Andrew – Andy Belton – had been lead singer and one of three guitarists with the Dangerous Dream, a prog rock group that, judging by the sales of their only album, My Life on the Planet Behind You, still had a following, and maybe a new following. Jimmy thought they were shite and – he loved this – it didn’t matter. It was business, and Andrew seemed sound. They hadn’t met. Andrew lived somewhere near Nairobi – near in an African way. He worked for one of the Irish NGOs, and he was probably driving across a desert or something, boiling his head. Jimmy didn’t know. But he knew this: the rain remark in his email made sound business sense. All his clients were middle-aged and most of them seemed to accept it, and they needed to know that the man who was looking after them was one of their own, another hip but middle-aged lad. And the weather did that. Information valuable to the middle-aged – raining here – handed over with a bit of timeless sarcasm – as usual. With clients he’d met, it could become as fuckin’ usual. But Jimmy hadn’t met Andrew.

  He loved that too. The fact that he could find the man, excite the man, get the man to excite the other men, become a new big thing in their lives, without actually meeting them. He’d found Andrew on Facebook and Andrew had agreed to let Jimmy resurrect the Dangerous Dream, before Jimmy knew that Andrew was in Kenya. Jimmy had never heard Andrew’s voice, except on his poxy record. And he loved that as well. He could like the man without liking the music, without actually knowing the man. And he knew: he’d never tell Andrew that his music was shite. Big Jimmy would tell the little bollix in Jimmy to keep all that to himself.

  —You’re maturing, said Aoife.

  —Is that what it is?

  —Yes.

  —It took its time, said Jimmy.—And too fuckin’ late.

  —Stop.

  —Sorry, he said.

  —Okay.

  —I didn’t mean it. But – I don’t know – I have to let it out sometimes.

  —I know.

  —Even when I’m only jokin’.

  —I know. Just —

  —What?

  —Maybe be a bit careful of what you say, said Aoife.

  —I know, said Jimmy.—The kids.

  —No, said Aoife.—Me.

  —Okay.

  Hi. My name is Jimmy Rabbitte. I live in Dublin. Do you know anyone called Les Rabbitte? Or Leslie? Thanks. Jimmy.

  He sent it.

  He ran his fingers around the back of his head, from ear to ear. He hated it when he found a patch, a few missed bristles that felt like a harvested field. He leaned right over the sink, brought his face bang up to the mirror.

  It looked alright; he’d done the job.

  In the corner of the mirror – he saw something. He looked behind him.

  It was Marvin.

  Gone.

  —Marv?

  Marvin didn’t answer.

  —Alright?

  No answer. And he couldn’t hear feet on the stairs, or a door being opened or shut. But Marvin had definitely been there at the bathroom door. Looking at Jimmy shaving his head.

  Rehearsing for the chemo.

  He threw cold water over his head, bent down over the sink. He liked that. He felt wild, like he was out in the woods or something. He rubbed his head with a towel, looked at himself again. His eyes were tired, a bit dirty looking. He was tired.

  He knocked on the boys’ bedroom door. No one answered, but that meant nothing.

  He knocked again. He waited, and went in.

  Marvin wasn’t there, or Brian. But young Jimmy was. Lying back, eyes closed – actually asleep.

  Jimmy bent down and kissed his forehead. It was a while since he’d been able to do that. It was there for him now. The big, clear, beautiful forehead.
<
br />   Something caught in Jimmy’s throat. A sob.

  He held young Jimmy’s earphones and gently took them from his ears.

  Young Jimmy’s eyes were open.

  —Alright? said Jimmy.

  —Yeah.

  —You were asleep.

  —Yeah.

  —You okay?

  —Yeah.

  —Just sleepy?

  —Yeah.

  Jimmy sat on the bed. Young Jimmy lay there, waiting for him to go. He would, but he wanted a few more seconds. He put the earphones into his own ears.

  The Dangerous Dream.

  Jimmy had emailed the album to the boys and Mahalia.

  Our cool dad.

  Another fuckin’ sob.

  He choked it. No way was he going to inflict it on young Jimmy. He took out the earphones.

  —I’ll leave yeh to it.

  —Yeah.

  —Later.

  —Yeah, later.

  —I want to show you somethin’.

  He’d brought the laptop into the kitchen. He sat at the table and Aoife stood at his shoulder. He had it open on his Facebook page.

  —You changed it, she said.

  She pointed at his photograph in the left-top corner.

  —Thought I’d better, he said.

  —It’s nice.

  —Thanks.

  It was him looking straight at the camera, the glass hole above the laptop screen. The shaved head, no smile.

  —A bit fierce maybe, he said.

  —No, she said.—Sorry to disappoint you. Serious. Interesting.

  —Keep goin’.

  —That’s as far as I was going to take it, said Aoife.—Not fierce.

  She patted his head.

  He liked that.

  —Anyway, he said.—This is – it might be – I don’t know. Remember I told you I sent a message to someone called Maisie Rabbitte?

  —Yes, said Aoife.—I do. What a name though.

  —Yeah.

  —She’d have to be lovely.

  —Yeah. Look.

  Aoife read it.

  He’s my dad.

  —God, she said.

  The sob again.

  Aoife heard it. She put her hands on his head and pulled it back to her stomach.

  —What’ll you write back to her? she asked.

  —I don’t know, he said.

  He was grand – he could talk.

  —But I’m just after thinkin’. I changed my profile picture after I sent her the first message. I think I did anyway. So she sent her message to a man with hair and she’ll be gettin’ the answer from a fuckin’ serial killer.