The Guts

by Roddy Doyle

  —Either you hit the jackpot out there, Jimbo, or you just forgot, she said.

  —Wha’?

  —Your fly.

  —Oh. Fuck. Thanks. It’s got nothin’ to do with the cancer, by the way.

  What was he at?

  —Must be Alzheimer’s, she said.

  —Probably, he said.—But it only happens when it’s buttons. I never forget if it’s a zip.

  —Interesting.

  A text went off in his pocket. It took him a while to get to the phone. He’d forgotten he was wearing trousers again, and the mulled muck had gone to his head. He’d burn the tracksuit when he got home. It was turning him into a toddler.

  Noeleen was looking at him.

  No. She wasn’t.

  It was just as well, because the text was from Imelda. Jesus Christ, he was fuckin’ surrounded. He read it, brought it up to his eyes. Wot do u meen wot did i meen?

  What was that about?

  His head was swimming. Just a bit.

  Now he got it. That text, the one he’d done outside on the steps – he’d sent it to Imelda instead of Aoife. He checked the Sent box and there it was.

  Jesus.

  He laughed.

  The lad.

  He’d have to be more careful. Conducting no affairs with a gang of women was a full-time job. He should have eaten before he came out. He shouldn’t have come out.

  But he was grand. He sat on his desk. He nearly missed it but no one noticed.

  —Great to have you back, Jimmy, said the twit.

  —Ah, thanks, eh —

  He couldn’t remember the twit’s name.

  —Are you back for good?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. I’ve the chemo to go. But fuck it. It’s a man’s world, wha’.

  He slapped the twit’s shoulder but kind of got him in the face instead.

  —Fuck – sorry.

  —No worries.

  There was a new young one. The intern. She looked about ten. And forty. It was weird. She smiled at him. He thought he smiled back. He sat up straight. I’m at work. He stood up. That was better, more appropriate. More comfortable as well. I’m the boss. Nearly the boss. I have trousers with buttons.

  Noeleen was beside him.

  —So how’s Jimbo?

  —Jimbo’s grand. How’s Noely?

  —She’s savage.

  —Grand.

  His head had cleared a bit. He felt good again.

  —How’s it been? he asked.

  —Well, you’re fine, she told him.—You’ve seen that.

  He hadn’t, not really. But he nodded. Delight seeped through him – something like that. Or relief. He wanted to text Aoife. We’re fine. He wanted to go home.

  —Sales are holding up there, she said.—Well, they’ve dropped, but not drastically. The middle-aged are still finding the money to fund their nostalgia.

  —It’s kids that’re buyin’ the Dangerous Dream and the Legovers, said Jimmy.

  She could shove her fuckin’ nostalgia.

  —True, she said.—But the Celtic Rock stuff.

  Jimmy cringed. He actually did. The mulled wine was no protection. He had a stable of bitter old men who, forty years ago, had tried to fuse traditional music and rock. They’d failed, fuckin’ miserably. But none of them knew it. Musically, they were dead by the time teenage Jimmy discovered the NME and started to eat it every week. These lads had never made the NME, or Hot Press. Spotlight had been their natural habitat, in beside the showbands. The Sons of the Fianna, the Minstrel Boys, the Bastards of Lir – Jimmy hated them all.

  But they were his living – because Noeleen had told him to go after them. It was why she’d bought the site, or one of the reasons – she’d told him months later. For the Celtic part in kelticpunk. A portal to electrified diddley-eye. It had been hurtful, humiliating, just fuckin’ desperate. But he’d done it. And he was selling buckets of their songs. They were helping him stand tall – kind of – beside his business partner. His fuckin’ boss.

  —They’re our stars, she said.

  —Jesus Christ, said Jimmy.—Don’t ever tell them that.

  He devoted one very long day a week to Celtic Rock. It was how he coped. The other bands were great, even the cunts – especially the cunts; the Halfbreds and some of the other old punks – because they knew they were lucky, even when they were complaining. They were having a great time. And they could all point to some contemporary sound or attitude and claim that they’d got there first.

  —Who are your influences?

  —The Legovers.

  They were grateful to Jimmy, for the bit of recognition much more than the money. But the other fuckers, the Celtic rockers, all they could point to was the Corrs. Their struggle had been pointless. Pointless and just shite.

  —But, said Noeleen.—Sales of anything recorded before 1982 have gone the same way as house prices. They’ve stopped. And with Oxegen cancelled —

  —That’s bad.

  —The ticket to Oxegen isn’t the Christmas present from Mummy and Daddy any more. And to think, it was a stocking filler three or four years ago. To go with the car or the pony.

  —Not in our house, said Jimmy.

  —I’ve four great new bands, said Noeleen,—and nowhere to send them next July. There’ll be no giddy boys and girls on Phantom or Spin telling the kids at home how hot they are. No displays in Tower. It’s back to the drawing board, Jimbo.

  —Don’t worry about it, said Jimmy.

  He gave her the Apprentice line.

  —We’ll hit the ground runnin’.

  He hadn’t a clue; he really didn’t give a shite.

  —It’s the new austerity, Jimbo, she said.—Youth has been cancelled.

  —Ah cop on, Noeleen, said Jimmy.—We’ll be grand.

  His sons would never get to Oxegen. That was a bit sad. It had been the twenty-first-century Irish kid’s initiation, a weekend on a racecourse in Kildare, getting pissed and stoned, sleeping it off in a 15-euro tent while some of the world’s biggest bands shook the place deeper into the muck. But now they’d never get there. And Mahalia – she wouldn’t be going either. That was a relief.

  Jimmy was going to cry. He couldn’t drink; he was a fuckin’ eejit.

  The intern and the twit were working their way through the room with trays of cocktail sausages. Pity it wasn’t Conor.

  —What’s funny?

  —Nothin’.

  He needed blotting paper, the bit of grub inside him. He’d learn the intern’s name, and the twit’s. He knew the twit’s already; he’d been sitting beside him for more than a year. He’d remember it. He was back at work.

  Noeleen was still there.

  —Your optimism is infectious, Jimbo, she said, although she sounded like she was telling him the jacks was blocked.

  —That’ll be the drugs, said Jimmy.

  He lifted his glass.

  —Or this.

  He knocked back the bit that was left, and swallowed a couple of cloves. He was sending darts down through the remaining twenty per cent of his bowel.

  —There’ll be no bonus this year, I’m afraid, said Noeleen.

  Jimmy shrugged. Smiled. Shrugged.

  —For either of us, she said.—Just so you know.

  —Grand. Okay.

  It was too late to bring back the Christmas presents. To un-buy them.

  They’d be okay. They were making money. He was making money. Jesus though, he hated money, thinking about it – the consequences. He’d have to tell Aoife. Of course, he would. Anyway, she missed nothing. She could read bank statements like they were novels.

  The sausages gave him something to do. He grabbed three from the intern’s plate.

  —Thanks.

  —You’re wel-com!

  She was American. How did that happen?

  —What’s your name, by the way?

  —Ocean!

  —Which one?

  She said something back but he didn’t hear her. He w
as busy with the sausages. He was fuckin’ starving. It was amazing. He could feel them working, soaking up the poison. He wiped his mouth – missed it the first time.

  The arse on Ocean.

  Noeleen was still there.

  —When does the chemo start? she asked him.—Do you mind my asking?

  —No – you’re grand, he said.—Middle of January.

  The room was fuller. A lot of skinny young lads and the odd fatso – usually the drummer – in skinny jeans. Noeleen’s new bands. And the skinny girlfriends. He saw some of his people as well. The Halfbreds – Connie (aka Brenda) and Barry – were over where the water cooler used to be, before it became unnecessary. They were hissing at each other. Jimmy waved. Connie waved back but Barry didn’t. There was no sign of any of the Celtic Rock pricks. But Des Savage was there, the oldest drummer in the room. He liked Des. He’d go over to Des. He’d fill his glass on the way, or see if there was anything better. Beer or something.

  —The bonus thing, he said to Noeleen.—That should’ve been a joint decision.

  —You weren’t here.

  —Actually, Noeleen.

  Think like Aoife, think like Aoife.

  —That’s no excuse, he said.

  Perfect.

  Then he woke up.

  There was daylight – tomorrow. He was at home.

  Thank fuck.

  He couldn’t remember anything. Not a fuckin’ thing. His head – his brain – was dry, shrivelled, killing him.

  Great.

  He’d had a normal day. He was dying now, in a pre-cancer kind of way. Being punished for it. And it was great. He turned the pillow – he could manage that, just about – and lowered his head back down onto it.

  He still couldn’t remember a thing.

  It was Christmas Eve. Loads to do.

  Bollix to it. He didn’t care. The big things were sorted.

  There was the turkey – sorted.

  He’d ended up in a Chinese place. There was a gang of them – he thought.

  And the ham. It was in the fridge.

  He could hear the telly under him and the dog yapping, and feet – Aoife’s shoes, maybe Mahalia’s. The fuckin’ dog. He remembered now. It was theirs. He couldn’t even remember its name. What was the story with the sister? Break-up? Money trouble?

  He’d stood up and left the Chinese restaurant. He’d eaten a spring roll or something like a spring roll – he could taste it now – and he’d stood up. He remembered, the backs of his legs against the chair. He’d just walked away. He’d check now, in a minute, make sure he’d brought home his jacket and his wallet.

  The phone. He lifted his head. It wasn’t too bad. He leaned out. He usually left it on the floor beside him. It was there. He grabbed it and lay back. He wrote – he composed – a text. Do I owe anyone money? He fired it off to Noeleen.

  He heard someone on the stairs. He listened to the door being opened quietly, slowly. The hinge needed oil.

  —Awake?

  —Good mornin’, he said.—Is it mornin’?

  —It’s not that late, said Aoife.—It’s eleven or so.

  —I didn’t wake anyone when I was comin’ in, did I?

  It was gloomy but he could see that she was smiling.

  —Wha’?

  —You really don’t remember?

  —What?

  —We were all watching telly, she said.

  —Oh.

  —Do you remember now?

  —No, he said.

  —You were lovely.

  —Was I?

  He could feel himself getting hard. An erection! Christ. A blast from the fuckin’ past.

  He grabbed her – he grabbed his wife. She didn’t object.

  —Are you sure? she said.

  It wasn’t an objection. And she didn’t object to him taking off her shirt – his shirt. He gave up on the buttons. She lifted her arms. Fuck, she was lovely when she did that. He sat up properly – he had to – to get the shirt over her head.

  —The door.

  He watched her stand and go to the door. For a horrible second, he thought she was going to keep going. But she was back on the bed, in beside him.

  —Are you sure? she said.

  —You asked that already.

  —And you didn’t answer me.

  —If the stitches burst, or whatever, it might be manslaughter but definitely not murder.

  —Oh, fine.

  —I’ll die happy.

  —Stop.

  —Why —

  —No, not that! Don’t stop.

  —Make your fuckin’ mind up.

  —Was that your stomach? she asked.

  —Ignore it.

  —I am.

  —I’m still alive, he said.

  —Damn.

  —You thought you’d ride me to death.

  —That was the evil plan.

  —I love you.

  —I love you too.

  —The dog —

  —Forget about the dog.

  —Okay.

  —It’s ours.

  —Grand.

  —You’ll love it.

  —Yeah.

  The phone hopped. She leaned out and grabbed it. She brought it right up to her eyes. They were going blind together.

  A name roared across him. Imelda.

  —Noeleen, she said.

  She handed it to him. He held it so she could read it too. Not money but u owe someone apology. X

  —What does that mean? Aoife asked.

  There was no edge in her voice.

  —Fuck knows, he said.—I was locked.

  —You’re never drunk.

  —I know.

  —It was lovely.

  —Grand.

  —You were funny.

  —Hang on.

  He wrote one back. Why?

  —Don’t forget the X, said Aoife.

  —Oh yeah. X

  He fired it off.

  He was falling asleep. She was so warm beside him, hot.

  She sighed.

  —What?

  —I was just thinking about Sinéad.

  He edged away from her, slightly. He was wide awake and getting hard again. Women’s names – Christ. They were the best thing about them.

  —It’s bad, he said.

  Broken glass, Mother Teresa.

  —The worst thing about it, said Aoife.—It’s selfish but – Sinéad.

  Enda Kenny, broken glass.

  —She told Angela. Not me.

  —You didn’t know her that well, he said.—Did you?

  She didn’t answer.

  —Are you cryin’? Aoife?

  —No.

  The phone hopped again.

  —Why? said Aoife.

  —Why what? said Jimmy.—I don’t follow yeh.

  He was nervous now. Words were dangerous.

  —Why didn’t I know her that well? said Aoife.

  —I don’t know, said Jimmy.—Yeh can’t know everyone.

  —For God’s sake.

  She was moving, getting up.

  —Hang on, he said.—Am I bein’ blamed for this?

  She was standing now. She was putting on his shirt. The door was open. She was gone.

  He’d get up.

  He could see her point of view. He thought he could. But they’d both agreed, Conor was a wanker. It had been a joint agreement.

  He found the phone and read the text. U kept callin Ocean Atlantic. X

  Is that all? X

  He’d had sex. He’d just made love. He was still alive.

  The phone again. He unlocked it. No.

  It could wait. It, she, fuckin’ they. He’d remember what he’d done and he’d deal with it.

  He got out of the bed and found his tracksuit bottoms. He went across to the bathroom.

  Brian was on the stairs.

  —Alright, Smoke?

  He was standing there, waiting for Jimmy.

  Waiting for his dad to be his dad.

  �
�What’ll we do today?

  —Don’t know.

  —Excited?

  —Yeah.

  —It doesn’t do upstairses.

  —What?

  Jimmy had been dropping off to sleep again. He couldn’t believe he was up this early, although it happened every fuckin’ Christmas.

  —It doesn’t show you when you’re going up the stairs, said Brian.

  —The sat nav? said Jimmy.

  —Yeah, said Brian.

  He sounded disappointed.

  —Well, look it, said Jimmy.—It’s designed for cars. It’s rare enough you’d need to be drivin’ upstairs in a house.

  —S’pose.

  —Why are yeh dressed like that? The heat’s on, isn’t it?

  Brian had his jacket over his pyjamas and – Jimmy saw now – he was wearing his school shoes.

  —I’m going out to test it.

  He was holding the sat nav in both hands, like a steering wheel.

  Jimmy looked at his watch.

  —It’s only half-five, Smoke. You’ll have to wait till it’s bright outside.

  —That’s not for ages.

  —No.

  —Please.

  Aoife was behind Brian now.

  —Why don’t you ask your dad to go with you? she said.

  —Okay, said Jimmy.—I give up.

  He stood up, no bother.

  —Come on, Smoke.

  —No, you don’t, said Aoife.—Open your present first.

  —I thought I did, said Jimmy.—Did I not?

  There were socks, a box set – The Killing – and a Liverpool mug. A crumby enough haul.

  —No, look, she said.

  She leaned across the back of the couch and found another package under the pile of wrapping paper. She handed it to him.

  —Thanks.

  It was soft. A jumper or something. She’d never done that before, bought him clothes, tried to dress him. He tore through the wrapping paper, the way real men and boys did it.

  It was a tracksuit.

  A fuckin’ tracksuit. It was purple, and some sort of velvet – the word popped up: velour.

  —Do you like it?

  —Eh —

  —I thought you’d like another one. So you can wash the other one now and again.

  She was slagging him, the bitch, and telling him to start dressing like an adult again.

  —It’s lovely, he said.

  —You can wear it out now.

  It was dark outside – safe.

  —Great idea, he said.—I’ll break it in. Actually, I might wear it to mass.

  Jesus, it was cold but. He walked down the road with Brian and got excited with him when they came to the first corner, and there it was, on the sat nav.