by Roddy Doyle
That made about as much sense as anything did these days.
—Grand.
He slammed the front door. It was expected; everything was normal.
He gave the cord a bit of a tug. The dog didn’t budge. He actually did look a bit like Messi, the hair and the front legs. But not nearly as cheerful or enthusiastic.
—Come on, for fuck sake.
He took a few steps but the dog didn’t go with him. He didn’t realise it – the dog was so light – until he heard a knock on the window behind him, and he looked back and saw Messi on his side, claiming a fuckin’ penalty. He laughed, although he wanted to kick the dog down the road.
—Come on, stop messin’.
He picked him up and put him back down when he got past the car and the gate. The dog pissed, then stood in the piss and shivered.
Jimmy pulled the dog out of the puddle, but any more pulling would have been cruel. He picked him up again, held him out and shook some of the piss off him. He took the SuperValu bag from his pocket and shook it open with his free hand. Then he put Messi into it.
That was the dog’s first walk, up to his neck in a SuperValu bag. His feet never touched the ground but he went as far as the coast, through the last of the daylight, across the wooden bridge to Bull Island.
Jimmy hadn’t walked this far in ages. But, then, he hadn’t committed adultery before. The word meant nothing. The sex felt like an achievement. The day before his third session of chemotherapy, with memories of the second one still raw enough to make him cry, he’d managed it. Simple as that. There were all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t have done it, and all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t have been able to do it. But he’d put his hands on the skin of a woman he didn’t really know, didn’t know well, and he’d pushed all the worries and doubts away. He’d given Imelda the best five minutes she’d had all week.
There were people staring at him.
Fuck them.
They could see the guilt on him.
That was just stupid. And he didn’t feel guilty.
He’d come too far, but he wanted to go to the end of the Wall. They’d be starving if they were waiting for him at home. He’d see if he could get a taxi when he got back onto the main road.
He should have told Imelda about the cancer. She’d liked his head; she’d said so. She’d run her hands over the stubble. His hair hadn’t fallen out – not yet. He was just a man with a shaved head. The excuse hadn’t been there to tell her.
You’ve no eyebrows, Jimmy.
But that was shite.
He’d been afraid of tears and sympathy. He’d wanted her to sit on him because he was a man, not because he was dying.
He believed that.
—So, she’d said.—Are we going to do this again?
—Yeah.
He’d been dying to go, to get the fuck away. But he’d have stayed. She was still gorgeous. Still ? He’d fancied her – and he’d liked her – for more than a quarter of a century, and he’d have kissed her neck again, while her kids came skipping up the garden path. Were her kids still kids? Her garden path was a three-minute walk from his parents’ garden path.
He was heading into chemo in the morning and three hours ago Imelda Quirk had groaned when he’d entered her. A woman fancied him. Simple as that. An attractive – that was the word – an attractive woman looked at him and saw someone, a man, she wanted to ride.
It was great.
There was rain in the wind now. He’d turn back in a bit. There were car lights behind him. His shadow stretched way ahead of him.
What a fuckin’ mess.
There was a cop car down on the beach, to his left, just below the embankment. It was going at a fair clip, over the sand. It stopped and the front doors opened. They must have been looking for someone. He kept going – he wasn’t interested.
He’d be able to face Aoife when he got home. There was nothing telling him he wouldn’t be.
The hand came down on his shoulder just as he saw the two cops coming up off the embankment stones and running at him.
—Where’re you going?
He was surrounded by big men half his age.
—What’s wrong?
—Where’re you goin’ with the dog there?
—A walk, said Jimmy.—I’m goin’ for a walk.
Then he saw it – what they saw. A man with a pup in a plastic bag, walking to the end of the Wall, the pier, whatever it was, with the tide coming in.
—Oh, hang on, he said.
They were young lads, probably fuckers, but they were questioning a middle-aged man in good clothes. So they listened to him.
—He went for a piss and stood in it. He’s only a pup. And I didn’t want to get the – eh – urine on my jacket.
Thank fuck he hadn’t worn the cancer trousers.
—And I had the bag with me, for his poo.
He remembered the faces now, those people staring at him back there, when he’d been walking past the golf club.
—Did someone phone you?
—Someone did, yes.
—Look, said Jimmy.—The dog’s name is Messi. If I went home without him – .
They believed him – the pricks.
They started to back away.
—Right, said one of them, the spokesman.—Just be careful.
The fuckin’ clown.
They were nearly off the embankment now, heading back to the squad car.
—Lads, he shouted.
They stopped.
—You couldn’t give me a lift, could yeh?
The thing he really hated about this place was the fact that he was so near people with cancer. Women with wigs like crash helmets, men who should never have been bald. Pinheads. He only felt dangerously sick when he was here. (The nausea wasn’t sickness. It was catastrophic but it ended, even if he couldn’t believe that while it was destroying him.) Some of them – women and the men – arrived, wandered around like they were all set for a day at the beach. Bags full of stuff. Someone had left a cake on the counter beyond, and it had been rancid-looking chocolate-chip muffins the last time he’d been in. There was a guy a bit down from Jimmy, in cargo shorts and – Jimmy couldn’t believe it – a Choose Life T-shirt. He kept looking around for someone to smile at.
The cancer community. Jimmy wanted nothing to do with them. They probably felt the same way about him. He didn’t give a shite. At least he hadn’t brought togs and a towel with him, pretending he was in Wexford or Majorca. All he had was his iPod.
Aoife was doing his worrying for him.
That wasn’t true. He was worried. Although all of his worry – he couldn’t think further than two or three days from now when the nausea would haul him out of his life.
Something by Ennio Morricone. ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’. For when they were carrying the coffin. But it would just get a laugh, and he didn’t want that. He wanted the song that would make them say, That’s Jimmy. His last moment in the present tense.
For fuck sake.
He was done, finished, out on parole. He put on his shoes. He smiled at the nurse, the sarcastic one. He turned his phone back on. Three texts. Aoife. How was it? X. He texted back. Boring X. She’d like that.
There was one from Des. Are we still on for 2moro, Jmmy? The trumpet lesson. He’d be fine. If its ok wth u Des. The polite middle-aged men. There’d be six or seven texts when one would have done the trick.
And one from Imelda. Whenll I see u agen? 2 many precious moments. Oh Christ. What had he fuckin’ done? But he knew what had happened. She’d written the first bit, recognised the lyric – the Three Degrees, September 1974 – and she’d written the rest of it. For the laugh. It wouldn’t be a bad song for the funeral, now that he thought of it.
He didn’t know how to answer her, what to write. He deleted the text. Then he put a reminder into his calendar: Text Im.
The lift was taking forever. As usual.
Another text. From Aoife. Lunch X. She was rem
inding him. Lunch together straight after the chemo, so she could witness him tasting food and coffee like it was the first real time in his life. On way X. They were meeting in a place near work. The Dog’s Lunch. He’d just pretend, if the taste thing didn’t actually happen this time. He’d let her think it had. He owed her that.
Fuck the lift. He’d attack the stairs.
There was a guy right beside him, against him. If they’d been out on the street Jimmy’d have thought he was after his wallet. A small, wiry cunt; rough looking – losing the fight. Jimmy had to go around him, to get to the stairs. He glanced at the little cunt’s face.
—Outspan?
The little cunt looked at him.
—Jimmy Rabbitte?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—How’s it goin’?
But he could see for himself. It was going horribly.
—Grand, said Outspan.—Not too bad.
—What’re yeh doin’ here? Jimmy asked him.
—Stupid fuckin’ question, Jimmy, said Outspan.
The lift door had opened but they stayed where they were.
—An’ yourself? said Outspan.—The chemo as well?
Jimmy nodded.
—Yep.
—Fuck sake, said Outspan.—The both of us.
Outspan had been in the first band Jimmy had managed, the Commitments. He’d been in Jimmy’s class in school, in secondary and further back, to the first day of primary.
—What’s your one? said Outspan.
—Bowel, said Jimmy.—Yourself?
—Lungs, said Outspan.
—Okay.
—I’d better be goin’.
—Grand, said Jimmy.—Okay. An’ look it. It was great seein’ yeh again.
—Yeah, said Outspan.—An’ yourself.
—Good luck, Outspan, said Jimmy.
He headed for the stairs.
—No one calls me tha’, said Outspan.
Jimmy stopped.
—Wha’?
—No one calls me that anny more, said Outspan.—D’yeh remember my real name, do yeh?
—Liam, said Jimmy.
—That’s righ’, said Outspan.
—D’you want to go for a pint or somethin’? Lunch?
—Lunch?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Lunch.
—Okay, said Outspan.—I can’t manage the stairs but.
He pressed the lift button.
Jimmy stood beside him.
—I’m still called Jimmy, by the way.
—Fuck off.
There were other people, healthy and dying, waiting for the lift. They were staying well back from the two old friends.
—Derek, said Outspan.—Remember?
—Derek? said Jimmy.—Yeah. ’Course I remember.
Derek was another Commitment, another lad from school, and Outspan’s best friend.
—Well, said Outspan.—He moved to Denmark, yeah?
He waited a while, took in breath.
—An’ he was the last one tha’ called me Outspan.
Another wait.
—An’ now no one even knows wha’ Outspan means.
The lift door – there was only the one – slid slowly open.
—Not since they released fuckin’ Nelson Mandela.
They walked into the lift. It always reminded Jimmy of a butcher’s fridge.
—Derek’s in Denmark?
—Yeah.
The lift was filling behind them. Jimmy could hear Outspan’s breathing.
—What’s he doin’ there?
—Pullin’ his wire.
Jimmy hated himself for feeling embarrassed.
—He’s married to a Danish bird, said Outspan.
—What about yourself?
—Married?
—Yeah.
—She was Irish.
—Was?
—Is, said Outspan.—An’ part fuckin’ Martian.
—Yis aren’t together?
—No, said Outspan.—She fucked off with a Klingon.
Jimmy heard a snort. Someone in the lift was trying not to laugh.
Jimmy could never tell if the lift was moving or not. But the door opened, and there were people waiting to get in. He got through the crowd in front of him.
—Hang on, for fuck sake.
Jimmy was tempted to keep going. To pretend he hadn’t heard him, to lose him and have his excuse ready in case they ever met again, upstairs in Chernobyl or anywhere else. But he turned and waited, and watched Outspan coming towards him. It was definitely Outspan Foster. The head – the look – was there; he still looked like Jiminy Cricket with a hangover.
—Alrigh’, Liam?
—You’re grand, said Outspan.—You’ve what again?
—Bowel.
—The guts.
—Well spotted.
—Fuck off. The lungs here – . Walkin’ an’ tha’. I can’t keep up.
—Okay, grand.
—Havin’ a shite now. I’d beat yeh hands down.
—I’ve to phone the wife, said Jimmy.
—Hate tha’.
—I’ll only be a minute.
—Bet yeh won’t.
They were still in the building; it would be easier than out on the street. He leaned against a wall, beside a noticeboard, and dialled Aoife.
—Hi.
—Howyeh, listen. Have yeh left the —
—I’m just off the Dart.
—Listen —
—And it was fine this morning?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Grand. Listen —
He did it. He looked across at Outspan, and lifted his eyes to fuckin’ heaven.
—Is anything wrong?
—No, said Jimmy.—Nothin’. I’ve met someone.
Someone I knew years ago. We had sex yesterday afternoon.
—Up at the chemo. A guy I went to —
His voice jumped away, and he was suddenly right on the edge of crying.
—Jimmy?
He took a breath.
—Jimmy?
—I’m grand, he said.
His voice was back – his.
—What’s wrong?
—I, said Jimmy.—I met an old friend. From way back. Up in the chemo. I can’t really talk. He’s here – near, like. Outspan Foster. Did I ever mention him? He might’ve been at the weddin’.
He was okay now. He could talk. He could trust himself.
—And he’s – he’s in a bad way.
—God.
—Lungs.
—Oh God.
—Anyway. I said I’d buy him lunch.
—Okay.
—Sorry.
—No —
—I’m really sorry.
It was true. He turned a bit, so he knew Outspan couldn’t see his mouth.
—Life hasn’t been kind to him, he said.
—Go, she said.—Have lunch.
—I’m —
—I’ll see you later.
—I love you.
—I love you too.
—What ages are your kids?
—Twenty-two an’ seven, said Outspan.
—Jesus.
—Wha’?
—The gap.
—What about it?
—It’s wha’? – fifteen years.
—I know.
—Two women?
—No, said Outspan.
—Fair enough, said Jimmy.—Mine are eighteen, sixteen, fourteen an’ eleven.
—Four women, yeah?
—Fuck off.
They’d found a Costa.
—This do us?
—Yeah.
There was a fair-sized queue.
—D’yeh want to sit down over —
—No.
—Okay, said Jimmy.
—She left me before this, said Outspan.
He hit his chest with his open hand.
—Yeh know?
Jimmy nodded.
—Just so yeh know, said Outspan.
Jimmy ordered the coffee and Outspan’
s tea and a couple of sandwiches in boxes, nothing that had to be made there and explained. They got a corner of a table, and sat with their knees and elbows banging.
—Fuck off.
—You fuck off.
—Where’re yeh livin’ these days?
—Swanbrook.
—Posh.
—No, said Jimmy.—Not really.
—G’wan, yeh cunt. —What abou’ you?
—Wha’?
—Where are you livin’?
—Back in me ma’s, said Outspan.—It’s not too bad.
—Yeah.
—Life is simple, yeh know.
—Yeah.
He had to pack the good days. But he’d started to love the race.
They’d two new songs. They’d found no more hot ones in Norman’s house but Norman had put on his coat and brought them to other houses, and other men – they were all men – who collected old records.
‘Eileen With the Smileen’ would have been filthy sung by Muddy Waters.
—SHE MOVES THROUGH THE FAIR —
AND THE CHAPS DO STOP AND STARE —
Even sung by Billy Maguire and His Fermanagh Fiddles, you could tell the chaps were looking at her arse.
—THEY’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT —
OH – A SIGHT SO RARE AND FAIR —
—Brilliant.
—One of the fiddles is out of tune.
—That makes it even better.
Jimmy couldn’t sit down.
—Good work, Ocean.
He could never sit down. He felt like that madman who’d produced London Calling, Guy Stevens, the guy who’d thrown chairs and swung ladders in the studio. Jimmy threw nothing but, still, he felt a small bit out of control.
—THEY DOFF THE CAPS AND SET THE TRAPS —
SHE’S A SIGHT SO RARE AND FAIR —
The song was a great find but it wasn’t the song. It swung and charmed, but it didn’t shock. And Jimmy, more than anything else – he wasn’t sure why – wanted to shock.
The other one, the fourth, was a murder ballad. It was a song he knew from primary school, when he was younger than Brian. They’d all stand and sing it, like a funny hymn. There was an oul’ woman and she lived in the woods – weile, weile, wáile. He remembered Outspan standing somewhere near him in the room, and Derek. But even though the words – the lyrics – had been there, he’d never paid much attention to them.
This though – this version was different. The oul’ woman was a young woman, and she was singing it.
—SHE HAD A BABY THREE MONTHS OLD —
WEILE WEILE WÁILE —