by Roddy Doyle
—Jesus, Jimmy.
—I’m sorry.
—We’ll cope, she said.
She was talking to a man who’d just come from chemotherapy. But he knew she wanted to kill him.
—And Noeleen, she said.—And is she taking the pain as well?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.
He thought he remembered Noeleen telling him that.
—An’ we’ve some interestin’ stuff comin’ up, he said.—So we should be okay – . D’you remember the Halfbreds?
—God, yeah.
—I’ve to meet them in a bit, said Jimmy.—Want to come?
—No.
—Ah, go on.
—Okay, she said.
—Great.
—Why?
—Why what?
—Why do you want me to come? she asked.
—It’ll be good crack, he said.—An’ they might be less obnoxious if you’re with me. Anyway —
He looked at her properly.
—It was always us, wasn’t it? You an’ me. We did it, not fuckin’ Noeleen.
—Leave her alone.
—I know. But you know what I mean.
And he told her about the song he was going to write. He got a bit worked up as he heard himself tell her, afraid it sounded infantile and silly. They were skint and he was going to mess with history.
He finished telling her, and she told him she’d an idea as well.
—No.
—Why not?
—D’yeh think?
—Why not? she said again.—You’ve seen him.
He thought – he didn’t; he didn’t have to.
—Okay, he said.
His eyes were watering.
—Fuckin’ hell, Aoife.
He walked into the kitchen. He was struggling a bit, a bit drowsy. He saw Marvin at the fridge, or young Jimmy. It was still dark. There was something not right – he turned on the light.
He roared – it wasn’t a word, or a howl.
It was a kid, a young lad, a fuckin’ burglar. Gone. Out the open window. Jimmy hadn’t seen him get there. There’d been no sound on the floor and he’d knocked nothing over as he slid out.
Jimmy went after him.
He was gone – the kid was gone. Over the back wall. Or the wall beside him, into the empty neighbour’s. He didn’t know. He wasn’t even certain now he’d seen him.
He went back into the kitchen.
The window was open. It was nearly a welcome sight, proof. He’d seen the kid.
—You, he said softly, to the dog.—You’re a useless shitebag, aren’t yeh?
Jimmy picked the dog up. His arms were shaking. He could feel it before he took the dog’s weight. His heart was hopping. He was surprised, though; he wasn’t angry. He felt nothing about the kid.
His roar had woken no one. He listened – no sounds from upstairs.
He brought the dog over to the door, and shoved him out the back for his piss.
They’d left the kitchen window unlocked. They never used the alarm.
They were broke.
They weren’t.
They were – they were squeezed. They were in the club.
He let the dog back in.
There’d been something about the kid, the glimpse he’d had of him. Standing at the fridge, like one of his own.
He didn’t phone the Guards. He wasn’t going to. He was telling no one.
He shut the fridge door. He made the coffee.
She sat on the bed. She looked back at him and laughed.
—Fuck off, Jimmy.
—Look, he said.
—No, she said.—You fuckin’ look.
She hadn’t moved.
—This stay away from each other shite, she said.—We’re not married, Jimmy. There’s no arrangement. That I’m aware of. A kiss an’ a cuddle now an’ again. That was always it.
—I know.
—So grand. You know. Fuck off.
This hadn’t been the plan.
—You don’t get to decide, Jimmy, she said.—There’s no fuckin’ decision. If you want to stay away, then stay away. I couldn’t care less.
—Listen —
—Don’t fuckin’ listen me, Jimmy Rabbitte.
She stood up.
—I’m not your fuckin’ wife.
She walked out of the room. Two steps did it. But the way she did them – fuckin’ hell. He heard her put down the toilet seat – she didn’t bang it. Was he supposed to go while she was in there? She’d told him to fuck off. And she’d meant it – he thought she had.
He’d get fully dressed, no rushing down the stairs with his jeans and shoes in his arms. He didn’t want to leave like this. He didn’t want to leave at all. He wanted to change his mind, get back into the bed, roll back five minutes and shut his fuckin’ trap.
But he was up now, buttoning his shirt. He heard the flush, the tap.
—Where’re yeh goin’?
—I’m just goin’, he said.—Work.
—Ah. And I was goin’ to put you in my mouth one last time.
—Really?
—No. Fuck off.
—Can I say somethin’?
—Go on, said Imelda.—But keep puttin’ your trousers on.
She sat back into the bed.
—I’ve –, he started.
Don’t!
—I’ve —
Fuckin’ don’t.
—I’ve cancer, he said.
She laughed. Her head hit the wall behind her.
—Sorry, she said.—I don’t mean I don’t care.
She smiled.
—I’m really sorry.
—It’s okay, said Jimmy.
She looked very calm. Kind of flat – neutral.
—When did you find out?
—A while back, he said.—I should have – .
—Bowel, she said.
—Wha’?
—Your cancer.
—How did yeh know tha’?
—The scar, Jimmy.
He looked down to where it was, hidden behind his clothes.
—I’ve had my face up against it quite a lot over the last few months, she said.—I could see it was newish. Tuck your shirt in, Jimmy. You’re not a teenager.
He smiled. They were over the hump.
—So anyway, he said.
She sat up a bit straighter. She was pushing a pillow behind her when she spoke.
—And that’s the excuse, yeah?
—Wha’?
—Your escape route, she said.
She let go of the pillow and looked at him.
—You tell me you have cancer. After you fucked me, mind you. Thanks very much, by the way. You were magnificent.
—Look, Imelda —
—Every grunt was music to my ears.
She wasn’t angry, or sarcastic. She wanted him to laugh – he thought she did.
He sat on the bed and put on his socks and shoes.
—So, she said.
She tapped his back with her foot, kind of kicked it.
—Go on, she said.
—Wha’?
—You’ve got cancer, she said.
—Yeah.
—And?
—I need —
He was putting on the wrong sock. It was one of her husband’s, from under the bed. Blue. His were black.
—What? she said.
She nudged him again with her foot.
He couldn’t tell her about the sock. They’d never spoken about the husband, or Aoife. Steve. That was all he knew. He travelled a lot. That was all.
He did his laces.
—I have to spend time with the kids.
She laughed again.
—Lovely, she said.
—Serious, he said.
—As cancer.
Had she always been that quick?
—So, she said.—Like – . You’ve suddenly got cancer.
—Yeah, he said.—Not suddenly, no.
—You’re – you must be, wha’? Jesus, it’s like
measurin’ a pregnancy. You’re havin’ chemo by now. Are yeh?
He nodded. He thought she shivered. But she was naked and it wasn’t warm.
—Look it, he said.—I couldn’t tell you.
—’Course yeh couldn’t, Jimmy. You haven’t gone bald or anythin’.
—No.
—Lucky, she said.—So. I’m just curious. When we finally met. Had the chemotherapy started?
—Yeah.
—Grand.
—Just.
—Wha’? The same day?
—No, he said.—Once. But not then – the first time.
—Go on, Jimmy, she said.—Hop it.
—Sorry.
—For what?
—I should’ve told yeh.
—Yeah, she said.—But it’s no odds, really. I kind of knew anyway.
—Did yeh?
—Not really, she said.—That’s just tha’ women’s intuition shite. I don’t believe in it. Unless it suits me. Go on.
—I’d better.
—Yep, she said.—Fuck off.
—An’ I’m sorry —
—Jimmy. I’m not givin’ you the satisfaction. Go on. Fuck off.
He’d been dismissed. Already gone; it was like he’d never been there.
He was downstairs, at the front door. He felt exposed – he even checked his fly. He’d liked it that they’d never spoken about the families. He’d started once, to tell her about May and the drinking. But she’d stopped him. I don’t want to know. He’d loved it. He’d laughed. Except.
He wanted her to show something.
He could creep back up the stairs. Open the door here, close it loudly, go back up and catch her. Crying? Not a hope. He didn’t know. He knew nothing about her.
He had to go. Cop on, cop on.
He’d parked the car at the Hiker’s. He was meeting his da.
For fuck sake.
He’d go on up to the main road and walk back down to the pub from that direction.
It was unfinished. Unstarted. There’d been nothing to it, except the sex and the bit of chat. Every man’s fuckin’ dream. Every man in Barrytown would have envied him, if they’d known. Maybe that was the problem.
He didn’t trust himself. He’d tell his da – or Aoife. The way he was.
He took the phone out. Thanks X. Proper spelling. He fired it off. She wouldn’t answer. He didn’t know why, or why not. He knew nothing. He hadn’t a clue.
—Did you talk to Noeleen?
—No. I forgot.
—Jesus, Jimmy.
—Sorry.
—We need to know.
—I know.
—D’you want me to talk to her?
—No.
—It’s a simple question.
—I know, he said.—Tomorrow. I swear.
—It’s humiliating.
—Yeah. But it’s grand. Has to be done. It’s grand.
—What’re you reading?
—This.
—Just Kids. Patti Smith. Oh, we like her, don’t we?
—Fuck off.
—Have you spoken to Marvin yet?
—Tomorrow, said Jimmy.—I’ve an appointment. He’s agreed to meet me at six.
—Jesus, said Aoife.—What are we like? He’s a schoolboy.
—He’s a fuckin’ rock star.
—Cool.
—Yeh like the idea?
Marvin nodded.
—Yeah.
Jimmy spoke to young Jimmy.
—And yourself?
Bringing in young Jimmy had been Jimmy’s idea.
Young Jimmy shrugged, looked at his brother, shrugged again.
—Yeah.
—Great.
It was a fuckin’ miracle. He was sitting with his sons and they had this thing in common.
—Will what we’re doing, said Marvin.—Will it, like, be illegal?
—Christ, said Jimmy.—I never thought – . I suppose it will.
—Cool.
—You alrigh’ with that? he asked young Jimmy.
Young Jimmy shrugged.
—Yeah.
—Great. So.
He caught himself rubbing his hands together. He hated that; it was oul’ lad behaviour.
—I’ve chemo tomorrow, he told them.—Last session.
—Nice one.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—So after that – the sick days, yeh know – I’ll book the studio.
—Cool.
—I’m delighted, said Jimmy.—Thanks, lads.
—What about royalties?
—Feck off.
—Seriously, said Marvin.—You warned me about being exploited.
—Good point, said Jimmy.—Here’s what. We’re recordin’ a song that never existed. Yeah?
He saw young Jimmy sitting up, as if he was just now really getting it.
—Really, he told the lads.—It’s fictional. You’re with me?
—Yeah.
—An’ so are the royalties.
—No way —
—I’m not pullin’ a fast one, Marv, said Jimmy.—If we go claimin’ royalties, the whole thing falls apart. I’ll look after yis, don’t worry. But the royalties thing. I’m glad yeh brought it up. An’ Jim – you as well. It brings home the point. Nobody is to know about this.
This appealed to them – he could tell. It appealed to him too. The international man of fuckin’ mystery.
—Just the three of us, he said.—And your mother.
—And Mush and Docksy, said Marvin.
They were the two other lads in his band.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—But not yet. Till we’re ready. An’ not the full story.
They liked that too.
—What’ll I do, though? said young Jimmy.
—Give me a hand, said Jimmy.—Produce it, engineer it. And we still have to write the fuckin’ thing.
—What sort of music was there in 1932? said Marvin.
—We’ll decide that, said young Jimmy.
—Wha’?
—We’ll decide what sort of music there was in 1932.
Jimmy stared at him, just for a bit.
—Good man.
—Les?
—Yeah. Hi.
—Great to hear yeh.
—Yeah.
—Thanks for phonin’.
—It’s okay.
—How’s Maisie?
—Good.
—Great. Tell her I was askin’ for her.
—Yeah.
Ask about mine, yeh cranky monosyllabic prick.
—Les?
—Yeah.
—You’re still there.
It always felt like a fight. Trying to get words – anything – out of him. Jimmy always became the interrogator, the sarcastic bollix – You’re still there.
—Yeah, said Les.
Jimmy sometimes wondered if it actually was Les.
—I just phoned to say good luck, said Les.
—Thanks – eh —
—I knew it was coming up.
—Yeah —
—The last session.
—Yesterday, said Jimmy.
—Oh. Great.
—Yeah.
—Like the school holidays then.
—You were never in school, Les.
He heard Les laughing.
—That’s true, said Les.
Jimmy wanted to cry – again.
—Thanks for phonin’, Les.
Say something else, get him to stay on the line.
—Bye.
—Bye.
He heard the slap of something hitting the hall floor. He looked, and turned it over with his foot. It was that mad thing, Alive!, the free Catholic paper. Normally, he’d have walked out to the green wheelie with it – even this early. But he read the headline; he couldn’t avoid it. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL.
He picked it up, and saw the two smiling girls on the front page. Normally they’d have been promoting a new app or a beer festival. Here though, they were advertising the
Eucharistic Congress.
He took it with him into the kitchen. He shoved the dog out for his piss and put on the coffee. Then he opened page 12: Are You Ready for the Congress?
No, he wasn’t.
It was starting on the 10th of June. That was less than two months away.
He read on down the page, looking for hints that the Pope might be coming. There weren’t any. The oul’ prick was staying put. He wouldn’t risk the country’s indifference. But the Congress was going ahead, with or without the headline act. It even had a theme: ‘The Eucharist: Communion with Christ and with One Another’. Jesus, they’d be riding in the bushes after that session. Events, workshops, keynote addresses; ecumenism, marriage and the family; priesthood and ministry; reconciliation. It wasn’t what Jimmy’d expected. Where was the big stuff – the crowds? Only seven thousand had registered. They were coming from Kazakhstan, El Salvador and Uganda. These would be hardcore fuckers; they’d be walking all the way, over the water and all. And they wouldn’t be buying Jimmy’s album.
What fuckin’ album?
Ocean kept bouncing up to him with another 78 or spool of tape. She’d found him about twenty songs. She often had Norman with her. Jimmy half thought she might have moved in with Norman.
—Stranger things have happened, said his da.
—Fuckin’ name one. Go on.
And Jimmy had rejected them all. Too pious, too bland, too familiar, too slow. He hadn’t told Ocean, or Noeleen, the real plan. He didn’t want to be confronted with boring fuckin’ questions about cost and legality. He wasn’t going to listen.
He picked up the Alive! The coffee had done its job. It was time for the morning dump and survival test. Every time he wiped his arse he half expected bad news. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.
He preferred to get this done before the rest were up and scratching at the bathroom door. If he found blood, he wanted to be back downstairs, getting the breakfasts and lunches ready, smiling at them as they shuffled into the day.
He looked at the front page again. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL. He had the four walls of his song.
He was tempted to stop the car; he thought he’d have to. Get off the road, up onto a path.
Noeleen could fuck off. Marching around with the accountant – her fuckin’ cousin, for Jesus’ sake.
—Got a minute, Jimbo?
No, he fuckin’ didn’t. He wasn’t taking the blame for whatever the accountant had lined up there on his iPad. Gavin was his name. Middle-class culchie cunt. Jimmy wasn’t going to give her the chance to tell him she had no choice, and blah fuckin’ blah.
He’d start all over again if he had to. Him and Aoife.
He had to stop. He put on the hazards – there was a van too close behind him. The driver put his fist on the horn. Fuck him. Jimmy saw a place where the kerb was a bit low. He aimed at it, got up on the path. Stopped the car. Left the hazards on. Got the phone out. He couldn’t read the names on the screen. He closed his eyes. He remembered her number – he thought he did. He found the digits.