The Guts

by Roddy Doyle

  —I was fuckin’ terrified, he said.—It was great.

  He took a blast of the gas.

  —I gave a fuck, he said.

  —D’you want to go now?

  —I do in me hole, said Outspan.—Who’s next?

  They’d enough money left for hotdogs, autographed by the fuckin’ pig, and another round. Outspan looked wretched but his eyes were lit. Like a kid’s eyes.

  —Jimmy told me you play rhythm guitar, said Des.

  —Who? said Outspan.—Me?

  —Yeah.

  —Used to. Years back.

  —D’you fancy being in the band? said Des.

  It was the most amazing thing Jimmy had ever heard.

  —I might, said Outspan.

  —Great.

  The most amazing, generous, fuckin’ brilliant thing he’d ever heard.

  —Plant the legend, said Outspan.—Wha’.

  —Absolutely.

  —Every half-decent band should have a dead guitarist, said Outspan.

  It took a while, but they laughed.

  —What about you, Les? said Des.—Fancy moving back to Ireland?

  —No, said Les.

  —No?

  —No, said Les.—I’m happy over there.

  —Grand.

  They headed back to Darfur. The day was in Jimmy’s feet and legs. They were heavy, sore. But Christ, Jesus. What a fuckin’ day.

  Outspan was asleep in the chair. The other three had one last can. Outspan woke and crawled into the tent. Jimmy stood –

  —My fuckin’ back.

  – and followed him.

  —Seeyis, lads.

  —’Night, Jim.

  He got the boots off, and kneed himself in the face while he was doing it. He burrowed into the bag. Lay back. Waited. For sleep. He was still buzzing. His ears. Everything.

  My thanks to Keith Cullen, Peter O’Connor, John Walsh, Dan Franklin, Deirdre Molina and John Sutton.