The Guts (12 page)

—Bollix, he said.

—What’s wrong?

He’d gone on to Ticketmaster, to get an Oxegen ticket for Marvin.

—They’ve cancelled Oxegen, he said.

—Yes, said Aoife.—They announced it last week.

—Any idea what Marv wants instead?

—No, she said.—You can ask him later.

—Okay. Grand. If I see him.

He thought of something.

—Look at this.

He turned the laptop, so she could see the screen.

—What am I to look at?

—That.

She leaned forward. She squinted – a bit. He decided not to slag her about her eyesight.

—Is this from your brother?

—Yeah.

—God.

She looked at him, and back at the screen.

—Is this all there is?

—Yeah.

—God, she said again.—It’s a bit – I don’t know. Chilling. Is it? Only one word.

—I know what you mean, he said.—I’m not even sure it’s him.

—Ah, it has to be him, Jimmy. There are too many coincidences for it not to be.

She looked at the screen again. Her face was right down at it.

—Do you think it might be someone else?

—No, he said.—Not really.

—Or someone messing?

—No, he said.—And I don’t think it’s another Les Rabbitte. But – this is a bit mad. When I read it—. Not that there’s much readin’ in it. I thought – I wondered. Well, it felt like maybe it was his ghost.

—Ghost?

—Contactin’ me from, like – the afterlife.

—God, Jimmy. It’s a fucking email.

—I know, he said.—It’s just the way it feels. After so long, I suppose.

—Back from the dead.

—A bit, he said.

—Are you going to answer him? she asked.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—’Course.

He typed.
Hi, Les. Great to hear from you. It’s been too long
.

—Is that goin’ too far? he asked Aoife.

—What?

—It’s been too long.

—Well, it’s true, she said.—And it’s nice. But yeah.

—Grand.

He deleted it and typed his mobile number.
Phone me if you like. There’s something I need to tell you. We should catch up
.

—Fuck it, he said, and typed.
It’s been too long
.

She smiled, and kissed the side of his face.

—Life’s too fuckin’ short, he said.

And he sent it.

Jesus, it was cold. It was fuckin’ freezing. The grass was solid under him.

He was putting out the bin. It was green wheelie day tomorrow. He’d forget the names of his children but he’d always remember the bin days. And he wasn’t even ashamed.

God, it was cold but. The tracksuit bottoms were useless; he didn’t know how homeless people managed in this weather. There was already ice on the handle of the wheelie. He’d have to be careful, or they’d be coming out to pour warm water over his fingers, to free his hands from the ice. Or he’d be found dead, stuck to the wheelie.

He wasn’t alone.

He was out on the road now, lining up the bin at the edge of the path, and he saw Conor from next door. At his car. His jeep. Putting something in the back.

—Alright, Conor?

Conor’s head was still buried in the boot. Counting party hats or something.

—That’s a cold one.

Your man said nothing back. He stood up straight, slammed the boot shut, and headed for his front door. He didn’t even look at Jimmy – and he must have heard him. It was a cold, clear night; Jimmy’s words had felt solid coming out of his mouth.

He was shutting his front door, Conor was, when a hand came back out, holding the car key, pointing it at the jeep. It clicked shut –
tink tunk –
right beside Jimmy. Then the front door quietly clicked shut. Fuck him.
My brother rode your missis
. The ignorance of that, pointing the key.
Or so he says
. He must have seen Jimmy; he couldn’t not have.

He’d locked himself out. Jimmy had.

—Bollix.

He had to ring the bell. Fuck, he was freezing now.

He rang again. They were all in the living room, watching the
telly – with him. They thought he’d gone to the jacks or to fill the kettle; he’d stood up during the ads.

He rang again. They wouldn’t have heard it. He knocked on the glass. He was shaking now. He leaned across – nearly fell over – and knocked on the living-room window.

His mobile started purring against his thigh.

For fuck sake.

He got it out. He could hardly press the green button, his fingers were so cold.

—Hello?

—Jimmy?

—Yeah.

—It’s Les.

The door opened.

—What are you doing out there?

It was Aoife.

Jimmy pointed at the mobile up against his ear, with a free finger.

—Les, he said.—Howyeh.

—Okay. Fine. You?

The voice meant nothing. Jimmy didn’t know it. He got the door shut behind him.

—I’m grand, he said.—Great.

—Good.

—Where are yeh?

—I’m at home.

—Yeah —

—England. Basingstoke.

—I’ve heard of it.

—Yeah.

—Listen, it’s great to hear you. Thanks for gettin’ back.

He could feel it. He was – they were running out of things to say. Already.

—That’s okay, said Les.

—No, it’s great.

—You said there was something you needed to tell me. In the email.

—Fuck, yeah. I forgot.

He looked at Aoife closing the living-room door. She picked up the dog as she did it. He kept going, down to the kitchen. It was warmer in there.

—Look, he said.—You still there, Les?

—I’m here.

—Grand, said Jimmy.—So look. I’ve had a bit of a scare.

There was nothing from Les.

—Cancer, said Jimmy.

—Oh.

—I’m grand. I’m just out of the hospital actually. The bowel.

He couldn’t stop.

—The cancer, like. Cancer of the bowel. So anyway, they removed the – yeh know – the tumours an’ it’s lookin’ good. Fingers crossed now.

—Yeah. Sorry to hear that. Jimmy.

—No. Thanks, by the way. Les. But I’m grand. Home again an’ back at work. I can do that, work at home. So I’m grand. I was just puttin’ the wheelie out when you rang there.

What the fuck was he saying?

He couldn’t stop.

—So anyway, they said – the specialists, like – they said it might be hereditary. So Darren an’ Da had the tests done there, and they’re grand. They’re both great, by the way. Ma an’ Da. Yeh there?

—Yeah.

—An’ I wanted to tell you. So – cos they say you should get one done as well.

—Too late.

—Wha’? Les?

—I had a biopsy. Four years ago.

—Oh. Good. An’ you were grand?

—No.

The silence was roaring at him now. But Les broke it.

—Same as you.

—Bowel? said Jimmy.

—Yeah.

—God. Fuck. Jesus. And are yeh alright now?

—Yes. Yeah. There’s been no recurrence.

He used the word – recurrence – like a pro, like he knew exactly what it meant.

—Good, said Jimmy.—Great.

The man had been dying, over in England. Jimmy knew nothing about him.

—Hope it works out for you, said Les.

—Thanks, said Jimmy.—Thanks, Les.

—Bye.

—I’ll phone yeh when I find out —

—Fine, yeah. Bye.

Jimmy sat down. He had to.

Aoife was at the door. Holding the dog like your man from the old Bond film.

—How was that?

—Weird, he said.—Great. Fuckin’ awful.

—Do you want to talk about it?

—No, he said.—Tomorrow. It’s too much.

—Okay, she said.—It must be strange.

—Yeah. Yeah.

—What were you doing outside? she asked.

—Wha’? Oh. I was puttin’ the green wheelie out.

—Ah, Jimmy. For God’s sake. One of us could have done that.

—I wanted to do it, he said.

It was true.

She smiled. She patted the dog.

—When’s that thing goin’ back to its mammy? he said.

—When its mammy gets home from its cruise. Sorry, her cruise.

—Heard yeh the first time.

—Fuck off.

—The fucker.

—That’s a bit strong.

—No, he said.—Les. He’s the fucker.

—Why?

He’d never told them – Jimmy, Darren or their da; the family males – about the cancer. They could all have had biopsies done back then. Four years ago. It could have been discovered, in him, way earlier.

And he wasn’t even angry.

Something had woken him. Something outside.

It was quiet – no wind or anything. He looked at the clock beside him. He brought it a bit nearer. 2.43.

Then he heard it again, what he knew he’d heard. Metal bending, or buckling.

He got up. No bother. A bit stiff, a small bit sore. He went around the bed, to the window.

Someone was laughing now. Definitely.

He leaned over the dressing table and pulled back the curtain. There was a guy, a young lad, standing on the roof of Jimmy’s car. And another lad at the gate, with a bike, one foot on the ground. Jimmy could tell, he was the one who’d laughed. He was nervous.

Your man on the roof was doing something. He’d started to pull down his tracksuit bottoms – they were like Jimmy’s. And the fella with the bike had his phone out now – an iPhone, it looked like – and he was filming your man on the roof, and your man on the roof was bending his legs at the knees – the fucker was squatting and he was going to take a dump on the roof of Jimmy’s car.

—Hey!

He wasn’t loud enough – they hadn’t heard. He pulled the curtain back properly. He pulled at the handle of the window. It was a bit stiff – he was sweating. The dressing table was in the way.

But he got the window open.

They looked up, the lads. They’d heard it.

—Fuck off out o’ tha’, he said.

He didn’t shout. He wasn’t outraged. He didn’t want to wake the neighbours or Aoife. It was already becoming a story for his da – and Marvin and young Jimmy. He wondered if they knew this pair. It wasn’t impossible.

Your man fell off – he slid off the roof. His pal on the bike was gone.

—Come here, said Jimmy.

Your man hesitated. He didn’t stop. He was running, trying to run and pull up his bottoms. There was something about him; he wasn’t all that worried. He looked back up at Jimmy and the window.

—Do it on the roof of the jeep over there. The green one.

But Conor’s jeep wasn’t there. It was gone. And so was your man with the shite. Jimmy could hear him and his pal at the end of the road, laughing. He stayed there a while longer but he shut the window. He looked across at Aoife. He hadn’t woken her.

A pity about Conor’s jeep.

Dying was great. No other consequences mattered. He didn’t care if they’d heard him next door, if they were lying in the bed, appalled. It didn’t matter.

He went around the bed, back to his own side. It was cold. He got in carefully, so his feet wouldn’t wake Aoife.

Did he really believe that, that he was dying?

He did, yeah. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid.

—They’ve gone.

—Wha’?

—They’ve gone, said Aoife.—Just —

She shrugged. Then – she didn’t start to cry. She was crying already. Her face was wet. He saw that now.

—What d’you mean gone? he asked.

He already knew what she meant. Conor and Sinéad next door had left. And the twins. During the night.

—Who told you? he asked.

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. She was wearing one of his shirts.

—Angela.

—Who?

—Across the road.

—Who?

—Angela, she said.—You know. You hate her.

—Who? he said.—I don’t.

—You said she’s a fucking eejit.

—Doesn’t mean I hate her, he said.—What did she say?

—Sinéad told her. They had to get out.

—They were fuckin’ evicted?

—No, said Aoife.—I don’t think it’s that—. But they’re in trouble. It’s being repossessed. The house.

—Jesus.

—You never liked them, she said.

—That’s not true.

—It is.

—It isn’t, he said.—Anyway, you weren’t mad about them either.

—That’s not the point.

—Exactly.

—Well, they’re gone.

She wasn’t looking at him.

—It’s sad, he said.

It was a lot more than that. It was becoming frightening, even before he’d had time to think properly about it.

—For God’s sake, Jimmy.

—What?

—They’re our neighbours and they had to run away.

—I know, he said.—I know. It’s dreadful. I’m not even sure what havin’ your house repossessed – what it involves. Do you?

—No.

—Thank Christ we actually own ours.

—Yes, she said.—But I think there was—. The business. Sinéad told Angela. Conor was struggling.

—What is it he does again?

—Catering, said Aoife.—Parties. Functions. I’m surprised you forgot that, Jimmy. Seeing as you sneered at him for it —

—I didn’t.

—You did so.

—Okay, he said.—I had a go at him. But only after he’d made a big deal about me bein’ from Barrytown.

—Sinéad’s from Barrytown too.

Darren rode the arse off her
.

—He was bein’ a bollix, said Jimmy.—So, yeah. I was a bit snotty.

He’d asked Conor how he liked handing out cocktail sausages to the high-end cunts he’d gone to school with. And later, in bed, she’d laughed, Aoife had. Loud enough to be heard by Sinéad and Bozo through the bedroom wall. He decided not to remind her.

—But I’d nothin’ against him, he said.—I didn’t want his business to go belly up. For fuck sake.

He coughed.

—It’s cancer of the bowel you have, Jimmy, said Aoife.—Not the lungs.

—I only fuckin’ coughed.

She sighed.

—Sorry.

—Grand.

—You never liked them.

—You’re wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt.

They stared for a while, but not at each other. Jimmy stared at the iPod dock on top of the fridge and she stared at the dog-in-law’s basket.

—Sorry.

—Me too.

—It looks good on yeh.

—Thanks.

He sat down. She went to the fridge. He looked at the screen.