The Guts (14 page)

—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.

—Brilliant.

They took the left and watched themselves taking it.

—Coolio.

—Here, Smoke, tell it where we’re goin’ and it’ll tell us where to go.

Brian impressed Jimmy, the way all his kids did, with his ability to negotiate the buttons, the confidence, the effortless speed. No grunting from this boy.

—Where’re we goin’? he asked.

—The Spar, said Smokey.

—It’s only over there.

—Drive forward, said the sat nav.

The voice was posh and reassuring, like an Aer Lingus pilot’s.

—Can you choose the voice? Jimmy asked.

—Yeah, said Brian.—Think so.

—Bob Dylan did it, I think.

—Who?

—Oh God. D’yeh have to pay for a different voice?

—Don’t know.

—I’ll pay for Dylan if you want.

They’d found the Spar and were going on to Brian’s school. Jimmy looked at his velour legs. He was going to tell her the truth: they were comfortable.

Brian turned right.

—The wrong way, Smoke.

—I know.

—Turn left, said the voice.

Brian kept going.

—Turn
left
, said the voice.

Brian looked down at the sat nav.

—Fuck off, he said, and laughed.

He looked at Jimmy. And Jimmy laughed too.

—It’s brilliant, Dad, said Brian.

Six in the morning, out with his youngest, disobeying a brand new sat nav. And none of it had been his idea. He breathed deep; he hauled the tears back in. This was his Christmas present.

—Turn
left
.

—Will it break if you keep pissin’ it off?

—Don’t be stupid, Dad.

—About turn and proceed.

—That’s more like it, said Brian.—It’s really cool.

They turned back and proceeded.

The phone gave him a jolt. He’d been falling asleep.

He found the zip – another zip; for fuck sake – and got the phone out.

—Hello?

—Jimmy?

—Yeah. Is that Les?

—Yes.

—Great. How are yeh, Les?

—Fine. I’m good. You?

—Good, yeah. Grand. Happy Christmas.

—You too, yeah. Merry Christmas. To you and your family.

—And yours, said Jimmy.—How’s your day goin’?

—Good, yeah, said Les.—Fine.

—How’s the family?

The line wasn’t great. There was a bit of a buzz. Les wasn’t answering.

—Was Santy good to yeh, Les?

—I did alright, said Les.

Jimmy thought he heard him laugh, but he wasn’t certain. The line was shite.

—How’s Maisie?

—She’s fine, said Les.—Look, I’ve to go.

—Okay, said Jimmy.—Great to hear your voice, Les. Happy Christmas. Tell your —

—Bye.

He was gone. The prick.

No.

It was brilliant. It was. Distressing and brilliant.

He was the dad, not the cancer patient. He couldn’t be the first to go up to bed. But then Brian fell asleep during
Downton Abbey
. What a load of shite that was; he didn’t blame Brian for passing out. He was doing the same, except the dog kept at him, wanting Jimmy to pick up its present, a pig with a squeak, so it could bark and demand it back, the fuckin’ eejit. Then young Jimmy surrendered and went upstairs, and Jimmy decided it was okay for him to stand up —

The dog landed on its back.

—Jimmy!

—Wha’?

—The dog – for God’s sake!

—Is it not supposed to land on its feet?

—That’s, like, cats, said Mahalia.—Hello.

—He’s grand, look.

—She.

—Wha’ev-errr, said Jimmy.

That got a laugh, so he didn’t feel too much of a cripple as he kissed the women goodnight and put his hand on Marvin’s head as he passed him. But he felt like one by the time he got up the stairs. Not in the legs. They were grand. It was the breath, the lungs – he supposed. He was puffing.

He’d been warned about it – by one of the Celtic Rock wankers, Ned O’Hanlon. He’d told Jimmy. He’d held onto Jimmy’s elbow all the time he’d spoken to him, his face bang up against Jimmy’s. He’d told Jimmy that he’d been through it himself. This was at the office do; Jimmy remembered this bit.

—I thought it had gone to the lungs, Ned had told him.

—Yeah.

—But it was the anxiety – the breathlessness. Because, let’s face it, you’re fighting for your life. Aren’t you?

—Yeah.

—It has to come out somewhere.

—Yeah.

—Don’t worry about it.

—No.

Jimmy’s eyes were swimming a bit; your man’s face was right up against his.

—You’ll be fine, said Ned.—You have the spirit.

He let go of Jimmy’s elbow and put his hand, palm open, on Jimmy’s chest, where his heart was – Jimmy wasn’t sure. It was terrible. It was fuckin’ excruciating.

Ned was looking at something over Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy looked. It was the intern, and she’d rescued him.

—Her name’s Ocean, he told Ned.

—Yes, said Ned.

—Some arse on her, wha’.

—Steady on, Jimmy.

Anyway, that was the breathlessness sorted. And he needed exercise. The specialist – Jimmy couldn’t remember his name – the doctor who was a mister, had told him. He had to stay fit, or get fit for the first time since he’d given up the football thirty years ago. Mister Dunwoody.

The cunt.

He slid out of the velour and climbed into the bed. He lay back. But something stopped him. Something hard hit against his feet. He tried pushing it off the bed but it wouldn’t budge. It was tucked in, tangled in the duvet.

—Fuck it.

He leaned across, turned the light on. He sat up and pulled off the duvet.

It was a suitcase. That was what it looked like, black and rectangular. But it was too narrow, like a suitcase had been sawed down the middle. He pulled it towards him. It wasn’t heavy but it didn’t feel empty. It was quite thick, deep – like a suitcase again. He opened it, pulled the zip across the front.

—Fuckin’ hell.

It was a trumpet. A fuckin’ trumpet. It was a beautiful thing, shining brass, in its red plush coffin. He picked it up. It felt heavier than the case had. It was cold too. He put his cheek against the horn – he caught himself doing it. It was amazing, though, the most beautiful thing he’d ever held. It was definitely a woman.

—Do you like it?

It was Aoife. He hadn’t heard her.

—Is it mine?

He knew he sounded stupid, but it was hard to think that he could actually own one of these.