The Guts (25 page)

—Who’s he?

—The vet – hello.

They laughed at her Mahalia impression.

—So he put Messi down on the table. The stainless steel one he has. And he felt Messi’s tummy. Then —

She started laughing.

—He put his finger —

She couldn’t talk for a while. He was laughing now as well.

—Was he wearin’ rubber gloves?

—Yes! But he put his finger up poor Messi’s bum and said, Aha, and pulled out something. It was horrible at first. I thought it was a worm or a lizard. But then I knew.

She wiped her eyes.

—I think I recognised them before Eamon did —

—I fuckin’ hope so.

—Stop, she said.—I mean, I knew what they were before he did. But he was still pulling away when Messi stood up and —

She was laughing again.

—started —

She couldn’t stop. She waved a hand, like she was surrendering to it; she’d be back in a minute.

—No hurry, said Jimmy.

—He started —

—Go on.

—He started wagging his tail.

—The vet?

—Messi, she said – she actually screamed it.—While Eamon was still pulling them out! Oh God —

He wondered if Mahalia could hear them laughing. The boys – all three of them – had wandered in. That often happened when they heard their parents laughing. They hovered around the door and the fridge.

—You must’ve been pleased, said Jimmy.

—Relieved, she said.—Mortified.

—Still, said Jimmy.—Your knickers able to fit inside a dog this small. At your age.

—Fuck off.

They loved hearing their mother use bad language.

—Poor May, said Jimmy.—I’ll go on up and say hello.

He handed the dog to Brian.

—Here yeh go, Smoke. Mind he doesn’t eat your jocks.

It was always a surprise to know he’d been asleep. He hadn’t been breathing; he’d been holding his breath, smothering – he didn’t know. And quickly enough, he didn’t care. He was up and out, trotting ahead of the dark thoughts.

He got up before the gang. He let out the dog, he fired off a few emails, he let the dog back in. The Halfbreds were demanding
a meeting. They wanted to know why more than three hundred thousandYouTube hits had produced less than two thousand sales. They were entitled to an explanation. But they had kids, so they knew that kids didn’t buy the vital musical moments they’d be bringing with them for the rest of their poxy lives; they expected them all for nothing. And their parents were beginning to share the attitude. Mammies wearing Uggs, dads in skinny jeans – they were stealing their music now as well. Anyway, two thousand – so far – was very good. This was Ireland, a small country on the brink of collapse. Barry and Connie could fuck off.

The Dangerous Dream’s coast-to-coast return tour had to be sorted. The middle-aged prog rockers were refusing to stay in B&Bs, and they wouldn’t accept that they could drive home after most of the gigs. Their main man, Andrew Belton, had been living in Kenya for the last twenty years, so Jimmy didn’t know what his problem was. Sleeping in the van should have been a fuckin’ luxury. But
My Life On the Planet Behind You
had been Jimmy’s solid seller all year, and he’d made the big mistake of telling Andrew. A nice enough head was becoming a bit of a bollix. Jimmy would have to book a couple of rooms in a hotel beside one of the roundabouts outside Athlone – the same hotel every night, even for the Dublin gig.

He had to lavish emails on the clients he’d been neglecting since the chemo started, especially the Celtic Rock brigade. And he had a mobile number for a chap he thought had once been called Brendan Goebbels. He was the founder, if it was the right guy, of a Dublin punk outfit called the High Babies. Jimmy’d read somewhere – it might have been in
The Ticket –
that the Edge and Bono were doing the soundtrack for a new HBO series, set during the hunger strikes, starring Colin Farrell and Bono’s daughter. And he’d remembered a song the High Babies used to do, around the time of the hunger strikes, called ‘Snap, Crackle, Bobby’.
Eat your Krispies Bobby – Or you’re goin’ to die
. He didn’t know if they’d recorded it. But if they had, he knew someone who knew the Edge’s cousin, who might get the song to the Edge. If this was the right man, if Jimmy could grab the man’s interest, and if the other man could grab the Edge’s interest. If, if, fuckin’ if. On the good days, Jimmy loved that word.

He’d phone Les. He’d phone Darren. And Des. And Imelda – instead of just texting. He’d talk to her properly. He’d phone Outspan.

He still didn’t have the song.

But he had an idea.

He was at chemo, scrolling through the iPod again.

He’d make it up.

It was there, as solid a thought as he’d ever had, already a fact, as if he’d made the decision months ago. He’d invent the song.

He attacked the iPod again. It was different now, though. It wasn’t cheerful self-pity. This was research.

He looked up.

The knitting, the books, the fuckin’ eejit over there with his iPod. Jimmy knew what that poor cunt was doing.

He was nearly done here. Then he’d be running again, charging. There was no stopping him.

—We’ve no money, she told him.

—Wha’?

They weren’t broke like Des, just normal broke. They’d insufficient funds. Aoife hadn’t been able to take any money from the Pass machine in the Spar. They were paying for the lunch with her credit card.

—My treat, she said.

It was nothing to worry about.

But it was.

Jimmy remembered a conversation he’d had with Noeleen that had shocked him. But he’d forgotten about it – he couldn’t believe it.

They were all taking a pay cut.

—How much? said Aoife.

This was before they’d started eating, just after she’d asked him how the chemo had gone.

—I think she said 30 per cent, he said.

—Jesus.

—Yeah, he said.

It was like news he’d just heard.

—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.