The Guts (29 page)

She smiled. He watched it change her face.

—I’ll drive you there if you like, she said.

—No, he said.

—Sure?

—Yeah. Thanks.

He was at the fridge, looking in. Like one of the boys.

—Hungry?

—No, he said.—Not really.

He wanted to sit on the floor. He didn’t know why. It was nearer than any of the chairs. The dog was at his feet, trying to trip him. The dog – he’d forgotten the dog. He’d forgotten all about the dog.

—Messi. Good man.

Now he could get down on the floor. He had his excuse. He pressed the side of his face against the dog. He felt the tail walloping his arm.

—He’s grown, he said.

That sounded odd, like he’d been away somewhere.

Aoife was still smiling. But there was a bit of that thing, the desperation he’d seen when Outspan had been in the house.

But it was true; the dog was bigger. Still a pup, though.

—How’re things? he asked the dog.

—Anything you’d like?

For a second – was that the dog? But it was Aoife talking to him. Of course it fuckin’ was.

—Not really, thanks.

—Scrambled egg?

—Oh yeah.

She laughed. It was easy.

—And you’re sure about meeting your dad?

—Yeah, he said.—No. In a few days maybe.

He wasn’t sure about that.

—Kids in school?

—It’s July.

—Yeah.

He was glad he was on the floor.

—I could text him, he said.

—What?

She was bullying the eggs, chasing the yolks around the mixing bowl.

—I could text my da, he said.—Arrange somethin’.

He wanted his phone but he didn’t want to ask for it.

—After I’ve done this, she said.—I’ll get it for you. I think I know where I left it.

She was playing with him.

The dog was lying on his back, in Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy had to remind himself: you rub the stomach. He watched Aoife pour milk into the bowl. She put the bowl down and took his phone out of the cutlery drawer.

She bent down and left it on the dog’s stomach.

—There.

—Thanks.

It slid off, onto the floor.

He could smell the eggs now, becoming food. He texted his da.
Alright?
He knew Aoife was watching him. He didn’t look at the texts in the Inbox, or Sent. He put the phone beside him on the floor.

She’d known his code. But she’d always known it. He’d been using the same one for years, from phone to phone, way back to the first one. The same digits as his first bank card.

The phone buzzed and Messi was up off Jimmy’s lap and barking at it.

—Shut up, yeh fuckin’ eejit.

—Poor Messi.

It was his da.

Grande. Yrself?

Jimmy sent his answer.

Not 2 bad
.

—Your dad? said Aoife.

—Yeah.

—Oh, she said.—I forgot.

—What?

—Toast?

—Brilliant, yeah. Lovely.

His da was back.

Grate
.

He’d started spelling the words wrong when he texted.

—I’m enterin’ into the spirit of the thing, he’d said a good while back.—LOL.

Another one followed.

Pynte?

Jimmy didn’t answer. He would, but he didn’t know when he’d be ready to have a pint, or to leave the house on his own. The trip out to the wheelie – he knew he could get there but he wasn’t as confident about making his way back.

He heard the toast hop in the toaster. He stood up. His eyes danced, swam a bit. Low blood pressure – he thought he remembered being told he had it. He went to collect the plate from her.

—Brilliant, he said.—Perfect.

There were two plates, two mounds of scrambled egg on toast.

—Are you eatin’ as well? he asked her.

—Is that okay?

It wasn’t a real question; she was slagging him. But it took him a while.

—’Course.

He took both plates from her.

—Yeh deserve it.

—Fuck off, Jimmy.

He liked the sound of that. He put the plates down on the table, no bother, and sat.

—Knives and forks, he said.

—I’m ahead of you, said Aoife.

She sat beside him, not at the other side of the table. Strange, he thought. She slid the cutlery at him.

—There you go, she said.

She was sounding a bit like his da.

—What’s funny?

—Nothin’, he said.—I just – I don’t know. I’m happy.

It was true. But the phone. The phone. He got a mouthful of the egg into his mouth.

—Lovely.

He cut some of the toast, brought it up to his mouth.

—Really lovely, he said.

—It’s not bad, is it?

—Fuckin’ lovely.

—Pepper?

—No.

—What’s the magic word?

—Thanks.

She nudged him. Some egg fell back onto his plate.

—Sorry.

—No problem, he said.—Did you phone Imelda?

He’d never felt more alive –
low blood pressure me hole
.

—Yes, she said.

—Yeh did?

—Yes, she said.—I phoned everyone.

—Okay.

He got egg to his mouth.

—I was worried, Jimmy, said Aoife.—Jimmy.

—Wha’?

—I was really worried.

—Okay.

—I still am.

—Okay.

He decided to speak before he took another mouthful.

—So am I, he said.

—Okay.

He ate. So did she.

—I think I’m better.

—You’re fine. Oh —

—Wha’?

—I have something for you.

She stood up and went to the fridge. She stretched and took down a bag from the top of it – an Eason’s bag. She handed it to him.

—There.

—What is it?

—It’s in an Eason’s bag, Jimmy. Chances are it’s a book.

She
is
my fuckin’ da
.

He took the book from the bag.
Adventures of a Waterboy
, Mike Scott’s autobiography. He hated the Waterboys, but he wasn’t
going to tell her that. Anyway, it probably wasn’t true. He was quite fond of the Waterboys.

—Thanks, he said.—Brilliant.

—I bought it a while ago, she said.—I read a review. But I thought I’d hold onto it till —

—I know. Thanks.

—You like them, don’t you?

—God, yeah.

—Who is Imelda?

—Old friend, he said.—Lovely cover.

—How old?

—Same age as meself. Remember the Commitments?

—I didn’t know you then —

—But you remember me talkin’ about them?

—God, I do.

—Fuck off, Aoife. She was one.

—One what?

—One of the band, he said.—Singer. Like Outspan – Liam. He was in the Commitments as well.

—She sounded nice.

—She is, he said.—She’s sound. She lives near my folks.

—She sends her regards.

—I’ll phone her. You’d like her.

He patted the new book.

—I have
This Is the Sea
on vinyl.

He didn’t.

—Up in the attic.

He polished the plate. There was no evidence that there’d ever been food on it.

—Any news? he asked.

—Well, we won’t be going to Syria this year for the holidays, she said.

She is so my fuckin’ da!

—Where are we goin’? he asked.

She looked at him.

—You tell me.

It was July. Was it late July?

—Where’re the kids?

The house was empty, except for them and the dog.

—May stayed in Lauren’s house last night, said Aoife.

—Cocktails at sundown.

—Stop, she said.—Jesus. Lauren’s parents are good. They’re terrifying. I think they’re Christians or something. So I think she’ll still be teetotal when she gets home.

—Grand. Brian?

—Football camp.

—Great, said Jimmy.—I’ll collect him.

—He wants to come home on his own.

—Great.

—And Jim’s
out
, said Aoife.—Whereabouts unknown. I think there’s probably a girlfriend.

—Great.

—But I’m not sure.

—You didn’t check his phone, no?

She looked at him.

—Are you letting your hair grow? she said.

He rubbed a hand over his scalp. There was a couple of weeks of hair up there.

—I suppose so, he said.—Yeah.

—Good, she said.

He checked his face. He’d shaved earlier – he remembered.

—Why is it good? he asked.

—You look less like a drugged convict, she said.

—Jesus.

—The shaved head only suits you when you’re healthy, she said.

—I am healthy.

—Good.

—I am.

The new him.

—Where’s Marv?

—Bulgaria, she said.

She was looking at him again.

—That’s right, he said.

He remembered saying goodbye to Marvin, holding his shoulder, whispering something about Bulgarian women; he couldn’t remember what. But he’d felt poor Marv’s embarrassment coming up through his T-shirt.

—How’s he gettin’ on?

—Fine. He says.

—Good.

—It’s all he says.

—What’s he doin’ in Bulgaria anyway?

—He did the Leaving, she said.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.

—And it’s become normal for kids to go away together and destroy a foreign country after they’ve finished.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.

—Look, said Aoife.—How much do I have to tell you?

—Better give me the lot.

—Okay, she said.—So one of his friends. Ethan.

—Ethan?

—You know Ethan. He’s ludicrously tall. And a bit gorgeous.

—Gotcha.

—His aunt has an apartment in Sozopol and she must be lovely or a bit naive. Because she’s letting them all stay there.

—How much is all?

—I don’t know, she said.—His band buddies, and Ethan, and probably twenty-seven others.

—Grand, said Jimmy.—I’ll text him.

—Phone him.

—Yeah.

—Do.

—Oh my God!

—Hey there.

—What’re you doing down there, like? Mahalia asked.

He was on the kitchen floor.

—Chattin’ to the dog, he said.

—You’re hilarious.

She went to the fridge and stood in front of it the way her brothers did. She was taller. She opened the fridge door, looked in, closed it again.

—D’you want me to make you a pancake? said Jimmy, and the thought of it delighted him.

—No, she said.

—Okay.

She opened the fridge door again and took out the milk. He stood up, felt a bit wobbly. Mahalia moved away as he approached.

He opened the fridge door. There was the usual amount of stuff in there, half-eaten, uneaten. It looked like it always did – no less. There was nothing in there he wanted.

—Sure about the pancake, May?

—Yeah, she said.—I’m not hungry, like.

—Are you okay? he asked.

She looked a bit caught.

He said it again.

—Are you okay?

He smiled.

—Yeah.

Her eyes were huge and watery. She looked like she wanted to run.

—What’s wrong? May?

—Are – like – ? Are you better?

Oh Jesus. He wanted to die.

—Yeah, he said.—I’m grand – I’m fine. I don’t think – . I’m not sure what was wrong. But I’m better. D’you want a pancake?

—Yeah.

He texted Des.

Up to a lesson?

He texted Outspan.

Hows it goin?

He texted Noeleen.

In 2moro. Thanks. X

He couldn’t phone her. Couldn’t face it.

He took out the trumpet. He blew. Not too bad. He held the one long note – no valves. He couldn’t remember which it was, C or G. He tried another. It slid away from him. He heard clapping from downstairs. He blew again.

Shite. Yrsefl?

That was Outspan. He sent one back.

Want to meet?

The phone hopped again – Des this time.

Cool. Friday nite?

He went back downstairs. He left the phone on the kitchen table, so Aoife and the kids would notice the blips and buzzes, the social interaction.

—We heard you playing the trumpet.

—I’ve a lesson on Friday.

—Great.

The air was full of wet hope.

He started to fill the dishwasher. He remembered now, he enjoyed it. Fitting everything in. All the things he did in the house, the washing, the hanging up. He enjoyed it all; he always had. Except ironing.

There was no word back from Noeleen.

His phone rang.

—Hello, he said.

—Where?

It was Outspan.

—Howyeh, Liam.

—Where’ll we meet?

—Pub.

—No.

—Starbucks.

—Fuck sake, said Outspan.—Which one?

—College Green.

—Grand.

He looked around casually, hoped Aoife was listening. The room was empty.

—I’m going back in to work tomorrow, he said.

—Lucky cunt, said Outspan.

—Fuck off, Liam, said Jimmy.—After work? Five or so?

—Okay.

He felt wobbly going in. Nervous, like he was going in for a job interview.

He probably was.

—Did you talk to Noeleen? he’d asked Aoife the night before.

—When?

—Well. Recently.

—Yes, she said.—I did.

—Okay.

—I had to, Jimmy, she said.—You weren’t going to work.

—Grand.

—She was worried too, you know.

—Okay.

—She phoned me every few days.

—Great.

—And we went out a couple of times.

—Out?

—Yes, said Aoife.

She pointed at the bedroom window.

—Out there, she said.—We had a drink. And an early bird.

—Wha’?

—Something to eat.

—Early.

—Smart boy.

Noeleen’s car wasn’t in the car park. He was ahead of her, back in action.

Maybe she’d offer him a lump sum. Maybe he’d take it.

July, but it was freezing. It had been raining for days. There’d been spectacular stuff in England. Flooding and chaos, the roof on at Wimbledon. He thought about phoning Les.

He got down to the emails. He watched them pour in. 97 became 167, became 298, became 407. They were still coming. He’d wait till they’d all arrived before he’d start to delete them.