The Guts (35 page)

—Sound.

They watched Outspan dipping a wad of paper into his Heineken and rubbing the ketchup off his hoodie. It came off without a struggle.

—Jesus, said Des.—What’s it doing to our insides?

—I couldn’t give a shite, said Outspan.—I’m not even sure I have any fuckin’ insides.

He looked around for somewhere to put the wad. It was funny how they’d all been tamed by age. Making sure they didn’t get damp, looking for places to put the litter.

Outspan dropped the paper beside him.

—Here, he said to Jimmy.—You never told me Leslie was in the club as well.

—The club?

—Cancer.

Des’s mouth stopped working, even though he was dug into his burger.

Something – some band – started in one of the tents.

—What’s tha’?

—Don’t know, said Jimmy.

—The fuckin’ expert.

—Fuck off, said Jimmy.

He got the programme from his pocket.

—It might be Gypsies on the Autobahn.

—Sounds more like Gypsies on the M50.

—They’ll survive without us.

—What’s the first band worth seeing, Jim? said Les.

—Grandaddy, said Jimmy.—I’d say.

—One of the tents, yeah?

—Tha’ one over there – I think.

—Great.

—All tha’ way?

—Fuck off.

—What sort o’ stuff do they play?

—It’s kind o’ unique, said Jimmy.

—Oh fuck.

Des needed rescuing. He was eating again, but he didn’t look like he was enjoying himself.

—You’re the odd man out, Des, said Jimmy.

—Far as he knows, said Outspan.

Les laughed.

—Les had the same version as me, Jimmy told Des.—But he’s grand now. Righ’, Les?

Les nodded.

Des would be fine. He’d already known about Jimmy, and Jimmy had warned him about Outspan – although a warning could never come close to meeting the man himself. So Les was the only surprise addition.

It was getting cold. Jimmy could feel the damp pawing his arse, and he was ready for another piss. But he felt great. The anxiety had gone out of his neck and shoulders and the burger was probably the best he’d ever eaten. He didn’t give much of a shite about food. But it was the context – the time, the place, the company, the hand-cut chips.

—Could’ve done with a bit more salt, Liam.

—Fuck off.

None of Jimmy’s acts were on till the next day, the Saturday. He had the Halfbreds and the Bastards of Lir, Ocean’s da’s poxy band, and the one he was planking about – and giddy about – Moanin’ At Midnight. He was a free man till then.

He smiled at Des. He lifted his beaker.

—Another?

—Go on.

Outspan threw his empty beaker across at Jimmy. Jimmy waited for him to send a twenty across with it. But not for long – Outspan’s hands didn’t go anywhere near his pockets.

Des stood up with him.

—I’ll give you a hand, he said.

—I’m going via the jacks, said Jimmy.

The place – the park, whatever it was; the grounds – it was really filling now. Going anywhere in a straight line wasn’t an option. It was vast, it really was. But they spotted a sign for the jacks. They sank a bit, but they were grand – they were okay. It was a bigger version of the jacks back in Darfur, and already well broken in. They got places beside each other at another yellow urinal. Jimmy held the empty plastic beakers high in his left hand.

—The Olympic torch, said a young lad on the other side of him.—Cool.

—The Paralympics, said Jimmy.

Des laughed. So did the young lad. This was the life. Des held the beakers while Jimmy did his buttons.

—You enjoyin’ yourself, Des?

—Watching you doing your fly?

—No, I was takin’ that for granted, said Jimmy.—I mean – overall.

—Yeah, said Des.—But —

—Go on.

—I can’t pay for anything. I’ve enough for a couple of rounds —

—You’re covered, said Jimmy.—That was always the deal.

—Thanks.

—No. But actually, it’s Outspan – that’s Liam – you should be thankin’.

—I like him.

—Yeah.

—Is he definitely – ?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—There’ll be no happy ending there.

—Fuck.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.

The queue for the drink still wasn’t too bad. It was hardly a queue at all, more a slow walk. Out of Darfur, the average age had shot up. Jimmy and Des might have been the oldest in the line, but not by too much. Women too, hitting the forties.

They were closer now to two of the music tents.

—That’s the Crawdaddy, I think, said Jimmy.

He pointed at the one on the left.

—A lot of the good stuff, our kind o’ music, yeh know. It’ll be in there.

—Ol’ lads’ music.

—Discernin’ oul’ lads. Exactly.

He handed over the beakers to the young one behind the counter. He didn’t even have to tell her what he wanted, and she never asked. He had to hand over the twenty before she went off and filled them. He didn’t thank her and she didn’t thank him.

—A bit soulless, isn’t it? said Jimmy.

—Fuck it, said Des.

They got back to Outspan and Les. It felt good, seeing them there, sitting side by side, staring out at the world. It was like he hadn’t seen them in ages, years, and – in a way – it was true. It was just a sentimental thought. But grand. His head was nicely fuzzy.

They sat and watched the world wade by.

—Jesus, the height of her.

—My God.

—Is she WiFi enabled?

It was time to move, stretch the legs – Jimmy was numb. They all were.

—My leg’s gone dead.

Les held onto Jimmy’s shoulder while he shook blood back down through his leg.

—Fuckin’ oul’ lads, said Outspan.

He looked like the only one ready to bop.

They liked being the oul’ lads. It was safe, relaxing; nothing was expected or demanded. They could go spare or give up; it didn’t matter. No one would give a shite, especially them.

Maybe.

They gathered up their rubbish and found a bin.

—Goes against my fuckin’ principles, said Outspan.—So where’re we goin’?

They strolled across towards the Crawdaddy tent. It looked a bit like something out of a children’s book – the candy-stripe roof – and they weren’t the only people heading into it.

—It’s like the end of
Close Encounters
, said Jimmy.

They walked into the dimness of the tent and the smell of dead grass. The ground was wet but it was fine. The feet weren’t sinking.

But something wasn’t right. The people around them were too young. They weren’t Grandaddy people. Grandaddy had been around for years, long enough to break up and re-form. Their one great album,
The Sophtware Slump
, had been released around the
time Mahalia had been born, maybe a bit after. Jimmy got the programme out of his back pocket.

—Sorry, lads. Wrong tent.

—Ah, yeh fuckin’ eejit.

They got out and moved across the field, to the Electric Arena. They had to go at a stroll, to let Outspan keep up with them, but they got into the tent – it was huge – in time to see a big gang of beardy lads walk onstage.

—This them?

—Yeah.

—Who are they again?

—Grandaddy.

A few people whooped, a few more clapped, and the usual eejit started shouting the name of a song.

—’The Crystal Lake’! ‘The Crystal Lake’!

There was no messing or tuning. The band got going and the tent quickly filled and warmed up. They were great. They were brilliant. There was no encore. The band bumped to a good end and walked off.

—What did yeh think?

—Shite, said Outspan.

—Good, said Des.

—Not my kind of thing, said Les.—But they were thoroughly professional.

They went back out, for a piss and a drink, and back in for Grizzly Bear.

—What did yeh think? said Jimmy.

—Shite, said Outspan.

—Yep, Jimmy agreed.—I expected more.

—Yeh poor naive cunt.

They were outside again, and across the field to the bar. Les bought the round.

—Fucking expensive this side of the pond.

Fuckin’ eejit, Jimmy thought, but he wasn’t sure why. Because it was fuckin’ expensive. No one was tearing off to the jacks this time.

—We’re gettin’ the hang o’ this.

—Becomin’ acclimatised.

—Jesus, lads, said Jimmy.—Two gigs down an’ it’s still daylight.

—Marvellous, said Les.—What’s next?

Mark Lanegan, in the Crawdaddy.

—Fuckin’ who?

Jimmy gave Outspan the history – Queens of the Stone Age, The Gutter Twins, Isobel Campbell, Soulsavers. Lanegan walked out and he was immediately their man. In a dirty black suit he stood at the microphone, held it, looked at the ground when he wasn’t singing and said nothing between songs. And the songs were great – straightforward, hard, three minutes. Jimmy could feel the sound as a physical thing, thumping his chest, even flapping the sleeves of his hoodie. Lanegan had pulled the crowd in; the tent kept filling. There was a fair bit of good old-fashioned head banging going on around them. Jimmy looked at his own gang. They were loving it.

—What did yeh think?

—Shite, said Outspan.

—Ah, for fuck sake.

—What’s next?

—Need a break?

—No – fuck it.

—We’ll have a look at the main stage, will we?

—Who’s on?

—Sigur Rós.

—I like them, said Des.

—You know them?

—I think so.

It was cooler now and the sun had dropped behind the trees. One man stopped to zip up his hoodie – all the men stopped and zipped their hoodies. Then they were on the move again. It was much busier, a bit chaotic, but they weren’t in a hurry. That was the trick, Jimmy decided; not really caring if you missed the start of a show, or stayed for the lot. It was like watching telly, except you were your own remote control. Or something.

Some of the women were unbelievable. They were dressed for the clubs in the middle of a field. Jimmy wondered were they cold, then wondered why he wondered.

—Would you dress like tha’? he asked Outspan.

—Depends.

—On wha’?

—I’ll get back to yeh.

The main stage was right ahead of them.

Outspan stopped.

—You alrigh’?

—Yeah, said Outspan.—Not too bad.

—Are yeh enjoyin’ yourself?

—When did you become my fuckin’ ma?

—Grand – sorry.

The other two ahead of them had stopped. They came back.

—Alright? said Les.

—Yep.

Outspan pointed.

—Them.

It was a line – two lines – of girls. They’d a chair each and they were standing behind them. Their tight T-shirts said Mobile Massage.

—Wha’ about them?

—Massage, said Outspan.

The girls were busy bullying the necks and shoulders of people, mostly women, in the chairs in front of them.

—You want a massage? said Jimmy.

—No, said Outspan.—But.

—Wha’?

—Massage, said Outspan.—It’s usually a wank, isn’t it?

—Do you see annyone bein’ wanked there, Liam?

—No, said Outspan.—But.

—Wha’?

—I’d love a tug, said Outspan.

—Will a pint do yeh?

—G’wan.

—My twist, said Des.

He looked at Jimmy.

—Grand, said Jimmy.—Thanks, Des.

—Good man, Dezlie.

Les went up to the bar with Des.

—See, if this was a film, said Outspan.

—Wha’?

—Yis’d arrange a wank for me cos I’m dyin’.

—True.

—You’d go up to the big bird there an’ whisper in her ear.

—That’s righ’.

—An’ next of all we’d be back at the tents an’ she’d be in one o’ them.

—Yeah.

—She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?

—Yep, said Jimmy.—But Liam?

—Wha’?

—It’s not goin’ to happen.

—Ah, I know, said Outspan.

The other two came back with the beer, and they made their way along the side of the field, and down, nearer to the stage.

—She was gorgeous though, wasn’t she? said Outspan.

He looked back, and Jimmy waited for him to start moving again.

—Alrigh’?

—Ah yeah, said Outspan.—A bit sad. Come on so.

—She’s a real masseuse, Liam. She doesn’t —

—Fuck off, Jimmy, for fuck sake. I’m not stupid.

They kept walking.

—I know, said Outspan.—Even if I wasn’t in the state I’m in. An’ if I was twenty years younger. I still wouldn’t have a fuckin’ hope.

—In shite.

—I agree, said Outspan.—I fuckin’ agree. It’s just – . Remember Imelda Quirk?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—’Course I do.

—We all fancied her, remember?

—Yeah.

—An’ we all knew we hadn’t a hope.

—Yeah.

—But we could still hope. You with me?

The band – Sigur Rós – were coming onstage, but they were easy to ignore because Jimmy and Outspan were standing a good bit back and on their own. Anyone near them was moving closer to the stage or away from it.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—I know what yeh mean.

—An’ listen, said Outspan.—It isn’t the young one. I wouldn’t – I don’t think I would. But, say, she was older – her ma, say. Sometimes things like tha’ – seein’ a beaut like that. It just reminds me that I’ll be dead in a couple o’ months.

Jimmy said nothing. He put his hand on Outspan’s shoulder. Outspan didn’t object. He stared at the stage as he spoke.

—Give us a wank later, Jimmy, will yeh?

—No problem.

Jimmy didn’t know much about Sigur Rós but he liked what he saw and heard. It was slow, songless stuff, like classical music
by men who wanted to be in a band, not an orchestra. He liked that. The singer – Jimmy thought his name was Jonsi – had a voice so unlike Mark Lanegan’s it was nearly hard to accept that they were both human. Actually, there was something not quite human about Sigur Rós, and he liked that too. They were David Bowie’s foster kids or something. They’d have been better under a roof but, still, Jimmy liked them a lot.

But they were losing the crowd. There were dozens of people walking away, back past them.

—Wha’ d’yeh think? Jimmy asked.

—Interesting, said Des.