Roddy Doyle: The Guts

— Well, said Jimmy. — Like — they’ve grown up with it.

— It’s a bit thinner, said Aoife. — Sorry.

— I know, said Jimmy. — It’s still there but. And it started — we call it receding in the trade. Another fuckin’ recession.

She smiled.

— There’s a little patch at the back.

— Fuck off now.

— It’s sweet.

She put her hand on the back of his head.

— There.

— Thanks for that, said Jimmy. — Anyway —

— Shave it off, said Aoife.

— Good idea. Brilliant. Now?

— Your head’s a lovely shape.

— I know. Now?

— Yes, said Aoife. — Tomorrow.

— Fuck that. I’m doin’ it now.

He got out of the bed.

— They can see me bald and healthy.

— Can it not wait till —?

— No.

He was gone. She heard him stomping quietly into the bathroom. She heard the water. She heard something drop. The water went off. She heard nothing — then the water again. She thought about going after him. She wanted to watch him do it. She wanted to help — she wanted to stop him. She heard what she guessed was Jimmy soaping his head. She heard — she thought she heard a scrape, his razor.

— Fuck!

She heard his feet. He was back.

— It’s too long.

He was holding a towel, one of the good white ones, to the side of his head.

— What did you do?

He climbed into the bed. With no groans at all. She could tell: he was excited, worked up.

— I cut the side o’ me fuckin’ head, he told her.

He was grinning and grimacing.

— I’m a fuckin’ eejit, he said.

— Take it out of the way there.

She held the hand that was holding the towel and made him lift it away from his head, behind his ear.

— Why did you start there? she asked.

— Don’t know, said Jimmy. — I didn’t want to start at the front. The top, like. In case I made a balls of it.

— You did.

— I know, he said. — But it’s hidden. You’d want to be lookin’.

— I am.

— Is it bad?

— Look.

She took the towel from him and flapped it open. She pointed at the speck.

— There.

— It felt worse.

— I’m sure.

— You sounded like Mahalia there. Like.

— You’ll be fine, she said.

— I’ll get it cut short tomorrow, he said. — A three blade or somethin’.

She hadn’t a clue what that meant. There’d never been short hair in the house. The boys had disappeared behind their hair years ago. They came out to eat.

— Then I’ll finish the job at home, said Jimmy.

— Fine.

She didn’t ask him why he wouldn’t just let the barber shave his head, and avoid the blood and drama. The book, the decision to go bald — she hadn’t seen him so lively and happy in weeks.

— How’s the poor heddy-weddy?

— Fuck off.

The snow was a shock.

— It’s fuckin’ November.

He heard himself sometimes; he was turning into his da. He could even feel it in his back, in the way he was standing. But it didn’t stop him.

— Early fuckin’ November, he said.

— It’s beautiful, said Aoife.

— Yeah. But. Work.

He had to go.

The last thing on the list of things he had to do.

Tell Noeleen, the boss.

Who wasn’t really his boss.

— It never snows in November.

He’d been putting it off. The same question, every evening. Did you tell her yet?

— Will you be alright driving? Aoife asked.

— Yeah, no bother. It won’t stick.

But it did. It stuck and it grew and now he was in work, stuck.

— Global warming me bollix, he said.

He pretended he was looking out the window.

— Yup, said Noeleen.

The boss. The senior partner. The owner of Jimmy’s great idea.

There was no office; there were no internal walls. They were the team, the gang. The jacks and outside were the only escapes.

— Coffee? said Jimmy.

— If you go out to buy it, Jimbo.

— We’d both be goin’ out, said Jimmy. — To over there.

He was pointing down, to the Insomnia at the far corner of the street.

— Oh, she said. — A date.

— Eh — yeah.

— I’ll just get my coat.

— Grand.

He was stuck now.

He put on his jacket. He actually didn’t have a proper coat. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d wanted or needed a coat. He’d have to get one now. And fuckin’ skis.

He met Noeleen downstairs at the door.

— Before we go, she said, just as his elbow started to push the glass.

He felt the cold lick his ankles.

— What?

— You’re not thinking of leaving, are you, Jimbo?

That was a shock.

— No.

He had been — for two years now. It was a little dream of his, about the only one he had that didn’t have tits or death in it. He fuckin’ hated being called Jimbo.

— Ready? he said.

— Heave away.

He pushed open the door, out into the snow.

— It’s lovely, she said.

— It is, he agreed.

It would be a while before it became a pain in the arse and dangerous. He knew already, he wouldn’t be driving home. But he lived near enough to the Dart. Noeleen lived out in Kildare somewhere, in a house with a field. Her weekend was fucked. She’d never make it home.

He enjoyed hating her.

He didn’t have a scarf or anything — it was only November, for fuck sake. The snow was getting in, down between his neck and collar.

— Any plans for the weekend?

He beat the snow off his head, and remembered. He had to get himself scalped. There was a barber a bit down from Insomnia. He’d trot down there after he’d told Noeleen he was dying.

— Yeah, she said. — We’re booked into the Shelbourne tonight and tomorrow.

— Great.

— So we won’t have to battle home in this.

— That’s great, said Jimmy.

The other half of the we was Adam. Jimmy hadn’t met him. The name had arrived about two months before.

— Great excuse, said Noeleen. — We can just stay in the room and fuck like little bunnies.

— Cool.

And actually, he did think it was a bit cool — the room in the hotel and the fact that she could tell him what she planned to do with it. He didn’t really hate her. It was just easier pretending he did.

The café door was slowed by the soggy mat. He had to push it shut. He followed Noeleen to the counter.

— Your usual?

— I’m buyin’, he said.

— Oh, I know.

He let her order his double espresso and her own super-frappa-chappa-whatever the fuck. That wasn’t fair either. She ordered an Americano. And a bran muffin.

— You want anything to eat?

— No, he said. — Thanks.

They brought their coffees over to a corner. He waited till she was sitting before he did — he didn’t know why. He didn’t want to sit at all. He wanted to run. But he did — he sat.

— So, she said.

— So.

— Here we are.

— Yeah.

— What’s on our mind?

She was taking over.

That wasn’t fair.

Fuck it all, he was being too reasonable. He hated her. It was easier that way.

— I got a bit of news, he said.

— Oh yes?

She was in too early. Fuckin’ typical.

— Yeah, he said.

He waited for her to jump in again.

She didn’t.

— And you need to know about it, he said. — Because it’s —

— Oh, Jimmy —

— I’m grand.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

— I’m grand, he said again.

He sat up.

— I’ve got cancer.

She got up and went to the counter. She came back and handed him a tissue, a couple of them. Browny paper — the recycled stuff. She was sitting again.

He looked at the tissues in his hand. If he waited, would she take them back and wipe his eyes and cheeks?