Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Alright?

— Yeah, he said. — Grand.

He held up the tissues.

— Thanks.

He rubbed his eyes. He put the tissues on the table, away to the side, so he wouldn’t mess with them, shred them. He put his hands on the table. He’d caught himself recently, a lot, finger in an ear, up a nostril. It wasn’t good.

— I’m so sorry, she said.

— Thanks.

He was ready now, calm. It was his story — his.

— It’s the bowel, he said. — Enjoy your muffin.

She looked down at the muffin. She hadn’t touched it.

— I couldn’t. Now.

— Go on ahead, he said. — What I mean is. It’s not the lungs, or the brain. I’ll be fine.

— What stage are you at?

A fuckin’ expert — he should have known.

— Two, he said. — Stage Two. They think.

She looked at him like she doubted it, like she’d asked him how many drinks he’d had and he’d lied.

— Two, he said again. — Yeah.

— Okay.

She was nodding, measuring — businesswoman of the fuckin’ year.

He got ready to give her the gist. The facts he’d learnt to go through. The reassurance that had started to bore him. He wouldn’t do it again.

— I’ll be out of action for a while, he said. — On and off.

— You’ll need chemo.

—’Course, yeah.

He shrugged.

— It’ll be fine, he said. — Radiation treatment as well, probably. Anyway.

He shrugged again. He was one big fuckin’ shrug.

— I won’t be around, he said.

And another shrug.

— Occasionally.

— Do you have dates? she asked.

— This week, he said.

— So soon? You could have —

— I’ll be gettin’ the dates this week.

— Oh. Sorry, yes –

— We’ll have loads of time to sort things out.

— I didn’t mean —

— Grand.

He shrugged. He smiled.

— So, he said. — Anyway.

— How’s Aoife?

— She’s grand. She’s — well. Grand.

— The kids?

— They’re grand. They don’t — I don’t know. I don’t think they get it really. They know but—. So. Yeah, they’re grand really.

He nodded at the window, at the snow beyond it.

— They’ll be lovin’ this.

— Yes.

Her hand was there, on his.

— And how are you, Jimmy?

— I’m grand.

— Everything’s always grand in the world of Jimmy Rabbitte. Tell me.

— This is our gay moment, yeah?

— Yes.

— I’m fuckin’ shattered, he said. — And frightened. And I keep adding bits to what’s happening. Like a commentary, yeh know. My last fuckin’ moments. I can’t even watch ads on the telly. I start cryin’.

She patted his hand.

He was a fuckin’ clown.

She was still there, smiling. Like she used to.

God, he was a sap.

— What caused it? she asked.

He shrugged.

— Don’t know, he said. — They said it might be hereditary. Oh fuck.

— What’s wrong?

— I forgot something, he said. — Completely fuckin’ forgot.

He stood.

— I’ve to phone my da and my brothers.

— Oh Jesus! Jimmy! They’ll have to be — is it, tested?

— Yeah, he said. — I forgot. Biopsies all round. Fuckin’ hell.

They laughed.

— That’s the Christmas presents sorted an’anyway.

She stood too. She hugged him.

— You never change, she said, to the side of his head. — I love you.

— Loveyoutoo, he said, like one of the kids.

He was a fuckin’, fuckin’ eejit.

— I’d better do it now, he said.

— You’d better.

He put on his jacket.

— Not here but, he said. — See you later.

— No rush.

He went out to the snow. He pulled up his collar and walked down towards the barber. He took out the phone. He found the number — he rubbed snow off the screen. He phoned Imelda.

He’d phoned Darren and his da. He’d told them they’d have to have biopsies, that the cancer might be hereditary. And he’d decided — again: he’d find Les.

He’d asked his da about his dead uncles, his grandfather.

— How did Grandda die?

— Stopped breathin’.

— Nice one. Why?

— Why? Look it, son, I know you’ve your problems. But I’ll be honest. You’re startin’ to talk like a righ’ little prick.

— Wha’?

— You’ve just told me I might have cancer, said Jimmy Sr.

— I didn’t —

— Fuck off a minute. Yeh told me I’ll have to have a biopsy but yeh didn’t bother explainin’ what exactly a fuckin’ biopsy is. An’ I don’t like the sound of it. It’s too fuckin’ medical for me. Opsy.

— Sorry.

— I’m not finished.

— Ah fuck off, Da, would yeh.

He’d phoned back a few minutes later and apologised, and talked to him — finished up — properly.

This decision to find Les. It had been more than twenty years, and he’d let Les stay out there; he hadn’t given a shite.

He was lacerating himself — he knew it. He didn’t believe what he was thinking.

But here he was now, on Facebook. He’d signed up more than a year ago, nearly two; it was part of the job. And this was the first time he’d typed in Les Rabbitte.

He hit return.

Nothing. A few Lee Rabbittes, a Liz Rabbitte.

He typed Leslie Rabbitte.

Jesus. There he was.

No. There is no e at the end of this Rabbitt. There was no photo either, but the outline was female. It wasn’t Les, unless he’d had a sex change.

The wife, a daughter. The Lee Rabbittes, or the Liz Rabbitte. Maybe all of them, some of them, were connected to Les. There were more than twenty years to fill.

His parents had sent Les over to England in 1989, to get him away from trouble and the law. He’d stayed with their auntie, his ma’s sister — Jimmy couldn’t remember the auntie’s name. Then he was gone. Not a word since.

He typed in Imelda.

If Noeleen glanced over his shoulder when she was passing, she’d think he was chatting to Imelda May. She’d like that. There was money in Dublin rockabilly.

He left it there — Imelda.

He hadn’t met her. The snow had saved him.

The twit beside him got up.

— Anyone want anything?

It was part of his job, keeping the team in coffee and hot chocolate, some bright idea Noeleen had brought back from a conference.

— You’re grand, said Jimmy. — Thanks.

The coast was clearish. He typed in Quirk.

Nothing. She wasn’t on Facebook. That was kind of comforting. He remembered his da telling him about Bertie’s son picking up older women on Facebook.

Imelda was an older woman.

Anyway, the snow had stopped him — a few days before. He’d texted her. I’m stuck . And she’d got back, Me 2xx . He’d stared at the xx . He’d sent one back. Another timexx . And she’d got back to him. Ah wellxxx . Three of the fuckin’ things.

— Who’s texting you? Aoife had asked.

— Darren.

— What does he want?

— A new life.

It was an old joke.

— Say hello to him for me.

— Will do.

Not a second of guilt, sitting beside the woman he loved, texting the woman he probably wanted to ride. That was death for you.

Work.

He actually loved the job. And it was his own invention. Finding old bands, and finding the people who’d loved them. Loved them enough to pay money for their resurrected singles and albums.

Shiterock.com. His and Aoife’s secret name for it.

He’d been rooting in the attic — this was about five years before — and he came down with a rake of old singles, and himself and Aoife started flicking through them.

— The Irregulars?

— They were good, said Jimmy.