Roddy Doyle - The Guts

—’Fuck England’?

— The B-side’s better.

He’d gone up to get the old cot, so they could pass it on to one of Aoife’s cousins. Some cousin Aoife was very fond of — they’d gone to the Gaeltacht together or some oul’ shite that women insisted was important. Anyway, he came down with the cot and went back up for more of the singles. He passed handfuls of them down to Marvin.

— What are they?

— Just take them. I’ll explain when I come down. Be careful with them.

— Why?

— Because I said so!

He’d heard them laughing.

He’d climbed back down. He took the risk; there was no one holding the ladder. They’d all gone down to the kitchen. They’d forgotten about him.

The singles were in piles on the table, four towers of the things.

— And you hung on to them all, said Aoife.

She’d guarded the records while the boys and Mahalia circled the table, dying to bring them out the back and throw them.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I did.

— They’re lovely.

They were. A lot of them had picture sleeves. One of the singles on top was lime green.

— What are they? Marvin asked.

And Jimmy explained. Music in the grooves, the turntable, the needle — the stylus. The whole fuckin’ history.

— But why are they so small? Marvin asked. — I’ve seen the big ones.

— LPs, said Jimmy.

— Yeah.

— These are singles, said Jimmy. — Only one song on each side. The LPs usually had ten tracks — songs, like.

— I know what a track is, said Marvin.

— Good man, sorry.

He took one of the records from its sleeve and showed it to Marvin.

— See?

Marvin put his hand out and Jimmy let him take the vinyl. Marvin held it exactly as he should have. There was religion in the kitchen. A Lion King moment. The other three had seen Marvin, how he’d held the little disc at its sides. They copied him. Jimmy let them.

— Body of Christ, he said, as he handed Mahalia hers.

— Stop that, said Aoife.

She was laughing.

— Would everybody be like you? she asked.

— Wha’ d’you mean? A bit blasphemous?

— No, you eejit.

This was long before the cancer. She hadn’t called him an eejit in ages.

— Would they have held onto all their old singles? she asked. — Like you.

— Some would’ve, said Jimmy. — I suppose.

— There’s no need to be defensive.

— I’m not.

— You are, said Aoife.

He flicked through the singles.

— Well, said Aoife. — Are you going to answer?

— What was the question again, love, sorry?

— Would people like you, said Aoife, — collectors —

— I’ll accept that.

— Would many of them have kept them, like you?

— Some, said Jimmy.

— But a lot wouldn’t.

— No, said Jimmy.

— They wouldn’t all be as obsessive as you.

— No.

And the idea was born in the kitchen. shiterock.com. Her idea — he’d stolen it quickly. But they’d done it together at first. A team — a real one. He’d tracked down old bands, phoned people he’d known who might still know people. He became a private detective for an hour every night.

He’d never forget the first hit, the phone call.

— Hello?

The polite but wary voice at the other end, a man who didn’t know who he was saying hello to.

— Is that Dessie Savage? Jimmy asked.

— Des, yeah, said the other voice. — It’s a long time since anyone called me Dessie.

— Howyeh, said Jimmy.

He couldn’t stay sitting.

He gave Aoife the thumbs up.

— Could I just check, so I don’t waste your time? he said. — It’s nothin’ to do with tax or special offers, by the way.

He heard nothing from the other end.

— You still there, Des?

— Yes.

— Great, said Jimmy. — Yeah. I just want to check. Are you the Dessie — the Des Savage who played drums with the Irregulars?

The other voice laughed.

— God!

— It’s you, is it?

— Yeah!

He laughed again.

— D’you know the last person to ask me that? he said.

— No, said Jimmy. — Who?

— My ex-wife, said Des.

He laughed again.

— She thought it was cool back then.

— It still is in my book, Des, said Jimmy, and immediately thought he was overdoing it. He couldn’t even remember what Dessie Savage had looked like and he didn’t want the man thinking he was stalking him or something.

— So, said Des.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Look it, my name’s Jimmy Rabbitte. Yeh might remember. I managed a band called the Commitments.

— No.

— No? Doesn’t matter.

Jimmy decided: his wife had been right to leave the cunt.

— Sorry, said Des.

— No worries, Des, said Jimmy. — This is about you. Have you kept in touch with the other lads?

— Well, said Des. — Necko’s dead.

— Shite, said Jimmy. — God, shite. I’m sorry.

— It was years ago, said Des.

— Sorry.

— No, said Des. — No. We hadn’t been in touch for — fallen out of the habit, you know. Before mobiles and email, you know. He’d moved to Manchester.

— What was it? said Jimmy. — D’you mind —?

— Cancer, said Des.

That was five years ago, and Jimmy would soon be phoning Des to tell him about his own cancer.

But that was just shite. More sentimentality. It was business as usual. Des would never have to know. Until it was too late, and he’d feel guilty.

— Sorry to hear it, said Jimmy, back then. — He’d a great voice.

— That’s true.

— So, said Jimmy. — Look, I haven’t explained why—. D’yeh have a minute, Des?

He felt great. Jimmy the salesman, Jimmy the manager. Talking his way to success.

Yes, Des had a minute and Jimmy filled it for him. The website, like iTunes — he could actually hear Des sit up. Anyone who googled the Irregulars —

— Even Dessie Savage, Des. Maybe even Des Savage.

They would quickly find www.kelticpunk.com, where they could buy and download — or upload, whatever the fuck — the long-lost song that had put the band into their heads in the first place.

— Still there, Des?

— Yeah, said Des. — Yes.

— How’s that sound to you?

— Well, said Des. — Great. Great. It’s been so long. We only ever had one single.

— I know that, yeah. ‘Fuck England’.

Des laughed. Jimmy could hear the excitement, and something else, something a bit more.

— Great song, said Jimmy. — And the B-side. ‘Fuck Scotland and Wales’.

Des laughed again.

— Happy days, said Jimmy.

— Yeah, said Des. — Yeah. I don’t think I even have a copy of it myself.

Jimmy knew that probably wasn’t true. The prick had an attic full of them.

— You can have mine, Des, he said.

— Thanks, eh —

— Jimmy.

— Great, yeah. But I think I gave one to my mother when it came out. She probably still has —

He was laughing again.

— She paid for the studio time, he said. — ’Fuck England’. God love her — Jesus. What was I thinking? With the insurance money. My father died a few months before ‘Fuck’ —

He couldn’t go on. He was laughing too much.

— So anyway, said Jimmy. — You’re interested, Des.

— Yeah, said Des. — Yeah. Definitely. I’d have to contact the others — wouldn’t I? I only co-wrote our songs. We did a lot of covers.

—’Walk On By’, said Jimmy.

— Fuck, said Des. — Yeah.

— Before the Stranglers, said Jimmy.

He wasn’t sure if that was true. He was betting it wasn’t. He’d remembered the Irregulars’ cover of ‘Walk On By’ while he was waiting for Des to calm down. It had been shite.