Roddy Doyle - The Guts

So they’d sold it. Most of it, seventy-five per cent. To Noeleen. They’d held onto a quarter — Noeleen’s suggestion. And they’d got rid of the mortgage. They owned their own house, and everything was easier. They didn’t know how much it was worth just before the crunch and they decided not to find out just after it.

— We don’t need to know what negative equity means, said Aoife.

— You probably know already, do yeh?

— Of course I do, said Aoife.

Three years into a recession that still felt like it was just starting, life was a bit safe — if he forgot that he had cancer for a minute. He got paid every month and still owned a chunk of the business. He still ran kelticpunk, but Noeleen ran him. He worked where she could keep an eye on him.

That wasn’t fair — it wasn’t true. It was a chat they’d had before they’d signed. Where was he going to work? He’d opted for her office.

— Sure?

— Yeah, he’d said. — Makes sense. Is there room?

— Yes, she’d said. — Plenty.

The decision — all the decisions — had been his, and Aoife’s. His — they’d been his. He’d always admit that. He had the safety of a salary, a pension, the VHI, a home he owned, and a bonus — so far — at the end of every year. The world was in shit but shiterock was making money.

And it killed him.

He liked Noeleen. He had to root through himself and pull out the resentment. Noeleen hadn’t put her heel on his neck. She’d made the offer and she’d left him and Aoife alone to pick at it.

They’d made the right decision and their timing had been accidentally perfect. They owned their house. The banks, the IMF, all forms of government could fuck off.

But it killed him. There was once — just once, and he never mentioned it to Aoife — the thought it had kicked off the cancer. He was literally going to end up what he was — gutless. And dead. He’d pushed the thought away. But the decision, the weeks leading up to it, had felt like physical pain, across his head, in his face, in his shoulders, through his stomach. They’d celebrated — they’d gone out to the Indian in Dollymount — after they’d signed the deal with Noeleen. He’d felt good about it, and right. But sad too. That was the word — sad. He’d had something special, and he’d lost it. He’d given it away.

He’d chickened out.

The anger never lasted. But the sadness, the grief, had never left. Like losing the kids, them growing up and away from him, one by one. This was the same feeling — grief. The risk, the excitement, at a point in his life when it would have been perfect, the two of them doing it together. But bills — fuckin’ money — terrified him. The blood, when he’d noticed it first — and what the fuck had he been doing, examing the toilet paper? — when he’d watched it dyeing the water in the jacks, for a second, for a bit more than a second, it had made sense and he’d deserved it.

There was no photo, just a kid’s drawing of a rabbit there instead. But the drawing was good — deliberately bad. There might have been an adult there, hiding behind the bunny.

Maisie Rabbitte.

Could he send her a message? Could he ask her if her dad was called Les? Maisie only shares some information with everyone. If you know Maisie, add her as a friend or send her a message . He’d do it, send her a message. But anything he wrote or thought of writing looked creepy.

He fired off a real message. Hi Andrew. Got those snaps, ta. Any of the band post Eric? Raining here — as usual. J .

Andrew — Andy Belton — had been lead singer and one of three guitarists with the Dangerous Dream, a prog rock group that, judging by the sales of their only album, My Life on the Planet Behind You , still had a following, and maybe a new following. Jimmy thought they were shite and — he loved this — it didn’t matter. It was business, and Andrew seemed sound. They hadn’t met. Andrew lived somewhere near Nairobi — near in an African way. He worked for one of the Irish NGOs, and he was probably driving across a desert or something, boiling his head. Jimmy didn’t know. But he knew this: the rain remark in his email made sound business sense. All his clients were middle-aged and most of them seemed to accept it, and they needed to know that the man who was looking after them was one of their own, another hip but middle-aged lad. And the weather did that. Information valuable to the middle-aged — raining here — handed over with a bit of timeless sarcasm — as usual . With clients he’d met, it could become as fuckin’ usual . But Jimmy hadn’t met Andrew.

He loved that too. The fact that he could find the man, excite the man, get the man to excite the other men, become a new big thing in their lives, without actually meeting them. He’d found Andrew on Facebook and Andrew had agreed to let Jimmy resurrect the Dangerous Dream, before Jimmy knew that Andrew was in Kenya. Jimmy had never heard Andrew’s voice, except on his poxy record. And he loved that as well. He could like the man without liking the music, without actually knowing the man. And he knew: he’d never tell Andrew that his music was shite. Big Jimmy would tell the little bollix in Jimmy to keep all that to himself.

— You’re maturing, said Aoife.

— Is that what it is?

— Yes.

— It took its time, said Jimmy. — And too fuckin’ late.

— Stop.

— Sorry, he said.

— Okay.

— I didn’t mean it. But — I don’t know — I have to let it out sometimes.

— I know.

— Even when I’m only jokin’.

— I know. Just —

— What?

— Maybe be a bit careful of what you say, said Aoife.

— I know, said Jimmy. — The kids.

— No, said Aoife. — Me.

— Okay.

Hi. My name is Jimmy Rabbitte. I live in Dublin. Do you know anyone called Les Rabbitte? Or Leslie? Thanks. Jimmy .

He sent it.

He ran his fingers around the back of his head, from ear to ear. He hated it when he found a patch, a few missed bristles that felt like a harvested field. He leaned right over the sink, brought his face bang up to the mirror.

It looked alright; he’d done the job.

In the corner of the mirror — he saw something. He looked behind him.

It was Marvin.

Gone.

— Marv?

Marvin didn’t answer.

— Alright?

No answer. And he couldn’t hear feet on the stairs, or a door being opened or shut. But Marvin had definitely been there at the bathroom door. Looking at Jimmy shaving his head.

Rehearsing for the chemo.

He threw cold water over his head, bent down over the sink. He liked that. He felt wild, like he was out in the woods or something. He rubbed his head with a towel, looked at himself again. His eyes were tired, a bit dirty looking. He was tired.

He knocked on the boys’ bedroom door. No one answered, but that meant nothing.

He knocked again. He waited, and went in.

Marvin wasn’t there, or Brian. But young Jimmy was. Lying back, eyes closed — actually asleep.

Jimmy bent down and kissed his forehead. It was a while since he’d been able to do that. It was there for him now. The big, clear, beautiful forehead.

Something caught in Jimmy’s throat. A sob.

He held young Jimmy’s earphones and gently took them from his ears.

Young Jimmy’s eyes were open.

— Alright? said Jimmy.

— Yeah.

— You were asleep.

— Yeah.

— You okay?

— Yeah.

— Just sleepy?

— Yeah.

Jimmy sat on the bed. Young Jimmy lay there, waiting for him to go. He would, but he wanted a few more seconds. He put the earphones into his own ears.

The Dangerous Dream.