Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— D’yeh have any sisters? he asked her.

Aoife’s mouth hung open, a bit.

— Yes, said Sinéad, and she left it at that.

He listened now for noise next door, in the bedroom beyond the wall. Sinéad was probably in there, somewhere in the house. She’d had the twins since that night. He often saw her pushing that double-decker buggy.

There was no sign of life in there. No sound.

His phone was in his tracksuit bottoms, zipped in safe like his lunch money. He’d left it off while he was in the hospital. He didn’t have to lean too far. He grabbed a leg and lay back again. He was still comfortable, kind of half asleep. He got the phone out and turned it on.

Where he grew up, most of the dogs were huge. Their shite was mountainous, borderline human. Everyone he knew had been bitten by a local dog.

The phone started beeping as it rolled out five days’ worth of texts. He didn’t have an iPhone or a BlackBerry. Just an old-fashioned Nokia. He’d had a BlackBerry for a month but he’d got rid of it. There’d been no escape from work. Aoife had put it out on the windowsill one night.

The texts had stopped. He knew most of them were from his da, and the football scores. Liverpool had played while he’d been drugged. One text from his da would tell him the result. For fuck sake . They’d lost again.

The others could wait. He texted Darren. Did u no Sinead Ni Cheallaigh ? The phone hopped on the pillow beside him. It was Darren. Yes. How’s the arse ? Apostrophe and all, the over-educated prick. Still attached. Did u no hr well?

The dogs in Barrytown hadn’t yapped. They’d barked. They’d howled. If they started riding your leg, or even got up on your back, you didn’t object.

The phone again. Very well . The bastard. He’d leave it at that.

The dogs here were small and mouthy. They were proper pets, extra children really. That was the indicator, the thing he’d have pointed out to any sociologist. Don’t look at the houses or the cars or the schools. Look at the dogs.

He liked how he was now. Nice and lazy. A bit of fever, maybe. Nothing expected of him. He closed his eyes.

The phone again. I fucked her til she begged for mercy in Irish . Jimmy laughed. Darren never spoke like that. He was definitely spoofing. That was grand. He sent one back — Good man — and turned off the phone.

It was a bit darker now.

He could hear feet outside and young ones talking.

— Ohmyfuckingod, no way.

He heard the front door. He heard it slammed shut. Right under him.

He stayed where he was. He’d go down in a bit. Mingle. Meet and fuckin’ greet.

— How’s school?

— Grand.

— Grand?

— Yeah. Kind of.

The ads were on, so the sound was down. They were all watching The Apprentice , the Irish one. Jimmy couldn’t remember the last time they’d all watched telly at the same time. They were sticking it out, staying together for the night. He liked that; he appreciated it. The couch was all his, and the remote as well. He could have switched to The Frontline , to the union men with beards discussing the Croke Park Agreement, and they’d still have stayed with him.

— How’s the study goin’?

Marvin was on the floor, his head close to Jimmy’s feet. He was staring at the silent Bulmers ad.

— Grand, he said.

— Doin’ a bit?

— Yeah.

It was three weeks to Christmas, six months or so to the Leaving.

— Good man, said Jimmy. — Don’t overdo it, though.

— Oooh, said Mahalia. — Sarcasm.

Brian laughed and looked up at Jimmy.

— I’m not bein’ sarcastic, he lied.

Marvin was still staring at the telly.

— Yeh still there, Marv?

— Yep.

— Yeh don’t want to peak too early, said Jimmy. — Yeh with me?

— Grand.

— Good man.

Why was he being like this, goading a kid he adored?

— Here we go, he said. — They’re back.

He turned the sound up.

— It’s a bit loud, said Aoife.

He turned it up a bit more, and down. Brian looked at him again. He winked.

He sat up a bit. Don’t fuckin’ groan . He leaned out and patted Marv’s shoulder. Marv didn’t move, didn’t swerve out of reach. That was good. The shoulder felt big, hard; it belonged to a man.

That was the problem.

That was the thrill.

— Who’ll be fired tonight? he asked.

— All of them, said Marvin.

— You’re right, said Jimmy. — He should.

— Ah no, said Aoife. — I like the little fella.

— They’re all, like, little, said Mahalia. — Which one?

— The young one, said Aoife. — The mouthy little fella.

— He’d drive me demented if I had to work with him, said Jimmy. — Look at the state of him.

— Well, I hope he wins.

— Ah Jesus, Aoife. Why?

— He reminds me of you.

They laughed. They all looked at him, even Marvin. He loved it.

He got up with the rest of them. He put bread in the toaster. He put bowls on the table.

He felt strange — kind of loose. He sat down.

No one noticed.

The fuckin’ dog was there, clawing at the dressing gown, tearing holes in the fuckin’ thing.

He gave up.

He bent down — he was grand. He got his hand under the dog and picked it up. It was nearly weightless.

Brian was watching.

— What’s it called again?

— Cindy, said Brian.

— That’s right, said Jimmy. — Stupid name.

He felt stronger now, more solid.

The dog turned a few times on his lap; she’d plenty of room. Then she lay down and curled up. He patted her back. The dog-in-law.

— What are you smiling at?

— Nothin’.

Hi .

He could feel his heart. Like he’d been running. He searched the rest of the page but he knew there was nothing else. No attachment, or a sentence pushed down to the bottom of the page by the Enter key. There was just the one word — and the name.

Les .

Christ. Oh, Christ.

His phone rang. It seemed to hop off the pillow as he was staring at Les’s name. It was his da.

— Jimmy?

— Howyeh.

— It’s me.

— Yeah.

— Your mother was wonderin’ how yeh were.

— I’m grand.

— Good to be home, I’d say, is it?

— Great, yeah.

— Are yeh able to eat an’ tha’?

— Yeah, no bother.

— Food, like.

— Yeah, I know wha’ yeh mean.

— So, that’s good, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah. No, I’m grand.

— How’s everyone?

— Grand.

— Glad to see yeh home?

— Ah yeah.

— Great, that’s great.

— Thanks, Da.

— I’ll leave yeh alone. Good luck.

— Thanks for phonin’.

— No bother.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t told his da about Les’s email. And his ma. He could phone them now; they’d be delighted.

No.

His heart was still hopping.

He had to get more from Les first. Hi . There had to be more than that.

He shut the laptop. He closed his eyes.

— He wants a sat nav.

— He doesn’t have a fuckin’ car.

— I don’t think that’s the point, said Aoife.

He watched her whisking the eggs. He’d woken up wanting scrambled eggs. And batch. There’d been eggs in the fridge and she’d gone down to the Spar for the bread.

— What use would a sat nav be to him? he asked.

— Why does it matter?

Brian’s letter to Santa was on the table in front of him.

Dear Santa, I hope you are well. I want a Sat Nav. One that won’t break easy. And a Xbox game that is appopiate for my age. I’m nearly 11. Thank you very much. Yours sincerely. Brian Egan-Rabbitte .