Roddy Doyle - The Guts

He was crying again.

She didn’t notice.

He was sick of the tears. He just wished the kids would stop growing up. Or, Brian anyway. He’d have been happy enough with one child to hold onto.

The dog-in-law was at him again, trying to pull the tracksuit bottoms off him.

— Will I cut the toast into soldiers for you? she asked.

— No, he said. — You’re grand. Just dump the egg —

He looked across and saw her waiting, grinning. She’d caught him out.

— Ah fuck off.

He had the laptop with him. He was going to go back to work, in the kitchen. That was the plan. For a couple of hours. He’d get rid of some emails, have a look at what Noeleen had been doing to the homepage while he’d been under the knife.

He googled sat nav.

— A hundred and twenty quid, he said. — Or a hundred and thirty.

He scrolled down the PC World page.

— That kind o’ range, he told her.

She was emptying the eggs onto the toasted batch. The smell was a killer.

— Would they be cheaper in the North? she asked.

— I’d need a sat nav to find the fuckin’ North, he said.

She laughed.

He was happy. There was no escaping it. Happy and starving. And the starving — it was great. Like his guts were moving, waking up, demanding to be filled. There was nothing wrong or missing. He wanted food.

— So, he said.

He looked at the PC World page again and had a closer look at one of the sat navs.

— It’s a rechargeable battery, he said. — As far as I can make out. So that’s grand. He’ll be able to walk around with it. Find his way to school an’ that.

He pushed the laptop aside to make room for the plate that was coming at him. He pushed the dog aside as well, with his foot.

Aoife put the plate down.

— Thanks, he said.

She put her hand on his head, then pulled him gently against her. Just for a second.

Fuck, he was starving.

— But, he said.

— What?

She sat down beside him. She was going to watch him eat.

— Do we really want him walkin’ to school with a sat nav? Holdin’ it out in front of him. Do we want to expose him to the slaggin’ he’ll definitely get?

He could eat now.

— Maybe there are others in his class getting the same thing, said Aoife.

— I doubt it, said Jimmy.

— Yes, she said. — I know. We’d be seeing all the ads.

— That’s right.

— But, she said. — Brian is Brian.

— True, he said — he knew what she meant. — This is exactly what I needed, by the way.

— Thanks.

He examined the toast. It was nice and soft. He rolled it into a cigar.

She was staring at him. She pointed across at the cooker.

— Have I just been your mother over there?

— Fuck off.

She nodded at the rolled-up toast on its way to his mouth.

— You’ve never done that before, she said. — Not in front of me.

— Lay off, he said. — It was just an idea.

— An idea or a memory?

— Okay, he said. — A memory. It’s just the once.

He shoved the toast, the whole roll, into his mouth, and regretted it. He was stuck. Stuck and fuckin’ choking. Being killed by a scrambled egg. In front of the woman he loved. One of the women he —

He was having a fuckin’ ball.

He swallowed the mush. There was nothing to it.

— Brian is Brian, he said. — An’ fuck the begrudgers.

— An’ fuck the fuckin’ begrudgers.

He laughed. A speck of the toast flew onto her shoulder. She didn’t see it.

— That’s not a bad impression of me, he said.

— It wasn’t you, she said. — It was your father.

She leaned the small bit over and kissed him.

— There’s nothing quite as sexy as scrambled egg on a man’s breath.

— Okay, he said. — Okay. Never again. So.

He nodded at the laptop.

— That’s a sat nav for Brian.

— And a few small things.

— Grand, he said. — I’ll be able to go into town. Next week — I’d say. Or the weekend. We can do it together.

— Great.

— What about the others? he said.

There’d be no madness, no more requests for toys that didn’t exist, or toys that every other kid in the country wanted and expected. Jimmy had driven to Belfast one Saturday, searching for a Buzz Lightyear. This was ten years ago, maybe more. When travelling north was still a bit of an adventure, when you knew you were crossing the border. He’d been going to stop in Newry but he was behind all these other Dublin registrations, hundreds of them, most of them turning for Newry, and he decided they were all on the hunt for a Buzz. So he kept going up to Belfast, and there wasn’t a Buzz to be had, not even a Unionist one. He was in a cafe, just about to get dug into his — fuckin’ hell, he remembered — scrambled egg on toast, when Aoife had called him. Her friend, Tara, had phoned and told her that there were Buzz Lightyears in Wexford, a consignment of them straight off the Rosslare boat. So he’d finished his egg and driven the length of the country to Wexford, and he’d got the Buzz Lightyear. For Marvin. He’d got to the Toymaster door about two minutes before they were closing for the day.

— Bollix, he said.

— What’s wrong?

He’d gone on to Ticketmaster, to get an Oxegen ticket for Marvin.

— They’ve cancelled Oxegen, he said.

— Yes, said Aoife. — They announced it last week.

— Any idea what Marv wants instead?

— No, she said. — You can ask him later.

— Okay. Grand. If I see him.

He thought of something.

— Look at this.

He turned the laptop, so she could see the screen.

— What am I to look at?

— That.

She leaned forward. She squinted — a bit. He decided not to slag her about her eyesight.

— Is this from your brother?

— Yeah.

— God.

She looked at him, and back at the screen.

— Is this all there is?

— Yeah.

— God, she said again. — It’s a bit — I don’t know. Chilling. Is it? Only one word.

— I know what you mean, he said. — I’m not even sure it’s him.

— Ah, it has to be him, Jimmy. There are too many coincidences for it not to be.

She looked at the screen again. Her face was right down at it.

— Do you think it might be someone else?

— No, he said. — Not really.

— Or someone messing?

— No, he said. — And I don’t think it’s another Les Rabbitte. But — this is a bit mad. When I read it—. Not that there’s much readin’ in it. I thought — I wondered. Well, it felt like maybe it was his ghost.

— Ghost?

— Contactin’ me from, like — the afterlife.

— God, Jimmy. It’s a fucking email.

— I know, he said. — It’s just the way it feels. After so long, I suppose.

— Back from the dead.

— A bit, he said.

— Are you going to answer him? she asked.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — ’Course.

He typed. Hi, Les. Great to hear from you. It’s been too long .

— Is that goin’ too far? he asked Aoife.

— What?

— It’s been too long.

— Well, it’s true, she said. — And it’s nice. But yeah.

— Grand.

He deleted it and typed his mobile number. Phone me if you like. There’s something I need to tell you. We should catch up .

— Fuck it, he said, and typed. It’s been too long .

She smiled, and kissed the side of his face.

— Life’s too fuckin’ short, he said.

And he sent it.

Jesus, it was cold. It was fuckin’ freezing. The grass was solid under him.

He was putting out the bin. It was green wheelie day tomorrow. He’d forget the names of his children but he’d always remember the bin days. And he wasn’t even ashamed.