Roddy Doyle - The Guts

God, it was cold but. The tracksuit bottoms were useless; he didn’t know how homeless people managed in this weather. There was already ice on the handle of the wheelie. He’d have to be careful, or they’d be coming out to pour warm water over his fingers, to free his hands from the ice. Or he’d be found dead, stuck to the wheelie.

He wasn’t alone.

He was out on the road now, lining up the bin at the edge of the path, and he saw Conor from next door. At his car. His jeep. Putting something in the back.

— Alright, Conor?

Conor’s head was still buried in the boot. Counting party hats or something.

— That’s a cold one.

Your man said nothing back. He stood up straight, slammed the boot shut, and headed for his front door. He didn’t even look at Jimmy — and he must have heard him. It was a cold, clear night; Jimmy’s words had felt solid coming out of his mouth.

He was shutting his front door, Conor was, when a hand came back out, holding the car key, pointing it at the jeep. It clicked shut — tink tunk — right beside Jimmy. Then the front door quietly clicked shut. Fuck him. My brother rode your missis . The ignorance of that, pointing the key. Or so he says . He must have seen Jimmy; he couldn’t not have.

He’d locked himself out. Jimmy had.

— Bollix.

He had to ring the bell. Fuck, he was freezing now.

He rang again. They were all in the living room, watching the telly — with him. They thought he’d gone to the jacks or to fill the kettle; he’d stood up during the ads.

He rang again. They wouldn’t have heard it. He knocked on the glass. He was shaking now. He leaned across — nearly fell over — and knocked on the living-room window.

His mobile started purring against his thigh.

For fuck sake.

He got it out. He could hardly press the green button, his fingers were so cold.

— Hello?

— Jimmy?

— Yeah.

— It’s Les.

The door opened.

— What are you doing out there?

It was Aoife.

Jimmy pointed at the mobile up against his ear, with a free finger.

— Les, he said. — Howyeh.

— Okay. Fine. You?

The voice meant nothing. Jimmy didn’t know it. He got the door shut behind him.

— I’m grand, he said. — Great.

— Good.

— Where are yeh?

— I’m at home.

— Yeah —

— England. Basingstoke.

— I’ve heard of it.

— Yeah.

— Listen, it’s great to hear you. Thanks for gettin’ back.

He could feel it. He was — they were running out of things to say. Already.

— That’s okay, said Les.

— No, it’s great.

— You said there was something you needed to tell me. In the email.

— Fuck, yeah. I forgot.

He looked at Aoife closing the living-room door. She picked up the dog as she did it. He kept going, down to the kitchen. It was warmer in there.

— Look, he said. — You still there, Les?

— I’m here.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — So look. I’ve had a bit of a scare.

There was nothing from Les.

— Cancer, said Jimmy.

— Oh.

— I’m grand. I’m just out of the hospital actually. The bowel.

He couldn’t stop.

— The cancer, like. Cancer of the bowel. So anyway, they removed the — yeh know — the tumours an’ it’s lookin’ good. Fingers crossed now.

— Yeah. Sorry to hear that. Jimmy.

— No. Thanks, by the way. Les. But I’m grand. Home again an’ back at work. I can do that, work at home. So I’m grand. I was just puttin’ the wheelie out when you rang there.

What the fuck was he saying?

He couldn’t stop.

— So anyway, they said — the specialists, like — they said it might be hereditary. So Darren an’ Da had the tests done there, and they’re grand. They’re both great, by the way. Ma an’ Da. Yeh there?

— Yeah.

— An’ I wanted to tell you. So — cos they say you should get one done as well.

— Too late.

— Wha’? Les?

— I had a biopsy. Four years ago.

— Oh. Good. An’ you were grand?

— No.

The silence was roaring at him now. But Les broke it.

— Same as you.

— Bowel? said Jimmy.

— Yeah.

— God. Fuck. Jesus. And are yeh alright now?

— Yes. Yeah. There’s been no recurrence.

He used the word — recurrence — like a pro, like he knew exactly what it meant.

— Good, said Jimmy. — Great.

The man had been dying, over in England. Jimmy knew nothing about him.

— Hope it works out for you, said Les.

— Thanks, said Jimmy. — Thanks, Les.

— Bye.

— I’ll phone yeh when I find out —

— Fine, yeah. Bye.

Jimmy sat down. He had to.

Aoife was at the door. Holding the dog like your man from the old Bond film.

— How was that?

— Weird, he said. — Great. Fuckin’ awful.

— Do you want to talk about it?

— No, he said. — Tomorrow. It’s too much.

— Okay, she said. — It must be strange.

— Yeah. Yeah.

— What were you doing outside? she asked.

— Wha’? Oh. I was puttin’ the green wheelie out.

— Ah, Jimmy. For God’s sake. One of us could have done that.

— I wanted to do it, he said.

It was true.

She smiled. She patted the dog.

— When’s that thing goin’ back to its mammy? he said.

— When its mammy gets home from its cruise. Sorry, her cruise.

— Heard yeh the first time.

— Fuck off.

— The fucker.

— That’s a bit strong.

— No, he said. — Les. He’s the fucker.

— Why?

He’d never told them — Jimmy, Darren or their da; the family males — about the cancer. They could all have had biopsies done back then. Four years ago. It could have been discovered, in him, way earlier.

And he wasn’t even angry.

Something had woken him. Something outside.

It was quiet — no wind or anything. He looked at the clock beside him. He brought it a bit nearer. 2.43.

Then he heard it again, what he knew he’d heard. Metal bending, or buckling.

He got up. No bother. A bit stiff, a small bit sore. He went around the bed, to the window.

Someone was laughing now. Definitely.

He leaned over the dressing table and pulled back the curtain. There was a guy, a young lad, standing on the roof of Jimmy’s car. And another lad at the gate, with a bike, one foot on the ground. Jimmy could tell, he was the one who’d laughed. He was nervous.

Your man on the roof was doing something. He’d started to pull down his tracksuit bottoms — they were like Jimmy’s. And the fella with the bike had his phone out now — an iPhone, it looked like — and he was filming your man on the roof, and your man on the roof was bending his legs at the knees — the fucker was squatting and he was going to take a dump on the roof of Jimmy’s car.

— Hey!

He wasn’t loud enough — they hadn’t heard. He pulled the curtain back properly. He pulled at the handle of the window. It was a bit stiff — he was sweating. The dressing table was in the way.

But he got the window open.

They looked up, the lads. They’d heard it.

— Fuck off out o’ tha’, he said.

He didn’t shout. He wasn’t outraged. He didn’t want to wake the neighbours or Aoife. It was already becoming a story for his da — and Marvin and young Jimmy. He wondered if they knew this pair. It wasn’t impossible.

Your man fell off — he slid off the roof. His pal on the bike was gone.

— Come here, said Jimmy.

Your man hesitated. He didn’t stop. He was running, trying to run and pull up his bottoms. There was something about him; he wasn’t all that worried. He looked back up at Jimmy and the window.