Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Do it on the roof of the jeep over there. The green one.

But Conor’s jeep wasn’t there. It was gone. And so was your man with the shite. Jimmy could hear him and his pal at the end of the road, laughing. He stayed there a while longer but he shut the window. He looked across at Aoife. He hadn’t woken her.

A pity about Conor’s jeep.

Dying was great. No other consequences mattered. He didn’t care if they’d heard him next door, if they were lying in the bed, appalled. It didn’t matter.

He went around the bed, back to his own side. It was cold. He got in carefully, so his feet wouldn’t wake Aoife.

Did he really believe that, that he was dying?

He did, yeah. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid.

— They’ve gone.

— Wha’?

— They’ve gone, said Aoife. — Just —

She shrugged. Then — she didn’t start to cry. She was crying already. Her face was wet. He saw that now.

— What d’you mean gone? he asked.

He already knew what she meant. Conor and Sinéad next door had left. And the twins. During the night.

— Who told you? he asked.

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. She was wearing one of his shirts.

— Angela.

— Who?

— Across the road.

— Who?

— Angela, she said. — You know. You hate her.

— Who? he said. — I don’t.

— You said she’s a fucking eejit.

— Doesn’t mean I hate her, he said. — What did she say?

— Sinéad told her. They had to get out.

— They were fuckin’ evicted?

— No, said Aoife. — I don’t think it’s that—. But they’re in trouble. It’s being repossessed. The house.

— Jesus.

— You never liked them, she said.

— That’s not true.

— It is.

— It isn’t, he said. — Anyway, you weren’t mad about them either.

— That’s not the point.

— Exactly.

— Well, they’re gone.

She wasn’t looking at him.

— It’s sad, he said.

It was a lot more than that. It was becoming frightening, even before he’d had time to think properly about it.

— For God’s sake, Jimmy.

— What?

— They’re our neighbours and they had to run away.

— I know, he said. — I know. It’s dreadful. I’m not even sure what havin’ your house repossessed — what it involves. Do you?

— No.

— Thank Christ we actually own ours.

— Yes, she said. — But I think there was—. The business. Sinéad told Angela. Conor was struggling.

— What is it he does again?

— Catering, said Aoife. — Parties. Functions. I’m surprised you forgot that, Jimmy. Seeing as you sneered at him for it —

— I didn’t.

— You did so.

— Okay, he said. — I had a go at him. But only after he’d made a big deal about me bein’ from Barrytown.

— Sinéad’s from Barrytown too.

Darren rode the arse off her .

— He was bein’ a bollix, said Jimmy. — So, yeah. I was a bit snotty.

He’d asked Conor how he liked handing out cocktail sausages to the high-end cunts he’d gone to school with. And later, in bed, she’d laughed, Aoife had. Loud enough to be heard by Sinéad and Bozo through the bedroom wall. He decided not to remind her.

— But I’d nothin’ against him, he said. — I didn’t want his business to go belly up. For fuck sake.

He coughed.

— It’s cancer of the bowel you have, Jimmy, said Aoife. — Not the lungs.

— I only fuckin’ coughed.

She sighed.

— Sorry.

— Grand.

— You never liked them.

— You’re wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt.

They stared for a while, but not at each other. Jimmy stared at the iPod dock on top of the fridge and she stared at the dog-in-law’s basket.

— Sorry.

— Me too.

— It looks good on yeh.

— Thanks.

He sat down. She went to the fridge. He looked at the screen.

— What happens the house?

— Sinéad’s?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I mean. Is it left empty or wha’?

— I don’t know.

— Did they take their stuff? The furniture —

— I don’t know.

She was away from the fridge, buttering slices of bread across at the counter. He looked at the clock. The kids would be in soon, early. It was clear in his head; their Christmas holidays started today.

— It looks the same, she said. — Exactly the same.

She was crying again.

— It’s primitive, she said. — Isn’t it?

— Yeah.

Aoife drove him in. He was going to the office do, his first time back since the operation. They didn’t say much on the way but she kissed him before he got out of the car.

— Enjoy yourself.

— I’ll try, he said.

He smiled, and she smiled. He opened the passenger door.

— The dog, he said.

— There’s a truck behind me, she said.

The street was narrow and cobblestoned. It wasn’t the spot for a conversation.

— She’s home, isn’t she?

Aoife was looking in the rear-view but she nodded. Someone behind the truck pressed the horn. The cunt thought he was in New York.

— So, said Jimmy. — The dog’s ours, is it?

— Yep.

— And —?

— Close the door, Jimmy. We can talk about this later.

He got out. He was okay — a bit stiff just.

— Did they even go on a fuckin’ cruise?

— Think past the dog, Jimmy, for God’s sake. Just shut the fucking door.

— Seeyeh.

He stopped on the steps before he went in. It was fuckin’ cold. And dark. He had to bring the phone right up to his face. What did u mean? He fired it off to Aoife, and went in. He hated riddles, mysteries, answers that weren’t fuckin’ answers. She could fuck off.

He was wearing proper trousers for the first time since he’d got out of the hospital. They were a bit strange. Not tight — he’d actually lost a bit of weight. More, heavy. Like armour or something. And complicated.

It felt a bit weird being back. He wasn’t ready to talk to the heads, to mingle, yet. He had a few quick glasses of mulled wine. That’ll teach her . And he immediately had to go to the jacks. He’d been guzzling water all day. He was thirsty, dry-throated — all the time.

Noeleen was there when he got back.

— Either you hit the jackpot out there, Jimbo, or you just forgot, she said.

— Wha’?

— Your fly.

— Oh. Fuck. Thanks. It’s got nothin’ to do with the cancer, by the way.

What was he at?

— Must be Alzheimer’s, she said.

— Probably, he said. — But it only happens when it’s buttons. I never forget if it’s a zip.

— Interesting.

A text went off in his pocket. It took him a while to get to the phone. He’d forgotten he was wearing trousers again, and the mulled muck had gone to his head. He’d burn the tracksuit when he got home. It was turning him into a toddler.

Noeleen was looking at him.

No. She wasn’t.

It was just as well, because the text was from Imelda. Jesus Christ, he was fuckin’ surrounded. He read it, brought it up to his eyes. Wot do u meen wot did i meen?

What was that about?

His head was swimming. Just a bit.

Now he got it. That text, the one he’d done outside on the steps — he’d sent it to Imelda instead of Aoife. He checked the Sent box and there it was.

Jesus.

He laughed.

The lad.

He’d have to be more careful. Conducting no affairs with a gang of women was a full-time job. He should have eaten before he came out. He shouldn’t have come out.

But he was grand. He sat on his desk. He nearly missed it but no one noticed.

— Great to have you back, Jimmy, said the twit.

— Ah, thanks, eh —