Roddy Doyle - The Guts

He couldn’t remember anything. Not a fuckin’ thing. His head — his brain — was dry, shrivelled, killing him.

Great.

He’d had a normal day. He was dying now, in a pre-cancer kind of way. Being punished for it. And it was great. He turned the pillow — he could manage that, just about — and lowered his head back down onto it.

He still couldn’t remember a thing.

It was Christmas Eve. Loads to do.

Bollix to it. He didn’t care. The big things were sorted.

There was the turkey — sorted.

He’d ended up in a Chinese place. There was a gang of them — he thought.

And the ham. It was in the fridge.

He could hear the telly under him and the dog yapping, and feet — Aoife’s shoes, maybe Mahalia’s. The fuckin’ dog. He remembered now. It was theirs. He couldn’t even remember its name. What was the story with the sister? Break-up? Money trouble?

He’d stood up and left the Chinese restaurant. He’d eaten a spring roll or something like a spring roll — he could taste it now — and he’d stood up. He remembered, the backs of his legs against the chair. He’d just walked away. He’d check now, in a minute, make sure he’d brought home his jacket and his wallet.

The phone. He lifted his head. It wasn’t too bad. He leaned out. He usually left it on the floor beside him. It was there. He grabbed it and lay back. He wrote — he composed — a text. Do I owe anyone money ? He fired it off to Noeleen.

He heard someone on the stairs. He listened to the door being opened quietly, slowly. The hinge needed oil.

— Awake?

— Good mornin’, he said. — Is it mornin’?

— It’s not that late, said Aoife. — It’s eleven or so.

— I didn’t wake anyone when I was comin’ in, did I?

It was gloomy but he could see that she was smiling.

— Wha’?

— You really don’t remember?

— What?

— We were all watching telly, she said.

— Oh.

— Do you remember now?

— No, he said.

— You were lovely.

— Was I?

He could feel himself getting hard. An erection! Christ. A blast from the fuckin’ past.

He grabbed her — he grabbed his wife. She didn’t object.

— Are you sure? she said.

It wasn’t an objection. And she didn’t object to him taking off her shirt — his shirt. He gave up on the buttons. She lifted her arms. Fuck, she was lovely when she did that. He sat up properly — he had to — to get the shirt over her head.

— The door.

He watched her stand and go to the door. For a horrible second, he thought she was going to keep going. But she was back on the bed, in beside him.

— Are you sure? she said.

— You asked that already.

— And you didn’t answer me.

— If the stitches burst, or whatever, it might be manslaughter but definitely not murder.

— Oh, fine.

— I’ll die happy.

— Stop.

— Why —

— No, not that! Don’t stop.

— Make your fuckin’ mind up.

— Was that your stomach? she asked.

— Ignore it.

— I am.

— I’m still alive, he said.

— Damn.

— You thought you’d ride me to death.

— That was the evil plan.

— I love you.

— I love you too.

— The dog —

— Forget about the dog.

— Okay.

— It’s ours.

— Grand.

— You’ll love it.

— Yeah.

The phone hopped. She leaned out and grabbed it. She brought it right up to her eyes. They were going blind together.

A name roared across him. Imelda .

— Noeleen, she said.

She handed it to him. He held it so she could read it too. Not money but u owe someone apology. X

— What does that mean? Aoife asked.

There was no edge in her voice.

— Fuck knows, he said. — I was locked.

— You’re never drunk.

— I know.

— It was lovely.

— Grand.

— You were funny.

— Hang on.

He wrote one back. Why?

— Don’t forget the X, said Aoife.

— Oh yeah. X

He fired it off.

He was falling asleep. She was so warm beside him, hot.

She sighed.

— What?

— I was just thinking about Sinéad.

He edged away from her, slightly. He was wide awake and getting hard again. Women’s names — Christ. They were the best thing about them.

— It’s bad, he said.

Broken glass, Mother Teresa .

— The worst thing about it, said Aoife. — It’s selfish but — Sinéad.

Enda Kenny, broken glass .

— She told Angela. Not me.

— You didn’t know her that well, he said. — Did you?

She didn’t answer.

— Are you cryin’? Aoife?

— No.

The phone hopped again.

— Why? said Aoife.

— Why what? said Jimmy. — I don’t follow yeh.

He was nervous now. Words were dangerous.

— Why didn’t I know her that well? said Aoife.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy. — Yeh can’t know everyone.

— For God’s sake.

She was moving, getting up.

— Hang on, he said. — Am I bein’ blamed for this?

She was standing now. She was putting on his shirt. The door was open. She was gone.

He’d get up.

He could see her point of view. He thought he could. But they’d both agreed, Conor was a wanker. It had been a joint agreement.

He found the phone and read the text. U kept callin Ocean Atlantic. X

Is that all? X

He’d had sex. He’d just made love. He was still alive.

The phone again. He unlocked it. No .

It could wait. It, she, fuckin’ they. He’d remember what he’d done and he’d deal with it.

He got out of the bed and found his tracksuit bottoms. He went across to the bathroom.

Brian was on the stairs.

— Alright, Smoke?

He was standing there, waiting for Jimmy.

Waiting for his dad to be his dad.

— What’ll we do today?

— Don’t know.

— Excited?

— Yeah.

— It doesn’t do upstairses.

— What?

Jimmy had been dropping off to sleep again. He couldn’t believe he was up this early, although it happened every fuckin’ Christmas.

— It doesn’t show you when you’re going up the stairs, said Brian.

— The sat nav? said Jimmy.

— Yeah, said Brian.

He sounded disappointed.

— Well, look it, said Jimmy. — It’s designed for cars. It’s rare enough you’d need to be drivin’ upstairs in a house.

— S’pose.

— Why are yeh dressed like that? The heat’s on, isn’t it?

Brian had his jacket over his pyjamas and — Jimmy saw now — he was wearing his school shoes.

— I’m going out to test it.

He was holding the sat nav in both hands, like a steering wheel.

Jimmy looked at his watch.

— It’s only half-five, Smoke. You’ll have to wait till it’s bright outside.

— That’s not for ages.

— No.

— Please.

Aoife was behind Brian now.

— Why don’t you ask your dad to go with you? she said.

— Okay, said Jimmy. — I give up.

He stood up, no bother.

— Come on, Smoke.

— No, you don’t, said Aoife. — Open your present first.

— I thought I did, said Jimmy. — Did I not?

There were socks, a box set — The Killing — and a Liverpool mug. A crumby enough haul.

— No, look, she said.

She leaned across the back of the couch and found another package under the pile of wrapping paper. She handed it to him.

— Thanks.

It was soft. A jumper or something. She’d never done that before, bought him clothes, tried to dress him. He tore through the wrapping paper, the way real men and boys did it.