Roddy Doyle - The Guts

What a word. Suppressed. Commercial fuckin’ dynamite. Suppressed nostalgia? For fuck sake.

— You’re losing the run of yourself, Jimbo, said Noeleen, but she approved.

— Probably, said Jimmy. — But who knows? The official picture is never the real one.

Jesus though, he was impressing himself again. It was years since he’d felt like this.

They’d moved away from the others. They looked out at the street.

— Will you be able for it? said Noeleen.

— What? said Jimmy. — Oh. With the chemo an’ that?

— Yes.

He gave it a gap. He actually gave it thought.

— I should be, he said. — I don’t see why not. Mister Dunwoody said I’d probably be grand. But we’ll see. Alright?

She nodded, smiled. He knew: she wanted to hug him. He liked her, he liked her.

— But a bit of help wouldn’t be any harm, he said.

— Ocean, said Noeleen. — She’ll stomp up to every door in Ireland and smile.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — Okay. Would she be up to it but?

— What d’you mean? said Noeleen. — She’s beyond efficient, Jimbo. She’s actually amazing.

— Great, said Jimmy. — But, being American, like. Does she know the place well enough? The culture, like.

— Of course she does, said Noeleen. — With a father like Ned. Jesus, she’d have to.

— Wha’?

The chemo saved him.

— I can’t phone him again, he told Aoife. — I just can’t.

— Noeleen can, said Aoife.

— No, said Jimmy. — I don’t want that. Like she’s my boss? Moppin’ up after me or somethin’.

— Well, it needs a mop, Jimmy.

— I know.

— Jesus, Jimmy.

— I know.

— I’ll do it, said Aoife.

— No.

— Yes.

— Why?

— If it’ll help.

— But it’s my mess, said Jimmy.

— That’s right. But it’s ours really, said Aoife. — We both reached the same nasty conclusion about Ned.

— True, said Jimmy. — But it doesn’t mean he actually isn’t —

— Don’t.

— Only messin’.

— I know. But anyway, I’ll do it. We’re both shareholders.

— True, said Jimmy. — It’s ours. We should never have sold. Sure we shouldn’t?

— Not now, Jimmy. We did well out of it.

— Okay.

They were in bed. It was a strange new world. Brian was the only other one in bed. The others were still up, moving around downstairs, homing in on the fridge.

— So I’ll phone him, said Aoife. — Alright?

— Okay.

— I’ll explain who I am and then I’ll play the chemo card.

— He’s been through it himself, said Jimmy. — He’s been through chemo.

— Great, said Aoife. — So he’ll understand.

— He might.

— Ah, he will. But, God, you’re stupid.

— I know.

— And you can apologise to his daughter.

— Okay, righ’.

— Just say sorry, said Aoife. — Don’t elaborate. Don’t attempt to justify it.

— I hear you.

— Don’t joke. Are you listening to me, Jimmy?

— Yeah, he said. — They suit yeh.

She was wearing her new reading glasses.

— Thanks.

— What’s that you’re readin’?

— A book about cancer, she said.

— Is it any good?

— Yes, she said. — It’s very good. It’s a history —

— It has a fuckin’ history?

— Yes, of course. Attitudes, beliefs. It’s really interesting.

— Oh good. I’m glad it’s interesting —

— You’ve had your quota of sympathy today, James.

— Okay.

— Asking a man to — what? — give her one for you. Jesus — with his own daughter.

— You’d want to have been there, said Jimmy. — There was a context.

— Don’t laugh.

— I’m not.

— You are.

— So are you.

— You’re such an eejit, she said. — Seriously though, you should read this.

— I’ll bring it with me to the chemo, said Jimmy. — Don’t tell me the endin’.

He picked up his own book, Jah Wobble’s autobiography. He put on his own new reading glasses.

— Do they suit me?

— Do you remember Harry Worth?

— Ah fuck off now. I only got them to keep you company. I don’t really want to know.

— What?

He pointed at Aoife’s Kindle.

— I read the first page there. When you were brushin’ your teeth.

— And?

— A quarter of all deaths in America are caused by cancer.

— I know, she said. — It’s frightening.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But actually, really — it’s not. The figures mean nothin’. But it’s supposed to be the history of cancer, yeah?

— Yeah.

— But it’s still killin’ a quarter of all Yanks, said Jimmy. — So it’s not history at all.

— It is.

— And the chemo’s a waste of time.

— No.

— Because nothin’ works.

— That’s ridiculous. Jimmy —

— I know, said Jimmy. — I agree with yeh. But if I read that one, or the others you’re hidin’ there in your Kindle —

— I’m not.

— I’m only messin’, he said. — But even the Chemotherapy for Dummies one you gave me. If I read too much of it, I start havin’ doubts. More doubts than I have already. Cos the optimistic stuff is just fluff, and I’m better off not knowin’ the pessimistic stuff. Cos it’s way more believable.

— Okay, she said. — That makes sense.

— The fuckin’ Dummies book would tell me to love my tumour.

— Probably.

— I’d have to bend over and shout it up my hole. I love you, little tumour!

— Play your trumpet to it.

— That’ll definitely kill it.

— You’re doing very well.

— The trumpet?

— Yes.

— No, he said. — It’s shite.

— Well, I like hearing it.

— Thanks, he said. — Good. Thanks.

They took off their reading glasses. She turned off the light. They lay in the dark, said nothing for a while. They listened to the sounds downstairs. They listened to the feet on the stairs, Mahalia using her cop-on, going up to bed at just the right time. They heard her in the bathroom. They heard her bedroom door. Then there was nothing.

— No sign of life next door, said Jimmy, softly.

— No.

— Any word there?

— No.

— Is it still cold out there?

— It’s been cold since November, said Jimmy. — Have you not been out since then?

— Oh God, said the nurse. — A character.

He watched her work. The saline bag, the stand, the red digital numbers going on, off. Why did they have to be fuckin’ red? She hooked the bag to the top of the metal stand.

— Can I’ve ice an’ lemon with that? he said.

— You’re gas.

He turned on the radio. Joe Duffy. Good, he could get annoyed. Joe was doing one of his poxy polls. Should the Pope visit Ireland?

— Fuckin’ hell.

The lights ahead were red. He texted Noeleen. Joe Duffy poll. Shud pope vist. Txt yes. Get evyone . Green again, mission accomplished. He was delighted. He’d just been nuked and he was still working.

He was down near the Grand Canal Theatre. He didn’t really know this part of the world but the new corners and blocks seemed to have been finished just in time, seconds before the bust. He found a parking spot and texted Aoife. Chemo was grand X .

The cold was good. He was walking fast, cutting through it. He’d felt a bit shiny leaving the hospital, but this was great.

The phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was Noeleen. Poll says yes to pope .

Brilliant.

That was his job now, saving the Catholic Church.

He found the door, a windowless slab of grey-painted iron, and the line of buzzers, more grey against the grey of the cement. He could hardly read the signs. He needed the light on his phone. Live Studios. He pressed.