Roddy Doyle - The Guts

The cancer community. Jimmy wanted nothing to do with them. They probably felt the same way about him. He didn’t give a shite. At least he hadn’t brought togs and a towel with him, pretending he was in Wexford or Majorca. All he had was his iPod.

Aoife was doing his worrying for him.

That wasn’t true. He was worried. Although all of his worry — he couldn’t think further than two or three days from now when the nausea would haul him out of his life.

Something by Ennio Morricone. ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’. For when they were carrying the coffin. But it would just get a laugh, and he didn’t want that. He wanted the song that would make them say, That’s Jimmy. His last moment in the present tense.

For fuck sake.

He was done, finished, out on parole. He put on his shoes. He smiled at the nurse, the sarcastic one. He turned his phone back on. Three texts. Aoife. How was it? X . He texted back. Boring X . She’d like that.

There was one from Des. Are we still on for 2moro, Jmmy? The trumpet lesson. He’d be fine. If its ok wth u Des . The polite middle-aged men. There’d be six or seven texts when one would have done the trick.

And one from Imelda. Whenll I see u agen? 2 many precious moments . Oh Christ. What had he fuckin’ done? But he knew what had happened. She’d written the first bit, recognised the lyric — the Three Degrees, September 1974 — and she’d written the rest of it. For the laugh. It wouldn’t be a bad song for the funeral, now that he thought of it.

He didn’t know how to answer her, what to write. He deleted the text. Then he put a reminder into his calendar: Text Im .

The lift was taking forever. As usual.

Another text. From Aoife. Lunch X . She was reminding him. Lunch together straight after the chemo, so she could witness him tasting food and coffee like it was the first real time in his life. On way X . They were meeting in a place near work. The Dog’s Lunch. He’d just pretend, if the taste thing didn’t actually happen this time. He’d let her think it had. He owed her that.

Fuck the lift. He’d attack the stairs.

There was a guy right beside him, against him. If they’d been out on the street Jimmy’d have thought he was after his wallet. A small, wiry cunt; rough looking — losing the fight. Jimmy had to go around him, to get to the stairs. He glanced at the little cunt’s face.

— Outspan?

The little cunt looked at him.

— Jimmy Rabbitte?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — How’s it goin’?

But he could see for himself. It was going horribly.

— Grand, said Outspan. — Not too bad.

— What’re yeh doin’ here? Jimmy asked him.

— Stupid fuckin’ question, Jimmy, said Outspan.

The lift door had opened but they stayed where they were.

— An’ yourself? said Outspan. — The chemo as well?

Jimmy nodded.

— Yep.

— Fuck sake, said Outspan. — The both of us.

Outspan had been in the first band Jimmy had managed, the Commitments. He’d been in Jimmy’s class in school, in secondary and further back, to the first day of primary.

— What’s your one? said Outspan.

— Bowel, said Jimmy. — Yourself?

— Lungs, said Outspan.

— Okay.

— I’d better be goin’.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — Okay. An’ look it. It was great seein’ yeh again.

— Yeah, said Outspan. — An’ yourself.

— Good luck, Outspan, said Jimmy.

He headed for the stairs.

— No one calls me tha’, said Outspan.

Jimmy stopped.

— Wha’?

— No one calls me that anny more, said Outspan. — D’yeh remember my real name, do yeh?

— Liam, said Jimmy.

— That’s righ’, said Outspan.

— D’you want to go for a pint or somethin’? Lunch?

— Lunch?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Lunch.

— Okay, said Outspan. — I can’t manage the stairs but.

He pressed the lift button.

Jimmy stood beside him.

— I’m still called Jimmy, by the way.

— Fuck off.

There were other people, healthy and dying, waiting for the lift. They were staying well back from the two old friends.

— Derek, said Outspan. — Remember?

— Derek? said Jimmy. — Yeah. ’Course I remember.

Derek was another Commitment, another lad from school, and Outspan’s best friend.

— Well, said Outspan. — He moved to Denmark, yeah?

He waited a while, took in breath.

— An’ he was the last one tha’ called me Outspan.

Another wait.

— An’ now no one even knows wha’ Outspan means.

The lift door — there was only the one — slid slowly open.

— Not since they released fuckin’ Nelson Mandela.

They walked into the lift. It always reminded Jimmy of a butcher’s fridge.

— Derek’s in Denmark?

— Yeah.

The lift was filling behind them. Jimmy could hear Outspan’s breathing.

— What’s he doin’ there?

— Pullin’ his wire.

Jimmy hated himself for feeling embarrassed.

— He’s married to a Danish bird, said Outspan.

— What about yourself?

— Married?

— Yeah.

— She was Irish.

— Was?

— Is, said Outspan. — An’ part fuckin’ Martian.

— Yis aren’t together?

— No, said Outspan. — She fucked off with a Klingon.

Jimmy heard a snort. Someone in the lift was trying not to laugh.

Jimmy could never tell if the lift was moving or not. But the door opened, and there were people waiting to get in. He got through the crowd in front of him.

— Hang on, for fuck sake.

Jimmy was tempted to keep going. To pretend he hadn’t heard him, to lose him and have his excuse ready in case they ever met again, upstairs in Chernobyl or anywhere else. But he turned and waited, and watched Outspan coming towards him. It was definitely Outspan Foster. The head — the look — was there; he still looked like Jiminy Cricket with a hangover.

— Alrigh’, Liam?

— You’re grand, said Outspan. — You’ve what again?

— Bowel.

— The guts.

— Well spotted.

— Fuck off. The lungs here —. Walkin’ an’ tha’. I can’t keep up.

— Okay, grand.

— Havin’ a shite now. I’d beat yeh hands down.

— I’ve to phone the wife, said Jimmy.

— Hate tha’.

— I’ll only be a minute.

— Bet yeh won’t.

They were still in the building; it would be easier than out on the street. He leaned against a wall, beside a noticeboard, and dialled Aoife.

— Hi.

— Howyeh, listen. Have yeh left the —

— I’m just off the Dart.

— Listen —

— And it was fine this morning?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Grand. Listen —

He did it. He looked across at Outspan, and lifted his eyes to fuckin’ heaven.

— Is anything wrong?

— No, said Jimmy. — Nothin’. I’ve met someone.

Someone I knew years ago. We had sex yesterday afternoon .

— Up at the chemo. A guy I went to —

His voice jumped away, and he was suddenly right on the edge of crying.

— Jimmy?

He took a breath.

— Jimmy?

— I’m grand, he said.

His voice was back — his.

— What’s wrong?

— I, said Jimmy. — I met an old friend. From way back. Up in the chemo. I can’t really talk. He’s here — near, like. Outspan Foster. Did I ever mention him? He might’ve been at the weddin’.

He was okay now. He could talk. He could trust himself.

— And he’s — he’s in a bad way.

— God.

— Lungs.

— Oh God.

— Anyway. I said I’d buy him lunch.

— Okay.

— Sorry.