Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— No —

— I’m really sorry.

It was true. He turned a bit, so he knew Outspan couldn’t see his mouth.

— Life hasn’t been kind to him, he said.

— Go, she said. — Have lunch.

— I’m —

— I’ll see you later.

— I love you.

— I love you too.

— What ages are your kids?

— Twenty-two an’ seven, said Outspan.

— Jesus.

— Wha’?

— The gap.

— What about it?

— It’s wha’? — fifteen years.

— I know.

— Two women?

— No, said Outspan.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy. — Mine are eighteen, sixteen, fourteen an’ eleven.

— Four women, yeah?

— Fuck off.

They’d found a Costa.

— This do us?

— Yeah.

There was a fair-sized queue.

— D’yeh want to sit down over —

— No.

— Okay, said Jimmy.

— She left me before this, said Outspan.

He hit his chest with his open hand.

— Yeh know?

Jimmy nodded.

— Just so yeh know, said Outspan.

Jimmy ordered the coffee and Outspan’s tea and a couple of sandwiches in boxes, nothing that had to be made there and explained. They got a corner of a table, and sat with their knees and elbows banging.

— Fuck off.

— You fuck off.

— Where’re yeh livin’ these days?

— Swanbrook.

— Posh.

— No, said Jimmy. — Not really.

— G’wan, yeh cunt. — What abou’ you?

— Wha’?

— Where are you livin’?

— Back in me ma’s, said Outspan. — It’s not too bad.

— Yeah.

— Life is simple, yeh know.

— Yeah.

He had to pack the good days. But he’d started to love the race.

They’d two new songs. They’d found no more hot ones in Norman’s house but Norman had put on his coat and brought them to other houses, and other men — they were all men — who collected old records.

‘Eileen With the Smileen’ would have been filthy sung by Muddy Waters.

— SHE MOVES THROUGH THE FAIR —

AND THE CHAPS DO STOP AND STARE —

Even sung by Billy Maguire and His Fermanagh Fiddles, you could tell the chaps were looking at her arse.

— THEY’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT —

OH — A SIGHT SO RARE AND FAIR —

— Brilliant.

— One of the fiddles is out of tune.

— That makes it even better.

Jimmy couldn’t sit down.

— Good work, Ocean.

He could never sit down. He felt like that madman who’d produced London Calling , Guy Stevens, the guy who’d thrown chairs and swung ladders in the studio. Jimmy threw nothing but, still, he felt a small bit out of control.

— THEY DOFF THE CAPS AND SET THE TRAPS —

SHE’S A SIGHT SO RARE AND FAIR —

The song was a great find but it wasn’t the song. It swung and charmed, but it didn’t shock. And Jimmy, more than anything else — he wasn’t sure why — wanted to shock.

The other one, the fourth, was a murder ballad. It was a song he knew from primary school, when he was younger than Brian. They’d all stand and sing it, like a funny hymn. There was an oul’ woman and she lived in the woods — weile, weile, wáile . He remembered Outspan standing somewhere near him in the room, and Derek. But even though the words — the lyrics — had been there, he’d never paid much attention to them.

This though — this version was different. The oul’ woman was a young woman, and she was singing it.

— SHE HAD A BABY THREE MONTHS OLD —

WEILE WEILE WÁILE —

— Fuckin’ hell, said Jimmy.

Norman was right beside him.

— The hair — on the back of my head, he said.

— I know, said Jimmy.

— It’s terrifying, said Ocean. — Truly.

— SHE STUCK THE PENKNIFE IN THE BABY’S HEART —

DOWN BY THE RIVER SÁILE —

It was the voice and nothing else. And they knew it: they were listening to a confession. The woman in the record had murdered her baby. She’d given birth to her illegitimate child in among the trees, and she’d stabbed it.

— THEY PULLED THE ROPE AND SHE GOT HUNG —

WEILE WEILE WÁILE —

No one spoke for a while. Ocean lifted the needle.

— I googled executions in Ireland, she said. — In, like, 1932.

— And?

— No women.

— I’m surprised, said Jimmy. — She had me convinced. Who is she again?

Ocean held up the record, showed him the label.

— Mary McCrone.

— Can’t be her real name, said Norman.

— No, Jimmy agreed.

— So, Jimmy, said Ocean. — Is this the song?

— No, said Jimmy — It isn’t. It’s the song tha’ was written after the song.

— So, said Des. — Got that?

— Think so, yeah.

— You imagine your throat expanding as you breathe in. And when you exhale, the quality of the sound — it’s already better.

— Yeah.

— You’ve been rushing —

— I know.

— Charging to the end.

— I know, yeah.

— Because you’re scared you’ll run out of breath.

— I know.

— But you won’t.

— I know.

Jimmy hated being the student, hearing himself — I know, I know — the teacher’s pet. But he loved what he was learning. Now and again, once or twice each time he played, he got a note that sounded right, a lovely thing that filled the room and the house. There was something great, a bit brilliant about sending the sound out, anticipating it, then blowing and getting it exactly as he’d wanted, and expected.

— This is great, Des. Thanks.

— No, said Des. — You’re doing well.

They were chest to chest in the space between the bed and the wall.

— Your money, said Jimmy. — Hang on.

— Thanks.

Jimmy put hands into both pockets, found two euro, some copper and a memory stick.

— Shite, Des, he said. — I’ve no money.

— Don’t worry, said Des. — You can get me the next time.

They were out on the landing.

— Sure?

— Yeah, yeah.

— If that’s okay with you.

— No problem.

Des was ahead of Jimmy on the stairs. He stopped, and turned.

— Actually, no.

He spoke quietly. Jimmy was two steps above him, so Des had to look up a bit.

— I need it, he said. — Sorry.

— No problem, said Jimmy.

— I’m broke.

— It’s okay, said Jimmy.

The urge was to push Des gently down the rest of the stairs, and out the door. Follow him, grand, but get him out of the house.

— I’ll go with yeh to a pass machine. There’s one in the Spar up the way.

— Thanks, said Des. — I’m sorry about this.

He was shaking. Jimmy could see it in his hand as it went for the banister. Jimmy could’ve dipped into the kitchen and seen if Aoife had the money. She probably did. But no. He’d go up the road with Des. Twenty-five fuckin’ euro!

The dog was at the door. He’d heard Jimmy coming down. He stood there, the tail doing ninety, looking up. Give us a walk! Jimmy got his foot under the dog — it was easily done — and gently slid it out of the way.

He opened the door.

— Quick, Des, before Steve McQueen gets out.

— Lovely dog.

— The kids love him.

It was dark now, coldish, but Jimmy wouldn’t go back in for his jacket. They were only going up the road. He looked at Des unlocking his bike from the front gate. The girl’s bike — a woman’s bike. Aoife had pointed that out the first time Des had come to the house. He wrapped the chain around the bar under the saddle. He wheeled the bike out to the path.

— Down this way, Des, said Jimmy.

He turned left at the gate and waited for Des to turn the bike his way. He smiled.