Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— They’re terrifyin’.

— Probably.

— I’ll go up to her and say hello.

— She’ll like that, said Aoife. — She feels wretched.

— Good.

They smiled — grinned.

— But anyway, said Jimmy. — I thought I handled it well. The school.

— Calling in the cancer was a masterstroke.

— I thought so.

— Did she ask for a doctor’s cert?

He laughed. She loved that, making him laugh.

— And this fella, he said.

He held up the dog.

— The vet. Another of today’s shocks.

— God, yeah, said Aoife. — I’d forgotten.

— What happened?

— He was lying on the floor, she said. — Over there. And he wouldn’t move his eyes or respond. I called his name and he wouldn’t wag his tail. But it was his eyes really. They were — dead.

— Christ, said Jimmy.

— So I just picked him up and ran. There was no one else in the vet’s, thank God, and Eamon —

— Who’s he?

— The vet — hello.

They laughed at her Mahalia impression.

— So he put Messi down on the table. The stainless steel one he has. And he felt Messi’s tummy. Then —

She started laughing.

— He put his finger —

She couldn’t talk for a while. He was laughing now as well.

— Was he wearin’ rubber gloves?

— Yes! But he put his finger up poor Messi’s bum and said, Aha, and pulled out something. It was horrible at first. I thought it was a worm or a lizard. But then I knew.

She wiped her eyes.

— I think I recognised them before Eamon did —

— I fuckin’ hope so.

— Stop, she said. — I mean, I knew what they were before he did. But he was still pulling away when Messi stood up and —

She was laughing again.

— started —

She couldn’t stop. She waved a hand, like she was surrendering to it; she’d be back in a minute.

— No hurry, said Jimmy.

— He started —

— Go on.

— He started wagging his tail.

— The vet?

— Messi, she said — she actually screamed it. — While Eamon was still pulling them out! Oh God —

He wondered if Mahalia could hear them laughing. The boys — all three of them — had wandered in. That often happened when they heard their parents laughing. They hovered around the door and the fridge.

— You must’ve been pleased, said Jimmy.

— Relieved, she said. — Mortified.

— Still, said Jimmy. — Your knickers able to fit inside a dog this small. At your age.

— Fuck off.

They loved hearing their mother use bad language.

— Poor May, said Jimmy. — I’ll go on up and say hello.

He handed the dog to Brian.

— Here yeh go, Smoke. Mind he doesn’t eat your jocks.

It was always a surprise to know he’d been asleep. He hadn’t been breathing; he’d been holding his breath, smothering — he didn’t know. And quickly enough, he didn’t care. He was up and out, trotting ahead of the dark thoughts.

He got up before the gang. He let out the dog, he fired off a few emails, he let the dog back in. The Halfbreds were demanding a meeting. They wanted to know why more than three hundred thousandYouTube hits had produced less than two thousand sales. They were entitled to an explanation. But they had kids, so they knew that kids didn’t buy the vital musical moments they’d be bringing with them for the rest of their poxy lives; they expected them all for nothing. And their parents were beginning to share the attitude. Mammies wearing Uggs, dads in skinny jeans — they were stealing their music now as well. Anyway, two thousand — so far — was very good. This was Ireland, a small country on the brink of collapse. Barry and Connie could fuck off.

The Dangerous Dream’s coast-to-coast return tour had to be sorted. The middle-aged prog rockers were refusing to stay in B&Bs, and they wouldn’t accept that they could drive home after most of the gigs. Their main man, Andrew Belton, had been living in Kenya for the last twenty years, so Jimmy didn’t know what his problem was. Sleeping in the van should have been a fuckin’ luxury. But My Life On the Planet Behind You had been Jimmy’s solid seller all year, and he’d made the big mistake of telling Andrew. A nice enough head was becoming a bit of a bollix. Jimmy would have to book a couple of rooms in a hotel beside one of the roundabouts outside Athlone — the same hotel every night, even for the Dublin gig.

He had to lavish emails on the clients he’d been neglecting since the chemo started, especially the Celtic Rock brigade. And he had a mobile number for a chap he thought had once been called Brendan Goebbels. He was the founder, if it was the right guy, of a Dublin punk outfit called the High Babies. Jimmy’d read somewhere — it might have been in The Ticket — that the Edge and Bono were doing the soundtrack for a new HBO series, set during the hunger strikes, starring Colin Farrell and Bono’s daughter. And he’d remembered a song the High Babies used to do, around the time of the hunger strikes, called ‘Snap, Crackle, Bobby’. Eat your Krispies Bobby — Or you’re goin’ to die . He didn’t know if they’d recorded it. But if they had, he knew someone who knew the Edge’s cousin, who might get the song to the Edge. If this was the right man, if Jimmy could grab the man’s interest, and if the other man could grab the Edge’s interest. If, if, fuckin’ if. On the good days, Jimmy loved that word.

He’d phone Les. He’d phone Darren. And Des. And Imelda — instead of just texting. He’d talk to her properly. He’d phone Outspan.

He still didn’t have the song.

But he had an idea.

He was at chemo, scrolling through the iPod again.

He’d make it up.

It was there, as solid a thought as he’d ever had, already a fact, as if he’d made the decision months ago. He’d invent the song.

He attacked the iPod again. It was different now, though. It wasn’t cheerful self-pity. This was research.

He looked up.

The knitting, the books, the fuckin’ eejit over there with his iPod. Jimmy knew what that poor cunt was doing.

He was nearly done here. Then he’d be running again, charging. There was no stopping him.

— We’ve no money, she told him.

— Wha’?

They weren’t broke like Des, just normal broke. They’d insufficient funds. Aoife hadn’t been able to take any money from the Pass machine in the Spar. They were paying for the lunch with her credit card.

— My treat, she said.

It was nothing to worry about.

But it was.

Jimmy remembered a conversation he’d had with Noeleen that had shocked him. But he’d forgotten about it — he couldn’t believe it.

They were all taking a pay cut.

— How much? said Aoife.

This was before they’d started eating, just after she’d asked him how the chemo had gone.

— I think she said 30 per cent, he said.

— Jesus.

— Yeah, he said.

It was like news he’d just heard.

— Jesus, Jimmy.

— I’m sorry.

— We’ll cope, she said.

She was talking to a man who’d just come from chemotherapy. But he knew she wanted to kill him.

— And Noeleen, she said. — And is she taking the pain as well?

— Yeah, said Jimmy.

He thought he remembered Noeleen telling him that.

— An’ we’ve some interestin’ stuff comin’ up, he said. — So we should be okay —. D’you remember the Halfbreds?

— God, yeah.

— I’ve to meet them in a bit, said Jimmy. — Want to come?

— No.

— Ah, go on.

— Okay, she said.

— Great.

— Why?

— Why what?

— Why do you want me to come? she asked.

— It’ll be good crack, he said. — An’ they might be less obnoxious if you’re with me. Anyway —