Roddy Doyle - The Guts

He wanted her to show something.

He could creep back up the stairs. Open the door here, close it loudly, go back up and catch her. Crying? Not a hope. He didn’t know. He knew nothing about her.

He had to go. Cop on, cop on .

He’d parked the car at the Hiker’s. He was meeting his da.

For fuck sake .

He’d go on up to the main road and walk back down to the pub from that direction.

It was unfinished. Unstarted. There’d been nothing to it, except the sex and the bit of chat. Every man’s fuckin’ dream. Every man in Barrytown would have envied him, if they’d known. Maybe that was the problem.

He didn’t trust himself. He’d tell his da — or Aoife. The way he was.

He took the phone out. Thanks X . Proper spelling. He fired it off. She wouldn’t answer. He didn’t know why, or why not. He knew nothing. He hadn’t a clue.

— Did you talk to Noeleen?

— No. I forgot.

— Jesus, Jimmy.

— Sorry.

— We need to know.

— I know.

— D’you want me to talk to her?

— No.

— It’s a simple question.

— I know, he said. — Tomorrow. I swear.

— It’s humiliating.

— Yeah. But it’s grand. Has to be done. It’s grand.

— What’re you reading?

— This.

— Just Kids . Patti Smith. Oh, we like her, don’t we?

— Fuck off.

— Have you spoken to Marvin yet?

— Tomorrow, said Jimmy. — I’ve an appointment. He’s agreed to meet me at six.

— Jesus, said Aoife. — What are we like? He’s a schoolboy.

— He’s a fuckin’ rock star.

— Cool.

— Yeh like the idea?

Marvin nodded.

— Yeah.

Jimmy spoke to young Jimmy.

— And yourself?

Bringing in young Jimmy had been Jimmy’s idea.

Young Jimmy shrugged, looked at his brother, shrugged again.

— Yeah.

— Great.

It was a fuckin’ miracle. He was sitting with his sons and they had this thing in common.

— Will what we’re doing, said Marvin. — Will it, like, be illegal?

— Christ, said Jimmy. — I never thought —. I suppose it will.

— Cool.

— You alrigh’ with that? he asked young Jimmy.

Young Jimmy shrugged.

— Yeah.

— Great. So.

He caught himself rubbing his hands together. He hated that; it was oul’ lad behaviour.

— I’ve chemo tomorrow, he told them. — Last session.

— Nice one.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — So after that — the sick days, yeh know — I’ll book the studio.

— Cool.

— I’m delighted, said Jimmy. — Thanks, lads.

— What about royalties?

— Feck off.

— Seriously, said Marvin. — You warned me about being exploited.

— Good point, said Jimmy. — Here’s what. We’re recordin’ a song that never existed. Yeah?

He saw young Jimmy sitting up, as if he was just now really getting it.

— Really, he told the lads. — It’s fictional. You’re with me?

— Yeah.

— An’ so are the royalties.

— No way —

— I’m not pullin’ a fast one, Marv, said Jimmy. — If we go claimin’ royalties, the whole thing falls apart. I’ll look after yis, don’t worry. But the royalties thing. I’m glad yeh brought it up. An’ Jim — you as well. It brings home the point. Nobody is to know about this.

This appealed to them — he could tell. It appealed to him too. The international man of fuckin’ mystery.

— Just the three of us, he said. — And your mother.

— And Mush and Docksy, said Marvin.

They were the two other lads in his band.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But not yet. Till we’re ready. An’ not the full story.

They liked that too.

— What’ll I do, though? said young Jimmy.

— Give me a hand, said Jimmy. — Produce it, engineer it. And we still have to write the fuckin’ thing.

— What sort of music was there in 1932? said Marvin.

— We’ll decide that, said young Jimmy.

— Wha’?

— We’ll decide what sort of music there was in 1932.

Jimmy stared at him, just for a bit.

— Good man.

— Les?

— Yeah. Hi.

— Great to hear yeh.

— Yeah.

— Thanks for phonin’.

— It’s okay.

— How’s Maisie?

— Good.

— Great. Tell her I was askin’ for her.

— Yeah.

Ask about mine, yeh cranky monosyllabic prick .

— Les?

— Yeah.

— You’re still there.

It always felt like a fight. Trying to get words — anything — out of him. Jimmy always became the interrogator, the sarcastic bollix — You’re still there .

— Yeah, said Les.

Jimmy sometimes wondered if it actually was Les.

— I just phoned to say good luck, said Les.

— Thanks — eh —

— I knew it was coming up.

— Yeah —

— The last session.

— Yesterday, said Jimmy.

— Oh. Great.

— Yeah.

— Like the school holidays then.

— You were never in school, Les.

He heard Les laughing.

— That’s true, said Les.

Jimmy wanted to cry — again.

— Thanks for phonin’, Les.

Say something else, get him to stay on the line .

— Bye.

— Bye.

He heard the slap of something hitting the hall floor. He looked, and turned it over with his foot. It was that mad thing, Alive! , the free Catholic paper. Normally, he’d have walked out to the green wheelie with it — even this early. But he read the headline; he couldn’t avoid it. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL.

He picked it up, and saw the two smiling girls on the front page. Normally they’d have been promoting a new app or a beer festival. Here though, they were advertising the Eucharistic Congress.

He took it with him into the kitchen. He shoved the dog out for his piss and put on the coffee. Then he opened page 12: Are You Ready for the Congress?

No, he wasn’t.

It was starting on the 10th of June. That was less than two months away.

He read on down the page, looking for hints that the Pope might be coming. There weren’t any. The oul’ prick was staying put. He wouldn’t risk the country’s indifference. But the Congress was going ahead, with or without the headline act. It even had a theme: ‘The Eucharist: Communion with Christ and with One Another’. Jesus, they’d be riding in the bushes after that session. Events, workshops, keynote addresses; ecumenism, marriage and the family; priesthood and ministry; reconciliation. It wasn’t what Jimmy’d expected. Where was the big stuff — the crowds? Only seven thousand had registered. They were coming from Kazakhstan, El Salvador and Uganda. These would be hardcore fuckers; they’d be walking all the way, over the water and all. And they wouldn’t be buying Jimmy’s album.

What fuckin’ album?

Ocean kept bouncing up to him with another 78 or spool of tape. She’d found him about twenty songs. She often had Norman with her. Jimmy half thought she might have moved in with Norman.

— Stranger things have happened, said his da.

— Fuckin’ name one. Go on.

And Jimmy had rejected them all. Too pious, too bland, too familiar, too slow. He hadn’t told Ocean, or Noeleen, the real plan. He didn’t want to be confronted with boring fuckin’ questions about cost and legality. He wasn’t going to listen.

He picked up the Alive! The coffee had done its job. It was time for the morning dump and survival test. Every time he wiped his arse he half expected bad news. One day at a time, sweet Jesus .

He preferred to get this done before the rest were up and scratching at the bathroom door. If he found blood, he wanted to be back downstairs, getting the breakfasts and lunches ready, smiling at them as they shuffled into the day.