Roddy Doyle - The Guts

He looked at the front page again. DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN AND HELL. He had the four walls of his song.

He was tempted to stop the car; he thought he’d have to. Get off the road, up onto a path.

Noeleen could fuck off. Marching around with the accountant — her fuckin’ cousin, for Jesus’ sake.

— Got a minute, Jimbo?

No, he fuckin’ didn’t. He wasn’t taking the blame for whatever the accountant had lined up there on his iPad. Gavin was his name. Middle-class culchie cunt. Jimmy wasn’t going to give her the chance to tell him she had no choice, and blah fuckin’ blah.

He’d start all over again if he had to. Him and Aoife.

He had to stop. He put on the hazards — there was a van too close behind him. The driver put his fist on the horn. Fuck him. Jimmy saw a place where the kerb was a bit low. He aimed at it, got up on the path. Stopped the car. Left the hazards on. Got the phone out. He couldn’t read the names on the screen. He closed his eyes. He remembered her number — he thought he did. He found the digits.

— Hi.

He couldn’t talk.

— Jimmy?

She sounded frightened now. This was fuckin’ dreadful.

— Are you alright?

— I —

— Jimmy?

— I can’t drive.

— Where are you?

He knew the answer. But he couldn’t look — he didn’t know.

— Jimmy, I’m getting a taxi. If I phone you in a minute, will you be able to tell me?

What she’d said — what was it?

— Jimmy?

— No. I —

— I’ll leave the phone on. I’m calling the taxi with the landline. Jimmy?

— Yeah.

— I’m phoning for the taxi. Try to see where you are. I’m coming.

He could hear her. Moving in the kitchen.

It was shifting, receding — the wave. He could breathe. He knew where he was — he couldn’t remember the street. But he saw the sign.

— Mattress Mick.

— Jimmy?

— Mattress Mick.

— Great. Brilliant.

She knew what he meant. They’d seen the billboard the first time together. The sham with the glasses and the ’70s footballer’s hair.

— Mattress Mick.

— You’re great, she said. — I’m on my way.

He heard her shoes in the hall. Heard the front door opening — closing. He read the billboard.

— The Mattress Pricefighter.

He read another bit.

— Finance available.

— A few minutes, Jimmy, she said. — I’m on my way.

She was outside. The sounds — the wind.

— Here’s the taxi now. I told them it was an emergency. They’re brilliant. Remember with the kids? When we had to get them in to Temple Street? They were always here in a few minutes.

He heard her getting into the taxi. He heard her door close.

— Aoife?

He heard her talk to the driver.

— Do you know the Mattress Mick sign? I can’t remember the name —.

He couldn’t hear the driver.

She had the phone up to her mouth again.

— I’m in the taxi. Jimmy?

— Yeah.

— We’re moving. He knows the sign. Seville Place. How long?

She spoke again.

— We’ll be there in a few minutes.

— I love you.

— Oh, Jimmy.

— I’m sorry.

— There’s no need.

— I’m sorry.

— Stop saying that.

He was frightening her.

— Jimmy?

— Yeah.

— Have you any money? I came out without —

— Yeah.

— Great. Phew.

He could hear the radio in the taxi. Nova. Fuckin’ Genesis.

— Aoife.

— Yes?

— Tell him to put on Lyric, will yeh. John Kelly’s on.

He heard her asking him to change the station.

— Blues, Marv.

— Too American, said Marvin.

He was right.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Good man.

He was sitting on a couple of pillows with his back to the cold radiator. He could manage it that way; he was fine. He was wearing the cancer trousers. He knew there’d be no slagging or objections, not the way he was, his face the colour of rain.

The boys were sitting on the bed, making sure their toes didn’t touch him. It was awkward, fuckin’ excruciating. But — strangely, and brilliant; he couldn’t wait to tell Aoife — the fact that he was sick was an advantage. It kept him back, stopped him taking over, smothering the thing before they got going — taking out his fuckin’ trumpet.

He was getting the hang of terminal illness. Fuckin’ typical too, just when he was getting better.

— But maybe, he said, — we could give our man some blues records.

— No, said young Jimmy.

— Why not?

— Modern Irish music tries too hard to be American, he said.

— That’s right, said Jimmy.

Brilliant .

— Where’d you hear that? he asked.

— You.

— Oh.

— When I was about five.

— Oh. Did you understand?

— I do now, said young Jimmy.

He was saying more than Jimmy had heard from him in years.

— You were slagging U2, said young Jimmy.

— When you were five.

— I might’ve been six.

— Grand.

— And you were shouting at the car stereo.

— Oh yeah, said Marvin. — I remember that.

— Why is he pretending to be American?! He’s from fuckin’ Glasnevin!

— Why were you always playing U2, Dad? You hate them.

He took a deep breath — scare them a bit .

— I don’t hate them, he said. — They disappoint me.

— But why —?

— I was educatin’ yis, said Jimmy. — I did it for you.

They were smiling. Beginning to enjoy this new thing.

— Anyway, said Jimmy. — You’re right. He can’t be too American.

He closed his eyes. They were looking at him, he knew. This was madness.

— Just give me a minute.

Marvin strummed away.

— TODAY — IS GONNA BE THE DAY —

— No fuckin’ way, Marv.

He could hear them laughing. He really had educated them. They knew exactly what chords and poxy lyrics could make a dying man feel even worse.

He heard young Jimmy.

— What’s he called?

— The 1932 man? said Marvin.

— Yeah.

— Don’t know.

— Kevin something.

— Kevin — why?

— Don’t know, said young Jimmy. — It’s just — I don’t know — it sounds right.

— Kevin what? said Marvin.

— O’Leary.

— No way.

— Kevin Keegan.

— There’s a real one of them.

— Is there?

— Football. ESPN.

— Pity.

— Yeah.

— Kevin Tankard, said young Jimmy.

— Unreal.

The boys tested the name, with different voices and accents. Jimmy let them at it. He kept his eyes shut.

— With yis in a minute, lads.

— D’you like the name?

— Love it.

He pushed through the last of the nausea. That was what he actually did. He felt it coming up on him and he shoved it away, the plunge, the sweat.

He just kept going.

It was all fuckin’ mad.

Kevin Tankard became a man. He stopped being a joke, although he looked at the boys sometimes and they burst out laughing.

— I WANT HER ARMS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

They’d be sneaking into the studio in a couple of days. He wasn’t sure if he’d told Aoife. He thought he had; he’d tell her again.

— I WANT HER LEGS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

Now, Noeleen was saying something.

— I’d say you were drunk.

— What?

— Are you drunk?

— No, I’m not.

She was smiling. It couldn’t have been too bad.

— Painkillers?

That would get him out of jail.

He nodded.

— Go on though, he said. — I’m grand.

They’d gone through the list — the Electric Picnic, the other festivals, the Eucharistic Congress. They’d agreed things, deferred a few things. He’d told her he was on to a song. He agreed, they were running out of time. He’d agreed, it was a pity the Pope was playing chicken, and that no one seemed to know about the Eucharistic Congress. They’d plough ahead. He’d deliver the song by the end of the week, or they’d just go for one of the ones that Ocean had brought in.