Roddy Doyle - The Guts

That was it — the meeting. He thought he’d read it right. Where was Gavin the accountant? He hadn’t asked. He’d looked for anger, or anxiety, eyes about to give him bad news. He was awake, aware, especially after she’d asked him if he’d been drinking — at half-nine in the morning.

But this was the thing: he wasn’t sure. Hours later, he wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t certain if it was that meeting or another one he’d been to. It was mad — he knew that. But it didn’t worry him.

— I WANT THAT PLACE —

He’d be grand. He’d never felt better.

— I’M GOING TO HELL —

— Sing like a man who really would take eternity in hell for — yeh know —.

— What?

— You know. A girl.

— You hate songs about girls, Dad, young Jimmy reminded him; the little prick had a memory like a fuckin’ PowerBook. — Remember when you played the Rolling Stones?

Jimmy listened to young Jimmy doing a good impression of Jimmy.

— Hear that, lads? It’s women — women! Honky tonk women.

— What age were you tha’ time? Two?

— Eight, said young Jimmy. — And you were wrong.

— How was I?

— Simple. The song says honky tonk girls as well. Honky tonk girls .

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But you knew what I meant.

Young Jimmy and Marvin answered him together.

— We do now.

— Leave the girls to the boybands. You said.

— Well, I was right, said Jimmy. — Go on, Marv.

Marvin sang like a man who’d have sawn off his one remaining arm for a ride. Because his dad had told him to.

— I PROWL THE STREETS —

I’M GOING TO HELL —

Jimmy felt like a bit of a pimp. He worried that he might be polluting the boys, shoving their faces into stuff they weren’t ready for.

— I KISS HER FEET —

I’M GOING TO HELL–I think I should say lick there.

— Lick her feet? said young Jimmy.

— Good idea, Marv, said Jimmy.

— Why would he want to lick her feet? said young Jimmy.

Marvin shrugged.

Aoife told Jimmy he’d put on weight. She said it the way women do, pretended it was a question.

— Have you put on a bit of weight?

— No.

— It suits you.

— It can’t fuckin’ suit me. It isn’t there.

— Just saying, she said. — Take a chill pill.

He didn’t see it. The weight. He didn’t feel it. A bit puffy around the face. That was how his da had described it.

— It suits yeh.

— Fuck off.

He was paying for the studio time himself. He had to. There was no way of avoiding it, if the scam was going to work.

— An’ your hair never fell ou’.

— No.

— Will yeh keep shavin’ it?

— Don’t know — probably.

— I WANT HER NOW —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

He hadn’t a clue how much they had in their account. He hadn’t gone onto banking 365 in months. And he hadn’t had that chat with Noeleen. He’d kept waiting for Aoife to tell him they were skint again. It would have been the trigger. But she hadn’t, so he hadn’t. So they were grand.

— WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —

— I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

It was a song now, a real thing. Marvin had gone off with it, to batter it into oldness with his buddies.

— DON’T HAVE A SOUL —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

He’d got the all-clear. Himself and Aoife sat there, at the victim side of Mister Dunwoody’s desk. The prick glanced down at the file before he looked at them and smiled. He told Aoife. Jimmy watched the fucker flirt with Aoife as he told her that her husband’s biopsy specimen had presented negative margins, how he’d gone up her life partner’s arse and come back empty-handed. They’d promised each other they wouldn’t cry, if the news was good. They thanked Dunwoody and went for a pint.

— He was tryin’ to get off with yeh, said Jimmy.

— No, he wasn’t.

— He fuckin’ was.

— No.

— He never looked at me.

He loved the way she drank her pint, like a man.

— Why? she said. — Are you jealous?

— No.

— No?

— No, said Jimmy. — If I was ever gettin’ off with a man, it definitely wouldn’t be him. I’m fuckin’ starvin’.

— D’you think I’ve put on weight? he asked.

— Big time, said Imelda.

— But it suits me.

— Ah yeah.

This was — this was mad now — outside his parents’ house. She’d been driving past, and she stopped when she saw Jimmy getting out of his car. He watched her get out of her Punto. There was a chunk off the side of it — useless prick she was married to, couldn’t get that sorted. She seemed a bit shy and that made him want to run at her — and run away, up to his parents’ front door. God, she was lovely. She’d always be lovely.

— Hiya.

— Imelda, he said.

— I saw yeh there, she said.

— I was hopin’ you’d stop, he said.

— And I did.

— D’yeh miss me?

— Ah yeah. Fuck off.

She was smiling.

— How are yeh? she asked. — I’d been meanin’ to ask, to phone yeh, like.

— I’m grand, he said.

He told her the news, the all-clear; he even mentioned the negative margins.

She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek, and stayed there for a while.

— Brilliant, she said.

He stepped back — impressed himself. And fuckin’ cursed himself.

— I’ve to go in, he said.

He nodded sideways at his parents’ gaff, kept his eyes on her.

— How are they?

— Grand.

— So. Anyway. That’s brilliant news.

— Yeah, thanks, he said.

She stepped back, and turned, and turned again.

— Give me a bell, she said.

She knew he was watching as she climbed back into her car. She flung back one last word.

— Whenever.

And she shut the door.

He wouldn’t. Whenever.

There’d been a bit of grief at home about the studio date. He’d booked a different day — today, now that he thought of it — and then found out that Marvin had his Irish oral — the Leaving Cert. Marvin hadn’t told him. Aoife had hit the fuckin’ roof.

— Your oral, Marvin!

— I’ll fail anyway.

— You won’t! Jimmy!

— What?

— Did you not think of checking?

— He never —

— It’s May! He’s doing his Leaving.

— Okay, grand. I can change it, it’s not a problem. For God’s sake, Marvin.

He looked at his watch. He was still at work. Marvin would be finished by now. He took out the phone. He’d text him.

Hows it goin?

But he sent it to Imelda.

Fuck, fuck, fuck — fuck fuck. Eejit, eejit. He double-checked that it had gone to Imelda and not someone else. And, yeah, it had gone to the right woman, the wrong woman, and, actually, he didn’t feel like an eejit at all.

For fuck sake.

Hows it goin?

He fired it off to Marvin.

He’d had enough — he was going home.

All these posters. Yes, No, Yes, Yes, No. There was another referendum coming up. Stability, austerity. Say yes to Europe. Tell Europe to get fucked. He’d no real idea what it was about. But he’d educate himself.

He’d ask his da.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Two messages. One from Marvin — Grand . One from Imelda — Grand X . He was a sick cunt, all the same. Trying to think of more messages that would produce the same answer from his eldest son and his floozy.

Glad it went well. X He sent that one back to Marvin. A proper dad message. He really didn’t want to destroy his life.

He texted his da. Pint?

He’d meet up with his da or go straight home. The phone hopped. What kept u? That was that. A pint on the way home. A bit of reality. There in hlf hr .