Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Y’alrigh’?

His da was looking at him. He felt like he’d been caught.

— I’m grand, he said. — Why?

— Yeh seem distracted or somethin’, said his da.

— No, I’m grand, said Jimmy. — A bit — eh — jumpy, I suppose.

His da was talking again — he had to concentrate.

— Wha’ has yeh tha’ way?

— Don’t know, said Jimmy. — I think it might be the news.

— More news?

His da looked scared.

— No, no, said Jimmy. — No. Sorry. The same news. The all-clear, like.

— Grand.

— I’m — I don’t know. I’ve to get used to — I suppose — normality. Again.

— It’s borin’, said his da. — I don’t know if you remember tha’.

— I do, yeah, said Jimmy. — No, but — I’m grand.

— How’s Aoife?

Did his da know something?

— Grand, said Jimmy. — Great.

— Good, said his da.

— Marvin did his oral Irish today.

— How’d tha’ go?

— Grand, I think, said Jimmy. — We’ll have the autopsy when I get home. Actually —

He dug out his phone.

— I’ll text Aoife, he said. — He’ll be home by now. She’ll’ve got more out of him than I could.

How did he do? X — and an extra one — x . He didn’t like the way his da kept looking at him.

He read out Aoife’s answer.

Ok — he says. X

— Tha’ sounds righ’, said his da. — He’s too brainy to say it was easy.

— Talkin’ about brains, said Jimmy.

He told his da about the song. And he watched his face start to relax. He wasn’t examining Jimmy now. Jimmy was over the hump — whatever it was. Whatever his da had seen and hated.

— So, he said. — We’re in tomorrow.

His da sat back.

— Brilliant, he said. — I love tha’.

Jimmy had been able to feel it, the pull on his lip, his da dragging some kind of confession out of him. But he’d let go — his da had let go. Jimmy wasn’t going to be stupid.

— Can I come? said his da.

— Maybe not, said Jimmy.

It wasn’t a bad idea.

— It might freak out the lads.

— You’re right, said his da. — No, you’re right.

— Maybe though, yeah, said Jimmy. — Fuck it, yeah. Why not?

— Great, said his da. — I’ll behave meself.

— Yeh’d better.

— Is there somethin’ wrong with tha’ cunt?

— Shut up, for fuck sake.

— He can’t hear me.

— It’s a studio, said Jimmy. — It’s designed for fuckin’ hearin’.

— Well, is there?

— Wha’?

— Somethin’ wrong with him.

He was talking about Lochlainn.

— Leave it, said Jimmy.

— It’s a medical question, said his da.

— Shut up.

— Okay.

He’d seen the grandsons looking at him. The boys weren’t sure they liked their granddad being there, with Marvin’s pals there too. No harm. It would keep them focused.

Marvin’s pals, the rest of the band, seemed fine. They were all shifting around — there wasn’t much room — all trying to be cool, and succeeding.

— We ready, Lochlainn?

Lochlainn shrugged.

— D’yeh have Auto-Tune, Lochlainn? Jimmy’s da asked.

— No way, Granddad, said young Jimmy.

— No, no, said Jimmy’s da.

He raised his hands, like he was surrendering.

— I’m with yeh, he said. — It’s an awful invention. A fuckin’ sin. I was just curious. Is it a thing, like? Or is it just inside in the computer? An app, like?

— Da?

— Wha’?

— I’m payin’ by the hour.

— Sorry. Grand. Fair enough.

— Righ’, said Jimmy.

— No Auto-Tune, said Lochlainn.

— Good man, said Jimmy’s da. — Back to mono.

— Right, said Jimmy. — D’yeh want to run through it, lads?

The drummer — Jimmy couldn’t remember whether he was Docksy or Mush — started tapping the side of the snare. It was a bit daft, but immediately true. It sounded right; it sounded historical. And the rest of it — Christ.

Jimmy looked at young Jimmy. He was sitting beside Lochlainn, watching every move.

It was the magic Jimmy had wanted all his life. A small gang of men, there because he’d brought him there, strumming, tapping and groaning –

— I WANT HER LEGS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

They were making something new. It was perfect — maybe perfect just this once. Was Lochlainn even recording it?

He was — or he seemed to be. The lads kept rolling. It was 1932.

He delivered the song. He told them the lie.

— An oul’ lad my da knows from pitch ’n’ putt. He told my da he had all these ol’ tapes in the attic, his own da had collected.

He smiled.

— So there yeh go.

— Are there more? said Ocean. — Oh my God.

— Most of the tape was melted, said Jimmy. — Like — solid. Baked. Right in under the eaves. South-facin’.

He was a fuckin’ estate agent.

— But there was this one saved.

He nodded at the iPod dock.

— And the scratches —

— Don’t touch them, said Noeleen. — They’re amazing.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — It’s like he’s already in hell or somethin’.

— Exactly, said Noeleen. — Singin’ up from the pit.

Lochlainn had done a great job.

Jimmy couldn’t sit — he couldn’t stay still. They’d catch him if he stayed there. But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. He was way ahead of everybody.

He’d cancelled the trumpet. He’d texted Des. He hadn’t been practising. He couldn’t concentrate on the thing. But he’d changed his mind; Des needed the money. Then he got the text from Aoife, because he hadn’t answered the phone. Des is here .

— Jimmy.

— Wha’?

— There’s nothing worse — from the lady’s point o’ view now. There’s nothin’ worse than the man answerin’ a text. Is it your wife?

— I’ve to go, he said.

— That’s tha’ question answered, said Imelda.

— Trumpet lesson.

— Lovely, she said. — Double-booked, are yeh?

— I suppose so, he said. — Sorry.

They were sitting in his car.

— Someone else to blow yeh, said Imelda.

— You’re gas.

— Oh, I know, she said.

— We weren’t doin’ anythin’, said Jimmy.

— Jimmy, said Imelda. — We were fuckin’ talkin’.

— Yeah.

They were on top of Howth Hill, in the car park.

She opened her door.

— So anyway, she said.

— Sorry about this, he said.

— No problem.

— I enjoyed it, he said.

She looked at him.

— So did I.

She was still looking.

— We’re friends, aren’t we?

— Yeah, he said. — Yeah.

— It’s kind o’ surprisin’, tha’, she said. — Isn’t it?

— Is it? he said.

— Yeah.

— I suppose so, he said. — I think I know what yeh mean.

— I like it, she said.

She got out of the car — she groaned.

— I like it too, he said.

— Grand, she said. — No more sex, so. That’s a relief, isn’t it? Seeyeh.

She took the three steps to her own car. He waited till she was in before he started the engine. He waited till she was looking, then smiled, waved, and reversed.

What sort of a fuckin’ eejit was he?

They’d done nothing. He didn’t have to check his face in the mirror. They never were going to do anything. Not in the car. It was still bright, and they were two good-sized middle-aged adults.

He was down the hill now, driving through Sutton. Still miles from home.

He remembered once, him and the lads on Bull Island. This was when he was fifteen or sixteen. At night. They used to creep up on a bouncing car, two of them on each side. They’d wait till the chap inside’s arse was in the air, then they’d shake the car till the screaming stopped and the chap was trying to get out. And there was once, they were shaking the car when one of the lads, Softy Brennan, recognised his da in the fuckin’ car.