Roddy Doyle - The Guts

They ran back up into the dunes. Jimmy remembered deciding not to laugh.

— Did yeh not see it was your da’s car?

— It’s dark! said Softy. — There’s no colour!

— Wha’ abou’ his arse? Did yeh not recognise tha’?

That was Outspan.

— Fuck off!

Imelda was right; they were friends. Although he was fairly certain she’d been joking there, about the sex.

She was lonely.

He’d have to contact Outspan.

— He had to go.

— Shite. Sorry.

— It’s not me you should be apologising to, said Aoife.

— I know.

— He cycled across the city.

— I’ll phone him.

— Where were you?

— Work.

— Jimmy, she said. — You came home from work.

— I went back, he said. — Had to. Artwork for the Eucharist Congress album.

— Is it still Faith of Our Fathers Me Hole ?

— No, said Jimmy. — That was just the workin’ title.

— Good.

— No, he said. — It’s — you listenin’?

— I am.

— 1932: More Songs about Sex and Emigration . Wha’ d’yeh think?

— Great.

— Really?

— It’s very good.

— Would you buy it?

— I’d be curious.

— Is that all?

— It’s enough, she said.

— You’re right.

— Phone Des.

— I will.

But he didn’t. Not then.

He went upstairs.

There was no interest in the Eucharistic Congress. That was the problem. Noeleen had sent him a link to an article in the Irish Times , the Bishop of Dublin defending the money they were spending on it, saying that there’d be a big mass in Croke Park but admitting that it wouldn’t be full. She’d put a line of?????s and!!!!!s above and below the link. And We need to talk at the bottom. He agreed, but he hadn’t — talked. Not yet.

Money, money, fuckin’ money.

He went into the bathroom. He looked at his face. He looked okay. The heat behind his eyes — it wasn’t there, he couldn’t see it. But it was bad. It had started just when he was parking the car, outside. It wasn’t too bad. It made him blink — that was all. He turned on the cold tap, got his hands under the water. He bent down and drenched his face. He looked again. He looked fine.

She found him.

Something had happened. He’d sat down on the bed — he’d had to. His legs were buckling, going from under him; he could feel it happening. The feeling behind his eyes spread out and down. Through his head, his gums, down, his shoulders. He was your man at the end of Blade Runner . Sitting there, cross-legged, frightening as fuck, then gone — switched off. That was Jimmy.

She came looking — where was he? And she found him.

— Jimmy?

He could hear her but he couldn’t answer. He literally couldn’t answer. She pushed him back gently onto the bed. She pulled his shoes off.

That was all.

She told him later that that wasn’t true, that he’d functioned properly.

— Functioned?

— Yes.

— Like, went to the jacks an’ tha’?

— Like, asked Marvin how his exams were going. You even joked about it.

— Did I?

— He was a bit upset after English Paper Two.

— Was he?

— Well, he was fine, she said. — But he said — he shouted, Fuckin’ Seamus Heaney didn’t come up! And you said, I didn’t know we knew Seamus Heaney.

— Did I?

— He laughed. It was lovely.

— Good. Good.

But he’d no memory he trusted. He’d brushed his teeth, he’d shaved. He’d moved around. He’d gone out with the dog.

— I brought you.

— Brought me?

— To Dollymount, she said. — I left you there and collected you.

— God.

He remembered slobbering. Feeling drool on his face, his chin. He remembered the surprise, and the shame, and how it took ages for the back of his hand to arrive so he could wipe it off.

Solid tears, too big and hard to get out. They pressed back into his head. He could only breathe with his mouth open.

They were waiting for him. All of them. Noeleen, the bank, the bands, the kids, Imelda, everybody — Aoife.

— The cancer trousers again, Jimmy?

He didn’t hear her. He did — he did. But only after. Questions he didn’t know were questions, until he saw her waiting for the answer. Or for his face to change.

Most of the time, he slept. That was what he remembered. That was when he was nearly happy and they left him alone.

It wasn’t dark.

He wasn’t by himself. He didn’t look, but he knew it. There was someone there, beside him.

He — whoever it was, a man — coughed.

Jimmy moved. He tried to make it seem like he was stretching, just shifting in his sleep.

There was a chair beside him. One of the chairs from the kitchen. Someone sitting on it.

Jimmy’s neck hurt. So did his eyes. They were dry, stinging.

— Outspan?

— Howyeh.

— What’re you doin’ here?

— Lookin’ at you, yeh shiftless cunt.

— Who let you in?

— Eve.

— Aoife.

— Yeah.

— Her name’s Aoife.

— Grand.

Jimmy rubbed his face with both hands. Outspan was still there.

— So, well. How’re yeh doin’?

— Not too bad, said Outspan.

— How’s the health?

— Same as ever, said Outspan.

He didn’t look too bad — no worse anyway.

— Gas, isn’t it? said Outspan.

— What’s gas?

— Eve downstairs thinks yeh need cheerin’ up. You’re a bit depressed. So she phones me. An unemployed man with terminal cancer, who has to live with his ma.

— Brilliant.

— It’s nice to be fuckin’ needed.

— Did you say Aoife phoned yeh?

— Yeah.

Jimmy looked down, beside the bed. His phone wasn’t there, where he always put it.

— When did she phone yeh?

— She phoned a few times.

— You didn’t drop everythin’ an’ come runnin’, no?

— I did actually.

— Did yeh?

— Yeah. I didn’t run but.

Jimmy wasn’t sure about this. He felt too okay. Like nothing had happened. Like what he’d gone through was ridiculous.

— So, he said, — Outspan. Cheer me up.

— Fuck off, Rabbitte.

That worked. Being called Rabbitte.

— Here, he said. — I was thinkin’. Remember the time in Dollymount, we caught Softy Brennan’s da ridin’ your one from the Mint?

— Colette.

— That’s righ’. Colette. With the limp. D’yeh remember it? Creepin’ up on the car?

— It wasn’t Colette, said Outspan.

— Yeh sure?

— It was another one.

— Could’ve sworn it was Colette.

— Tha’ was a different time.

Aoife was there now. Right behind Outspan. She looked anxious and too happy. Desperate. He’d never seen her like that before — he didn’t think he had.

He wanted to sink back. He didn’t want her thinking that all it had taken was a visit from Outspan. That it had been that easy. That false.

— He’s awake, she said.

— Yeah, said Outspan.

She had a mug with her. Tea for Outspan.

— Now, Liam, she said.

— Sound, said Outspan. — Thanks, Eve.

Jimmy watched her face. She was happy enough being called the wrong name.

— How’re you feeling?

She was talking to Jimmy — it took a while for him to know that.

— Grand, Eve, he said. — Not too bad.

There was no going back. She smiled — she grinned. She was close to crying.

He dressed properly. Trousers with a zip. A shirt with buttons. Tucked in.

— Your dad phoned.

— Did he?

— He said something about a drink.