Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Great, said Jimmy. — I’ll collect him.

— He wants to come home on his own.

— Great.

— And Jim’s out , said Aoife. — Whereabouts unknown. I think there’s probably a girlfriend.

— Great.

— But I’m not sure.

— You didn’t check his phone, no?

She looked at him.

— Are you letting your hair grow? she said.

He rubbed a hand over his scalp. There was a couple of weeks of hair up there.

— I suppose so, he said. — Yeah.

— Good, she said.

He checked his face. He’d shaved earlier — he remembered.

— Why is it good? he asked.

— You look less like a drugged convict, she said.

— Jesus.

— The shaved head only suits you when you’re healthy, she said.

— I am healthy.

— Good.

— I am.

The new him.

— Where’s Marv?

— Bulgaria, she said.

She was looking at him again.

— That’s right, he said.

He remembered saying goodbye to Marvin, holding his shoulder, whispering something about Bulgarian women; he couldn’t remember what. But he’d felt poor Marv’s embarrassment coming up through his T-shirt.

— How’s he gettin’ on?

— Fine. He says.

— Good.

— It’s all he says.

— What’s he doin’ in Bulgaria anyway?

— He did the Leaving, she said.

— Yeah, said Jimmy.

— And it’s become normal for kids to go away together and destroy a foreign country after they’ve finished.

— Yeah, said Jimmy.

— Look, said Aoife. — How much do I have to tell you?

— Better give me the lot.

— Okay, she said. — So one of his friends. Ethan.

— Ethan?

— You know Ethan. He’s ludicrously tall. And a bit gorgeous.

— Gotcha.

— His aunt has an apartment in Sozopol and she must be lovely or a bit naive. Because she’s letting them all stay there.

— How much is all?

— I don’t know, she said. — His band buddies, and Ethan, and probably twenty-seven others.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — I’ll text him.

— Phone him.

— Yeah.

— Do.

— Oh my God!

— Hey there.

— What’re you doing down there, like? Mahalia asked.

He was on the kitchen floor.

— Chattin’ to the dog, he said.

— You’re hilarious.

She went to the fridge and stood in front of it the way her brothers did. She was taller. She opened the fridge door, looked in, closed it again.

— D’you want me to make you a pancake? said Jimmy, and the thought of it delighted him.

— No, she said.

— Okay.

She opened the fridge door again and took out the milk. He stood up, felt a bit wobbly. Mahalia moved away as he approached.

He opened the fridge door. There was the usual amount of stuff in there, half-eaten, uneaten. It looked like it always did — no less. There was nothing in there he wanted.

— Sure about the pancake, May?

— Yeah, she said. — I’m not hungry, like.

— Are you okay? he asked.

She looked a bit caught.

He said it again.

— Are you okay?

He smiled.

— Yeah.

Her eyes were huge and watery. She looked like she wanted to run.

— What’s wrong? May?

— Are — like —? Are you better?

Oh Jesus. He wanted to die.

— Yeah, he said. — I’m grand — I’m fine. I don’t think —. I’m not sure what was wrong. But I’m better. D’you want a pancake?

— Yeah.

He texted Des.

Up to a lesson?

He texted Outspan.

Hows it goin?

He texted Noeleen.

In 2moro. Thanks. X

He couldn’t phone her. Couldn’t face it.

He took out the trumpet. He blew. Not too bad. He held the one long note — no valves. He couldn’t remember which it was, C or G. He tried another. It slid away from him. He heard clapping from downstairs. He blew again.

Shite. Yrsefl?

That was Outspan. He sent one back.

Want to meet?

The phone hopped again — Des this time.

Cool. Friday nite?

He went back downstairs. He left the phone on the kitchen table, so Aoife and the kids would notice the blips and buzzes, the social interaction.

— We heard you playing the trumpet.

— I’ve a lesson on Friday.

— Great.

The air was full of wet hope.

He started to fill the dishwasher. He remembered now, he enjoyed it. Fitting everything in. All the things he did in the house, the washing, the hanging up. He enjoyed it all; he always had. Except ironing.

There was no word back from Noeleen.

His phone rang.

— Hello, he said.

— Where?

It was Outspan.

— Howyeh, Liam.

— Where’ll we meet?

— Pub.

— No.

— Starbucks.

— Fuck sake, said Outspan. — Which one?

— College Green.

— Grand.

He looked around casually, hoped Aoife was listening. The room was empty.

— I’m going back in to work tomorrow, he said.

— Lucky cunt, said Outspan.

— Fuck off, Liam, said Jimmy. — After work? Five or so?

— Okay.

He felt wobbly going in. Nervous, like he was going in for a job interview.

He probably was.

— Did you talk to Noeleen? he’d asked Aoife the night before.

— When?

— Well. Recently.

— Yes, she said. — I did.

— Okay.

— I had to, Jimmy, she said. — You weren’t going to work.

— Grand.

— She was worried too, you know.

— Okay.

— She phoned me every few days.

— Great.

— And we went out a couple of times.

— Out?

— Yes, said Aoife.

She pointed at the bedroom window.

— Out there, she said. — We had a drink. And an early bird.

— Wha’?

— Something to eat.

— Early.

— Smart boy.

Noeleen’s car wasn’t in the car park. He was ahead of her, back in action.

Maybe she’d offer him a lump sum. Maybe he’d take it.

July, but it was freezing. It had been raining for days. There’d been spectacular stuff in England. Flooding and chaos, the roof on at Wimbledon. He thought about phoning Les.

He got down to the emails. He watched them pour in. 97 became 167, became 298, became 407. They were still coming. He’d wait till they’d all arrived before he’d start to delete them.

There was something else Aoife had said to him last night.

— When I went through your phone.

Here goes .

— Yeah?

— Your address book, she said.

— What about it?

— You’ve no friends.

He looked up from the Mike Scott book. He kept having to start it again, even though he liked it.

— I’ve a few, he said.

— Not many.

— No, he agreed.

— It made me sad, she said.

— I’m grand.

— How can you fucking say that, Jimmy?

He slid through the emails now and deleted the ads and spam, the daily stuff he had sent to him but never looked at, StumbleUpon, RCRD LBL.com, PledgeMusic. All that shite. He was down to less than two hundred.

He was finishing a reply, just the one, to the Halfbreds’ sixty-two messages when he knew Noeleen had come into the room.

— Barry and Connie want to support the Stone Roses at the Phoenix Park, he told her. — No — hang on.

He read their last one again.

— They want the Stone Roses to support them. Are they too late?

— That was last weekend, she told him.

— Okay, he said. — I’ll offer them the Ballybunion Arts Festival.

— When is that?

— Doesn’t exist, said Jimmy. — Yet.

— Welcome back, said Noeleen.

— Thanks.

He actually wrote that he was looking into a slot at the Electric Picnic for them, apologised for the delay in answering — holidays, kids, family bereavement, no mention of health or the state of his head — and finished up with the hope that their eldest got the points she needed for veterinary — he remembered Connie saying something about it. JXx . Then he hit Send, and listened to the whoosh.