Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Good to be back?

— Yeah.

He stood up and they hugged. She held his shoulders and looked straight at him.

— How are you? she asked.

— Grand.

— Great.

It was a bit awkward, a bit embarrassing. But she wasn’t sacking him.

— You can unfold your arms now, Jimmy, she said. — You’re safe.

It occurred to him now, properly; she’d been talking to Aoife. They’d been swapping the notes. Aoife was always on about him folding his arms. He even did it in his sleep, apparently.

They sat in the meeting corner. She’d brought him a coffee from across the street. They were the only two people in the place.

She looked at him, and laughed.

— Where will I start?

— Give me the bad stuff first, he said.

— We’re fucked.

She laughed again, sent her hair behind her head.

— No, she said.

She put a hand on his knee, and took it away.

— It’s not too bad, she said. — And it ain’t too good.

She had her own iPad now, and she started flicking through pages. He’d have sold the house to buy an iPad, the way she was using it there.

— So, she said.

The news was actually dreadful. He hated spreadsheets; they made him dizzy and useless — the numbers never stayed put. But he was able to listen, and every aspect of the business was being hammered.

— So, she said. — There you go.

— Jesus.

He didn’t feel too bad.

— You said it wasn’t too bad, he said. — All bad.

— It could be a lot worse.

— Could it?

— We’re still here, Jimmy, she said. — We’re surviving. Sales are down but they’re not gone, totally. We just need a haircut. Actually, needed.

He looked around.

— There’s no one else comin’ in, is there?

— No, she said. — Sorry. I didn’t want to tell you — to start with that. I let them — I had to let them go. It couldn’t wait.

— Okay.

He’d always been on his own, his own branch of the business. That wasn’t going to change. But it was bad. He’d loved the fact that he’d made some of those jobs. It had been one of the measures of the thing. When Jimmy had been the same age as the twit — he couldn’t even remember the poor kid’s name — he’d never had a proper job. He’d always done stuff, sold things that needed selling, organised gigs, done a bit of band promotion. He’d sold sandwiches at the early festivals — sandwiches and toilet paper. He’d hired a taxi for himself and about two thousand egg sandwiches, all the way to Lisdoonvarna, with the windows wide open all the way, and he’d still made a fuckin’ fortune. And T-shirts — always weeks ahead of the official merchandise. He’d sold Smiths T-shirts, printed by a chap called Smelly Eric, outside the Smiths’ first Dublin gig at the SFX, long before the Smiths copped on that selling their own T-shirts might be a good idea.

When things picked up in the country, he’d ignored it. All the pyramid schemes, timeshares in Bulgaria, ‘it’ll pay for itself’ deals, the no-brainers — he hadn’t been interested. It had always been about music — even the egg sandwiches; he’d sold them to people like himself. There’d been guys making fortunes selling ad space on the jacks walls of pubs, an idea Jimmy had every time he went for a piss. They were welcome to it. Because it was boring. He’d taken the old records down from the attic because he loved music. They’d invented shiterock because of the music. It had made work for him, a good income, jobs for others — success.

The times had caught up with him.

Fuck it.

Fuck them.

— What’s the good news? he asked.

— Well.

She started doing the flick thing with the iPad again. Then she stopped.

— You might have seen this already, she said.

— What?

— Our big success story, she said.

— What?

— More Songs About Sex and Emigration , she said.

He’d nearly forgotten about it.

— Really?

— It’s done okay, she said. — We won’t be retiring on it. And we still have to move.

— Hang on, said Jimmy. — We’re movin’?

— Did I not mention it?

— No.

— Sorry. Yes.

— Shite.

— Agreed. But it has to be done. But — now. This.

She still wasn’t offering to show him what was on the screen — the tablet — in her hand.

— This is where we’re going to make money, said Noeleen. — Just look at this.

She moved, and sat beside him.

— Can you see?

— Yep.

It was YouTube — hard to make out. A low-roofed room, a lot of crowd noise, a whoop. The camera was all over the place; it never settled.

— Is it a gig?

— Watch.

She pointed to the title under the screen. I’m Goin’ To Hell .

— Jesus.

She pointed to the views. 5,237,016.

He began to understand it. The camera, more than likely a phone, was being held over people’s heads. The guy holding it was moving through the crowd, pushing. The guy — the camera — turned. And Jimmy saw it — him. His son. He saw Marvin.

He said nothing.

The camera got no closer.

Marvin stood sideways to the microphone stand, and sang.

— I WANT HER ARMS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

Marvin’s pals, the other lads, were there too. Mush and Docksy — the rest of the band.

— I WANT HER LEGS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

He sat back a bit. The screen swam when he was too close to it, and he wanted to get a look at Noeleen looking at it. She loved it. She was melting there, listening to a great song. And watching the handsome man singing it. For fuck sake .

— I PROWL THE STREETS —

I’M GOING TO HELL —

He tried to remember when Noeleen had last seen Marvin. It would have been years ago, when she’d bought into shiterock. There’d been a barbecue, a few things like that. They’d been friends, partners. There’d been genuine affection. Actually — he looked at her now — there still was. Looking at her there, leaning into the sound. She hadn’t a clue who she was watching. That was Jimmy’s guess. Kids grew so quickly; Jimmy himself could have been persuaded that it wasn’t Marvin.

But it was.

He wanted to cry.

— Who’s that? he asked.

— A Bulgarian band, said Noeleen.

— Bulgarian?

— Yep, she said. — It’s the bomb. Isn’t it?

— Fuckin’ amazin’.

— That’s a club in Stara Zagora, she said.

— That’s in Bulgaria, is it?

— According to Google.

— I’LL GET MY HOLE —

— I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

— Oh my fucking God.

That was Noeleen, and Jimmy wasn’t sure she knew she’d spoken. He decided to step out on the ice.

— He sounds very like —

He couldn’t remember the name — the guy who’d recorded the song in 1932.

Noeleen rescued him.

— He sounds exactly — exactly — like Kevin Tankard.

— Unbelievable, said Jimmy.

The three minutes were up.

Noeleen sat back.

— Well?

— I don’t know wha’ to say, said Jimmy.

It was the truth.

— It’s so great, said Noeleen. — So — just exciting. You found this song and a few months later there are kids in Bulgaria playing it. And more kids all over the world watching them. Millions of them. How does that make you feel, Jimbo?

— Great.

— Ah, come on! Give us a bit of the old Jimmy.

— Fuckin’ great.

He grinned.

It was fuckin’ unbelievable. But he couldn’t tell anyone. Except Marvin, when he got home. If he got home. He was obviously a superstar over there. He’d be Marvin Rabbeettski or something. And young Jimmy — he could tell him. If he didn’t know about it already.