Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— So, said Noeleen.

She stood up.

The place was a bit ridiculous with just the two of them in it.

— They’re ours, said Noeleen.

— Who?

— We’re going to sign them.

— The Bulgarian lads? said Jimmy.

— Yep.

— Great, he said. — Good idea.

He stood up too.

— Have you made contact with them yet? he asked.

— No.

— I’ll do that, he said. — What’re they called? I didn’t notice there.

— Moanin’ At Midnight.

— Great, he said.

— Wild.

— It’s a Howlin’ Wolf song, by the way, he told her.

— What is?

— Their name, he said. — They know their stuff.

An hour back at work, and he was already ahead of her. They hadn’t been called Moanin’ At Midnight when Jimmy had seen them months — a year — ago, or when they’d recorded the song. They were untouched and untraceable, until Jimmy decided to find them.

— Did you look for a website? he asked her.

— No, she said. — I only saw it on Friday.

— Who told you about it?

— My niece, she said.

— What age is she?

— Sixteen.

— She liked it, yeah?

— Oh God. Jimmy. We have to sign them. This isn’t just a bit of crack, like the Halfbreds. It’s the real deal. It’s rock ’n’ roll.

He grinned — he couldn’t help it. This was all mad and brilliant.

— Leave it with me, he said.

— I’m phoning John Reynolds, she said.

— The Electric Picnic chap?

— Yes.

— To get them on the line-up, yeah?

— Yep.

— Good idea, he said. — Great idea. Bulgaria’s in the EU, isn’t it?

— Yes, she said. — Why?

— Visas, said Jimmy. — They won’t need them. They can come over whenever we want them. And come here. Put a word in for the Halfbreds as well, will yeh?

— I’ll mention them.

— Thanks, he said. — There might be a cancellation or somethin’. And while you’re at it —

— You’re back.

— I am. Ned — the Bastard of Lir.

— Still feeling guilty, Jimbo?

— You said it.

He needed to get out — just get out, move, march the excitement off himself. But he couldn’t. He had to sit down now and search for Moanin’ At Midnight. He couldn’t disappear and come back with them, delivered. Noeleen had to see him working for it.

— There’s no point in googlin’ Moanin’ At Midnight, he told her.

She was behind him somewhere.

— Why not?

— The song, he said. — Thousands of blues sites.

— What about Bulgarian Moanin’ At Midnight?

— Leave it with me.

He texted Marvin while he spoke.

How r things? X

— Where’re we movin’ to, by the way? he asked.

What was the time difference, between Dublin and Bulgaria? Marvin wouldn’t get back quickly anyway; he never did.

— Well, she said.

She was sitting now too, with her back to him. Just the two of them in a space made for twenty. Although there’d never been more than twelve. Still though, it was sad. And it was frightening. Things were shrinking. It was the same all over Dublin. People wandering around empty spaces.

He missed her answer.

— Sorry?

— My mum’s back garden, she said.

— You’re jestin’.

— She’s letting me build a Shomera, said Noeleen.

— A fuckin’ prefab?

— They’re lovely, she said. — The one I chose. I’d have included you in the decision if —

— Grand.

He said it nicely; he hoped he did. It couldn’t have been easy for her, moving from here to her ma’s back garden.

— Two rooms, she said. — Offices.

— Jacks?

— God, yes.

He wouldn’t have to be banging on the oul’ one’s back door, walking across her kitchen with Mojo or the Mike Scott book under his arm.

— Where does she live?

— Clontarf.

— That’s handy.

It was nice, tapping away, throwing the chat over their shoulders.

— Why your ma’s?

— What?

— Why not get the Shomera installed in your place? I know it’s a good bit out —

— I’ve moved back.

— Oh.

— It’s okay.

It wasn’t. It was shite, having to move back to her mother’s house.

— I’m sorry about that, he said.

— It’s fine.

He hated asking but he thought he’d better. He did the Aoife test: would she be furious if Jimmy told her that Noeleen had moved back home but he didn’t know why? Yes, she would. Although she probably knew already. But that probably didn’t matter.

He stopped typing. He rolled back his chair a bit, so she’d hear it move. He swerved, so he could see her.

— What happened?

The phone hopped. It was Marvin.

Grand .

He put the phone back down.

— One of the kids, he said. — Sorry.

— Can’t afford to keep it, said Noeleen.

She shrugged, smiled.

— Same old story, she said. — I’m supposed to think I was greedy.

— Don’t see why.

— I don’t either, she said. — I could afford it at the time. We could.

— Is Adam in your ma’s as well?

She smiled, and shook her head.

— Nope.

— Jesus, he said. — It’s rough.

— Ah well.

He texted Marvin. Ok if I phone u later? X

Outspan had a latte and skinny blueberry muffin. Jimmy had a double espresso.

— Yeh not eatin’?

— Not hungry.

— Hard on the hole?

— Just not hungry.

— Yeah, maybe.

They found a table in among the young and the healthy. Jimmy couldn’t look at Outspan properly; he could feel his neck rip when he forced himself to keep his eyes on him. They’d nothing in common, especially now that Jimmy wasn’t dying. He liked Outspan but, really, he was there because he wanted Aoife to know he was there.

— How’s your ma? he asked.

— Same as ever, said Outspan. — I seen your parents there.

— Yeah?

— They’re lookin’ great.

— Yeah.

The coffee was muck. Jimmy pointed at Outspan’s cup.

— How’s yours?

— Grand, said Outspan. — Not too bad.

The phone hopped in his pocket.

It was Marvin, back.

Grnd. 7?

Perfect.

He thought of something now — shocking — and perfect again.

— Are yeh still into the music? he asked.

— A bit, yeah.

— D’you want to come to the Electric Picnic with me?

— No way.

— Why not?

— Hippy shite.

— Ah, for fuck sake.

This was more like it; now they could talk.

— Grow up, man, said Jimmy. — You’re talkin’ shite.

— How am I? said Outspan. — I went to an outside gig once. Brought me daughter — the older one, Grace. She likes Coldplay. Don’t fuckin’ ask. Annyway, it was crap.

Jimmy texted Marvin. Great .

— Coldplay won’t be at the Picnic, he said.

— Not Coldplay, said Outspan. — They weren’t too bad. It was the whole thing. Fuckin’ eejits hoppin’ around. No one listened to the music. The Coldplay fella — he seemed like a nice enough head. Yeh can kind o’ see wha’ your woman, Gwyneth Paltrow sees in him. Annyway, he says, We’re goin’ to play ‘Yellow’, or somethin’. An’ the young ones around us go mad. Oh I love this one!

His Southside girl impression was brilliant, but eerie. Several Southside girls stood up and went to a free table outside. Inhaling the taxi fumes was preferable to witnessing Outspan’s performance.

— An’ then they’d just start chattin’ to each other again. There’s no way! Fuck right awf! He’s the focking bomb!

— The Picnic’s different, said Jimmy. — It’s for people who know their music.