Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Good one.

He laughed.

— Listen, he said. — I’ll let yeh go. But my boss — my partner. Noeleen — do you remember her?

— Think so.

— The way the video is cut — your one, like. With no intro or anythin’, just the song. She thinks you’re Bulgarian. And she’s not the only one. So.

— D’you want us to pretend we’re really Bulgarian?

— No, said Jimmy. — Yeah. But no. Listen. Be a bit mysterious. Don’t say anythin’ between songs. Don’t say anythin’ at all. It’ll be more convincing than puttin’ on an accent.

— Okay.

— Can you follow the logic?

— Yeah. Think so.

— And listen. I’ll let yeh go now. But —

He was drenched, the side of him leaning against the Burger King window, right through to his skin. The water was running straight into his clothes. He hadn’t noticed and he didn’t care.

— Yeah? said Marvin.

— You’re Bulgarian, said Jimmy. — But you’re mysterious Bulgarians. You’re like guerrillas. You strike, an’ disappear.

Jimmy remembered Joey the Lips Fagan, the Commitments’ trumpet player, saying the same thing, back in the days when Jimmy was Jimmy.

— We hit an’ then we sink back into the night.

— We?

— You, said Jimmy. — I meant you. But listen. Final thing.

— Yeah?

— I’m supposed to be searchin’ for you, said Jimmy. — To get you to come over to Ireland for a few gigs.

Marvin’s laugh became a howl.

— The Electric Picnic, Marvin, said Jimmy.

The howl became something even madder.

— We can plan it when you get back, said Jimmy. — Properly, like.

— Cool.

— Good luck tonigh’.

— Thanks.

— Be mysterious.

— Yeah. Yeah.

— I love you.

— Yeah.

— Seeyeh.

— Yeah, seeyeh.

On his way back in to Brian and Anne, Jimmy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Marvin.

Tanx. X

— A nice enough lad, he told Noeleen. — The manager. His English is excellent.

— What’s his name?

Oh fuck —

— Boris.

— Great, she said.

— He’s in the band as well, actually. The drummer.

— It’s fantastic, she said. — We’re doing business with a man called Boris.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Gas, isn’t it?

He googled Bulgarian Male Names, looked over his shoulder, scrolled down through them. Too fuckin’ late — he was stuck with the name. There was no Boris but there was a Borislav. Boris was definitely short for that. He was grand — safe.

He’d have to be careful. He’d have to keep ahead of Noeleen and, now that he thought of it, everyone else, including himself. He was making it up, and he’d have to keep reminding himself of that.

Fuckin’ hell though. It was brilliant.

— Phone me tomorrow at about midday, he told young Jimmy.

— Okay.

— I’ll be callin’ you Boris.

— Eh — why, like?

Jimmy told him.

— Cool.

— Don’t tell your mother, said Jimmy.

He was saying that a lot these days.

— And come here, he said. — I’ll text you first. Just to make sure Noeleen’s there and she can hear a bit of the conversation.

— Should I be a prick? said young Jimmy.

— I told her you were sound.

— Oh. Okay.

— We’ll keep it simple, said Jimmy.

Outspan phoned him.

— Me ma’s organisin’ a fundraiser for me.

— For an operation?

— No, said Outspan. — The Electric Picnic thing.

— Really?

— Yeah, said Outspan. — Upstairs in the Hiker’s.

— Brilliant, said Jimmy. — Or is it?

— Ah yeah, said Outspan. — It’s grand. A bit embarrassin’.

— What’ll it be? Jimmy asked.

— Wha’?

— The fundraiser.

— Race nigh’ or pole dancin’. She can’t make her mind up.

— You’re jestin’.

— Yeah, said Outspan. — There’s no pole in the Hiker’s.

— Do they do pole dancin’ for charity?

— They do annythin’ for fuckin’ charity.

He’d sent the text.

Phone .

And, fair enough, the phone rang.

— Hello?

— It’s, like, Boris.

— Boris! said Jimmy. — Hey!

— Fock thees hey.

— How did the gig go last night?

— Fock thees geeg.

— Great, said Jimmy. — Brilliant.

He stood up. He didn’t look at Noeleen. He strolled nice and slowly out to the stairs.

— Is this okay? said young Jimmy.

— So Boris, said Jimmy. — Have you spoken to the band?

Every word was clear and separate, so Boris in Bulgaria could understand him.

— Are you still there, Boris?

— Yeah. Sorry if I messed —

— And they’re happy?

— Yeah.

— Great. Great. Great. It’s a great line, isn’t it? You sound like you’re only down the road.

— I am, said young Jimmy.

— Down the road, said Jimmy again. — Yes — no. It just means very near. Anyway. The band is happy. Yes?

— Yes.

Jimmy kept going down the stairs.

— I’ll look at dates and venues and put something together. Do the lads —? Sorry. Do the guys in the band have jobs? Are they students?

— Students.

— Students. Great.

He was down the stairs, out on the street. He was crossing, to Insomnia. But he kept it up, in case Noeleen was looking out at him. Method management — it was the only way. He just hoped he wasn’t frightening young Jimmy.

— Great. That’s useful to know. We’ll make sure they are back in time for the start of college.

He pushed the door, got in.

— Jim?

— Yeah.

— Thanks, said Jimmy. — See yeh later.

— Okay.

— You were brilliant, thanks, said Jimmy. — I owe yeh.

— Big time, said his son.

He got coffees for himself and Noeleen. He was happy. But something was pulling him back. His cop-on had grabbed hold of his shirt. He remembered how elated he’d felt, how fuckin’ high and powerful, before he’d crawled into bed. This was different though — it had to be.

He was back out on the street. That was it. Earlier in the year he’d have been striding out, indestructible. Now though, he looked left and right and made sure he didn’t spill the coffee over his fingers.

Aoife came with him. A tenner each, and up the stairs. Outspan was at the bar, looking miserable.

He looked at Aoife.

— Howyeh, Eve.

The place was full of people Jimmy used to know, bald men he’d gone to school with, fat oul’ ones he’d kissed or wanted to. They’d all paid their tenners for Outspan.

— Howyeh, Missis Foster.

— Ah, Jimmy.

— Great night.

— Massive, said Outspan’s ma. — I had a bit of a blubber earlier.

She must have been over seventy, like his own parents. But she looked exactly the same, the only one in the room who did.

— An’ come here, she said.

She grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder and pulled him down so her mouth was at his ear.

— You’re a great lad, doin’ what you’re doin’ for Liam.

— I’m doin’ nothin’.

— Fuck off now, said Missis Foster. — He won’t let yeh know, but he’s delighted. An’ come here.

She grabbed Jimmy’s hand and pulled him through tables and familiar faces. The men were in suits or football jerseys. Jimmy in his jeans and a shirt was under-dressed and over-dressed.

Missis Foster was still holding his hand.

— Howyeh, Rabbitte.

— Here, Jimmy! Don’t let her drag you ou’ to the jacks!

— Fuck off now, you, said Missis Foster.

They were heading for a corner. And the thought hit him. Imelda! She’d be here. She lived just down from Outspan’s house. Grand, grand. He’d introduce her to Aoife. Christ, his life was full.