Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— He’s droppin’ the hand, Missis Foster!

— It’d make my night, said Outspan’s ma. — Don’t mind those fuckers, she told Jimmy.

She’d dragged him right across the lounge. There was no sign of Imelda.

— Here now.

Outspan’s ma let go of his hand. She was beaming at a kid, a little young one, in her party dress. She was seven or eight, a beautiful little thing.

— This is Alison now, said Missis Foster. — Say hello, Alison. This is your daddy’s friend, Jimmy.

Jimmy held the kid’s hand.

Outspan’s daughter.

Has she won?

— I don’t know, I don’t know.

They were all in the room, waiting for the result.

— What’s keeping them?

They watched Katie Taylor and the Russian young one, the ref between them holding their arms, down.

— Did she win?

— I don’t know — Jesus, wait.

They were all there, the whole family, Marvin as well; he was home. It was the first time in ages — since Christmas — that they’d been like this.

It was agony.

— The poor girl.

Jimmy Magee, the commentator, was going mad now, but it was hard to tell with that gobshite. Then the ref lifted Katie’s arm.

— She’s won!

— Oh God, she’s won it!

— Cool.

— She’s fuckin’ won — sorry!

They were up out of the couch, off the floor, hugging, laughing.

— Kay-tee! Kay-tee!

— God is my shield!

The dog was barking and jumping at them but he seemed happy enough.

— God is my shield!

— She’s brilliant.

— God is my shield!

— Jesus, Jimmy, said Aoife. — If you keep saying that, I’ll think you’re serious.

— God is my shield!

He didn’t know why he was so happy. It was just a young one after winning a medal. She was barely older than his own kids. But that was it — that was it. An Irish girl had won an Olympic gold. She’d done something brilliant and now, today, it meant everything.

A text from his da.

Its 1990 over here!

— Kay-tee, Kay-tee!

He sent one back.

God is my shield .

He could hold his kids for as long as he liked. He could love being Irish. There’d be Chinese tonight, thanks to Katie.

— Jimmy.

Aoife tried to hold onto his new hair. Her mouth was in his ear. He was on top of her; she’d wanted all of his weight. He had Katie Taylor to thank for this as well.

— Jimmy.

— Yeah?

He lifted his head, so he could look at her. She’d have wanted that.

— It was funny the first time, she said. — It really was. But if you whisper God is my shield once more, I’ll pack a bag and never come back.

— Sorry — okay.

Her hands were back in his hair.

— Say something else, she said.

— Okay, yeah. Good idea.

They had a Wikipedia page ready, himself and young Jimmy.

Kevin Aloysius Tankard (1905-unknown) was an Irish musician and singer. He is thought to have been born and lived in the Liberties area of Dublin, although little is known of his early life .

It looked good, the real thing.

There is only one recording known to exist, the recently discovered I’m Goin’ To Hell ( 1932 ).

— It’s a bit short, said Jimmy.

— Yeah.

— How did he die?

— A pact with the devil.

— No, said Jimmy. — People will start thinkin’ of Robert Johnson.

They’d kept looking at the Robert Johnson page while they constucted Kevin’s.

— Plane crash?

— Too modern.

— Drug overdose?

— Might ring true, said Jimmy. — Google old-fashioned drugs there, till we see.

They looked through the lists.

— Opium.

— It’s hard to imagine opium in Dublin in the ’30s or ’40s, isn’t it?

— Who says he stayed in Dublin? said young Jimmy.

— I do, said Jimmy. — But it’s a good point. What else have we?

— Peyote.

— Too Mexican, said Jimmy. — How would it’ve got here?

— Okay, said young Jimmy. — Heroin.

— There’s a thought.

Young Jimmy pointed at something on the screen, a date.

— It’s been around since 1874, he said.

— Cool, said his father.

They built up a history of questions, a long paragraph, and shortened it. They sat side by side at the kitchen table and forgot where they were.

— Someone claims they saw someone like him in — say — Argentina.

— Brilliant.

— There’s a graveyard in — what’s a city in Argentina?

— Buenos Aires.

— Cool. There’s a stone — like tombstone, like. With K.T. carved on it.

— Yeah, yeah.

— Leave it with me, said Outspan.

— Sure?

— Yeah, he said. — What’s the word again?

— Yurt, said Jimmy.

— An’ that’s a posh tent, yeah?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — So Noeleen says — in work. An’ they’re in a quieter camping site, she said. Away from the fuckin’ madness.

— Grand.

— They’re supposed to be comfortable.

— An’ fuckin’ waterproof, yeah?

— Yeah, yeah, said Jimmy. — An’ they give yeh inflatable mattresses as well.

— An’ inflatable women — for tha’ fuckin’ money.

Jimmy didn’t think he’d ever heard Outspan sound really excited before.

— So — a yurt, yeah?

— Gotcha, said Outspan. — An’ come here.

— Wha’?

— The night in the Hiker’s. We took in way more than I need. So. Is there annyone else we can ask?

— Well, said Jimmy. — Brilliant, yeah. What abou’ Derek?

— Asked him, said Outspan. — He started his usual, yeh know. Ah, I don’t know, would we have to camp, will there be toilets? A pain in the fuckin’ arse.

He was talking so much, Jimmy began to wonder about his lungs. But then there was a noisy pause. It lasted a while. Then Outspan spoke again.

— So I told him to fuck off.

— Fair play, said Jimmy. — Is there annyone else?

— No one I know, said Outspan.

Jimmy said nothing. It was probably true. He was like Jimmy there. There were loads of people who wished him the best — the Hiker’s had been packed — but he’d no real friends.

— There’s a guy, said Jimmy. — Des. He’s sound.

— Ask him.

— Okay. Sure?

— Yeah, go on. We need to fill the fuckin’ yoke.

— The yurt.

— Yeah.

A thought fell through Jimmy.

— D’you remember my brother, Les?

— The mad cunt.

— He’s not mad these days — I don’t think.

— Is he still a cunt but?

— I don’t know, said Jimmy.

He didn’t mind saying that.

— He lives in England, he said.

— That’s not fuckin’ promisin’.

— Will I ask him?

— Fire away.

— Did it —?

They were in the bed. Aoife waited till he noticed she’d stopped talking.

— Yeah?

— I don’t mean this nastily, she said.

He sat up a bit. Mike Scott would have to fuck off again.

— Go on, he said.

— Well. Did it ever occur to you that I’d like to go?

— To the Picnic?

— Yes.

Jimmy went for honesty.

— Yeah, he said. — ’Course.

— And?

— Well, he said. — I’m guessin’ you’d probably like to.

— I might, she said.

— But I’d asked Outspan — Liam. And I’m askin’ Les.

— Are you?

— Yeah.

— That’s lovely.

She meant it. She was delighted, and that delighted him. It really did.

— So I didn’t think you’d want to share the tent with us all, he said.

He said tent instead of yurt, in case she thought a yurt would be big enough for everyone.

— But I want to see Marvin, she said.

She knew about the Bulgarian scam. She had to; he couldn’t have hidden it. Although he hadn’t told Noeleen, and he’d told — asked — Aoife not to. Till he’d figured out the consequences.