Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— I know, he said. — Mad.

— I’ve tried to imagine what the worst thing is that can happen. The worst conclusion.

— My fuckin’ death.

— Yes, she said. — That was one of them. And very upsetting. Usually.

— Fuck off.

She squeezed.

— But after the surgery and chemo, she said. — Money, next door —

There was still no one in there, behind their bedroom wall.

— All the worrying things. Genuinely worrying. I’d ask what the worst outcome was.

— And?

— It’s usually not that bad, she said. — Not good either. Shite actually. But not devastating. So.

— So?

— What’s the worst that can go wrong? she asked.

— We won’t be able to stand one another.

— And you come home?

— I suppose.

— It’s not that bad, she said. — Is it?

— No, he said. — I suppose not. I’m not sure I even want to go.

— Ah Jimmy.

— I do — but. And it’s not that I’m worried that somethin’ will go wrong. Do we have any babywipes in the house?

— Why?

— It’ll be easier than washin’ an’ whatever.

— Jesus, she said. — You really are thinking ahead, aren’t you?

— There’s another thing.

— What?

— What if somethin’ happens to Outspan?

— It won’t.

— You can’t say that, he said.

— Then you’ll need more than babywipes.

She started laughing first.

— Jesus, Outspan.

— It’s grand.

— It’s fuckin’ Darfur.

— Okay, said Outspan. — Okay. But it’s kind o’ Southside Darfur.

He had a point. It looked like a refugee camp but it was filling up with blonde girls in shorts and flowery wellies. None of them looked hungry. It wasn’t too mucky yet but it had been pissing down all the way from Dublin and Jimmy could feel the months of rain just under his feet, waiting to fuck up the weekend.

— I want me yurt, he said.

They’d come in Outspan’s ex’s car. He’d phoned Jimmy that morning, to tell him.

— I hacked up blood in front of her, he’d said. — An’ she relented.

— My da’s happy enough to give us his.

— No, said Outspan. — I have it now, so we may as well run the arse off it.

Jimmy didn’t want to be involved in some kind of marital vendetta. Outspan’s ex was bound to be a hard woman. But —

— Okay, he said.

— One thing but, said Outspan.

— Wha’?

— Can yeh drive us?

— Okay, said Jimmy. — No bother.

— I’d do it meself, said Outspan. — But I can’t.

— Cos o’ your meds?

— No, said Outspan. — I’m banned.

— Grand, said Jimmy.

Des had cycled to Jimmy’s, and Aoife had given them a lift to his da’s. Les had been waiting for them, dressed like a man who did some serious walking.

— I bet he has a Swiss Army knife, said Jimmy.

— Shut up, said Aoife.

— And a fuckin’ compass.

The three of them had walked down to Outspan’s. Past Imelda’s. Her car wasn’t there.

Outspan was standing in the garden.

— Will it rain?

— Between now an’ Sunday night? said Jimmy. — Bring your fuckin’ coat. This is Les an’ Des.

He only copped on now how stupid that sounded.

— Leslie an’ Des, he said.

— Leslie an’ Dezlie, said Outspan.

Outspan didn’t do smiling, so it was a good few seconds before the four of them were laughing together. Then they were all in the car, and gone.

It was a bit awkward at first. Les in the back said nothing to Des, and Des said nothing to Les.

Outspan had the atlas.

— Left or right here, Outspan?

— Do they do left an’ rights down here?

Jimmy said nothing about the rain, even when he’d had to slow down because he could see fuck all through it. He could already imagine it seeping through his clothes. Before he’d heard one note or eaten a chip. He’d be soggy for the whole weekend; he wouldn’t be able to bend his legs because of all the water in his jeans.

— They say it’ll be nice tomorrow and Sunday, said Des.

— Cunts, said Outspan.

It was just four men who didn’t know one another, including — especially — the two brothers. They were going through Kildare before they laughed again, when they passed a dead fox at the side of the road.

— Left or righ’, me bollix, said Outspan.

They’d parked in a field that must have had hay in it the day before. They followed the line of cars, further and further in. The ground felt solid enough under the car.

— It’s well organised, isn’t it?

That was always a surprise.

— Should be an Olympic event. Synchronised parkin’.

— We’d be in with a shout.

They were really starting to enjoy themselves, until they got out and opened the boot.

— Tents, said Jimmy.

— Yeah, said Outspan.

— We don’t need tents, said Jimmy.

— We kind o’ do, said Outspan.

— What abou’ the yurt?

— Too dear.

— You said it wasn’t a problem.

— Well, it was, said Outspan. — I did me sums wrong.

If the other two lads — the pair of liggers who were getting in for nothing — were embarrassed, they weren’t showing it.

— Why didn’t yeh tell me? said Jimmy.

Outspan looked at Jimmy like he was going to jump on him, or sink into the ground. What’s the worst that can happen?

— It’s fine, said Des.

Les took a tent out of the boot.

— Sorted.

Jimmy took the other one — it was very light — before Des or Outspan could grab it. He pushed a blanket to the side and saw the oxygen.

He thought he’d fuckin’ die.

— It’s just in case, said Outspan.

— Will we bring it?

— No, said Outspan.

Jimmy knew now why Outspan had borrowed the ex’s car. Or stolen it. He could have done with a blast of the oxygen himself, and so could Leslie and Dezlie, judging by the pair of earnest heads on them.

The slabs of beer saved them.

— Never heard of this one, said Jimmy. — Excelsior?

— It’s not the worst, said Outspan. — An’ it was good value.

— Where?

— Lidl.

— Grand.

— I got the tents there as well, said Outspan.

— How much?

— Seventeen euro.

Les laughed. He looked at Outspan.

— You’re serious.

— Each, said Outspan.

Les hoisted a tent onto his back and got one of the slabs out of the boot. And that was a new worry. Jimmy thought there might have been a bit of history there, Les and the drink. It might have been something his mother had once said. Or just something he’d imagined; there was something too careful about the way Les carried himself. But, fuck it, he grabbed a slab — or he tried to. It was heavy. He got it up onto his shoulder but it was immediately awkward, and sore. He’d his bag as well. He’d never make it.

— Let’s go.

Now they stood at the edge of Darfur. Jimmy was sweating like a bastard. The walk from the car to the gate — the wrong fuckin’ gate — to the right gate, to here, had killed him. He was glad he’d let the hair grow because the sweat — the fuckin’ lard — would have been running straight down his face, into his eyes.

But he’d made it and he was happy enough. His breathing would be normal again in a minute and the breeze was already working away at the sweat.

They weren’t ready to go in deeper yet, although the sun was out and the field of tents looked quite pleasant.

— Jesus, men, said Des. — We’re old.

The truth of that was funny. It loosened them up, made them feel a bit brave. A steady line of kids kept passing them, to grab their places further in. It was early afternoon — Jimmy checked his watch — only just after two.