Roddy Doyle - The Guts

Des said nothing. He was still staring at the ground.

Jimmy followed Outspan into the tent. But it was hard to tell when out became in. The tent was so thin, it was as dark, as bright, as fuckin’ cold, inside as it was out. The slight push of the nylon against the top of his head was the only real proof that he was in the fuckin’ thing. Outspan was already buried in a sleeping bag.

Jimmy took his boots off. It was hard — he didn’t want to knee Outspan or put his head through the tent. He got one of the boots off. He was sweating, even though he was cold. All the sleeping bags were in here with him. He grabbed two of them and opened the flap of the tent. Des was sitting up now, cross-legged like Les, but staring at the ground. Jimmy threw a sleeping bag across to Les.

— Here yeh go.

And the other.

— Thanks.

— Is he alright? said Jimmy.

— Don’t worry, said Les.

—’Night. Les.

—’Night, Jim.

— See you in the mornin’.

— You will.

— Big grass, said Des.

— Oh Christ. Goodnight.

Jimmy zipped up the tent.

— The grass is huge, said Des, outside.

— Fuckin’ eejit, said Outspan.

He was tucked under the wall of the tent. Jimmy couldn’t see any of him. He unrolled his bag. He could already feel the cold in the ground under him. He was tired, though — fucked. Darfur had filled up. It was like sharing a bedroom with thousands of brothers and cousins and more fuckin’ cousins, all yapping. He’d never sleep. He would, though. He was bollixed. Les could mind Des; it’d be fine. He’d kill a deer and have it skinned and ready for their breakfast.

He left his socks on. They were a bit wet — but fuck it, they’d do. He left his jeans on too and waited till he’d got well into the bag before he started to take off his hoodie. But it was too complicated, too much bother. He left it on.

— Huuuge, said Des. — Look.

Jesus, Jimmy was freezing. He was lying down in his own fuckin’ grave.

— Huuge.

— For fuck sake, said Outspan — his voice came through several layers. — If it was even tits he was talkin’ about.

— It’s miles away now, said Des.

Jimmy got his head into the bag. He held the top shut with his fist. He was so fuckin’ cold.

— It’s big again, said Des. — Right over my head.

He was awake.

It wasn’t dark. The spotlight outside lit the walls of the tent.

Something had woken him. There was noise outside — laughter, singing — but it wasn’t that. It was the silence in the tent — it was so loud. No breath, no movement.

Oh Jesus —

Outspan’s face stared up at him. It was locked — the expression. As if he’d turned solid.

Jimmy was out of the sleeping bag.

— Liam?

Outspan wasn’t dead. The eyes were looking at Jimmy.

— D’yeh want your oxygen?

Outspan nodded — it was definitely a nod.

— Grand.

Thank fuck Jimmy hadn’t undressed. He just needed to get his boots on. God, he was stiff — his fuckin’ shoulder was falling off.

The boots were on.

— Nearly there, he said.

Outspan was staring at him. A gulp or a gasp — something — came out of him. Jimmy got the zip open.

— Back in a bit.

He was out. He could stand properly now. It was cold. Ten minutes to the car, he reckoned, and he wouldn’t be carrying anything.

An idea — a good one. He’d get Les to keep an eye on Outspan. He’d be able to thump life back into the lungs or heart.

He unzipped the other tent.

— Les?

There was no one in it. The sleeping bags hadn’t been opened. A new problem — but it could wait. He was worried though, about leaving Outspan alone.

He had to go — he had to go. He wanted to run but there wasn’t room between the tents. The guy ropes were waiting to trip him.

The car, the fuckin’ car key. He’d forgotten the fuckin’ thing. It was okay — it was fuckin’ disastrous — he hadn’t gone too far.

He got back into the tent.

— Sorry — Liam —

Outspan stared at him.

— The car key, said Jimmy.

Outspan lifted his head slightly, just a tiny bit. His jacket was his pillow and Jimmy pulled it from under his head.

— Sorry about this.

The key was in one of the pockets, under a pile of tissues.

He pushed the jacket back under Outspan.

— I’m gone again.

He was out and moving. He felt surer now. He had a clearer idea of the route in his head. He was through the tents, around them. Fuckin’ ropes. There was dum-dum dum-dum still coming from somewhere. He was going past the tower with the spotlight now. He looked at his watch. It was just after five. There were zombies wandering — to the jacks, from the jacks. There was a big lad sleeping sideways on a half-inflated chair. Jimmy looked out for Les or Des. He couldn’t see them. He heard a baby crying from not far off. Jesus — the thought of a waking baby in a fuckin’ tent.

He was out of the tents, away. This was the path. Down to the gate and the road to the car park. He could trot now. He could go a bit faster. The gate ahead was open. Grand. He stopped running, kept walking fast. The trees met above him. It was darker, he was stepping into space he couldn’t see. He tripped — he stayed up. Water went over his boot. Not much, though — he was fine. He’d walk the sock dry.

He was at the gate and puffing a bit. It was the tension, the worry — he couldn’t manage deep breaths. Two guys, security, stepped out from behind the pillar.

— Can I see your wristband there?

Jimmy pulled back the sleeve of his hoodie.

— That’s great, thanks.

Why did they give a shite if he had a wristband? He was leaving.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

— I’ll be back in a sec, he told them.

— Fine.

— I’m gettin’ an oxygen canister from the car, said Jimmy.

He saw that news change both faces.

— For a friend, said Jimmy. — Asthma.

— Okay, said the talker.

— Thanks.

He was running again. On the road. It was much quieter out here, as if the festival noise stopped at the gate. He wasn’t sure how far he had to go before the gap in the wall for the field. He didn’t think it was far. There was another spotlight ahead, at the edge of a field. The car park.

Jimmy got his mobile out of his pocket. He kept moving. He got Les’s number. He was jogging again, sweating. Les didn’t answer. He tried Des. No answer. The pair of fuckin’ arses. Fuck knew where they were — and how they fuckin’ were.

He’d found the gap in the wall. The going was bad here. Thousands of boots, months of rain. The muck, the water went over his boots. He had to pull them free. He went down on a knee. His leg was soaked.

But he was through. He’d another pair of jeans back at the tent. And socks — two spare pairs.

He couldn’t find the car. He couldn’t remember the car. It wasn’t his; it was Outspan’s ex’s. He thought it might be a Saab — he couldn’t remember.

He was near it, somewhere. He looked back at the gap in the wall. The angle was familiar. They’d come this way the day before.

He got the key out — the zapper. He pressed it and listened. He couldn’t hear the locks pop open.

Shite.

He stood at the next row of cars. He pressed again and looked for a light, and listened. He went through two cars to the next row. He pressed again.

He heard it — the little whop. He locked the car he couldn’t see, then pressed again.

He saw it and heard it. He’d found the car.

There were people asleep in some of the cars he passed, a family in one of them, and a gang of heads in another.

He got the boot open. He pulled back the blanket and pulled out the cylinder. It was aluminium, he thought, and smallish; it wasn’t heavy. There was a face mask or something as well — there had to be. He found it.