Roddy Doyle - The Guts

He got the phone out. On way bak — 5 min . He sent it to Outspan.

He locked the car.

It was more than five minutes. Not much more, though — it couldn’t have been.

— I’m back. Liam?

He’d run with the cylinder on his shoulder, where the beer had been the day before. It had been much easier to carry but right against his head; he’d half expected it to explode.

Outspan hadn’t changed. He could’ve been dead or alive — but he moved a hand and helped Jimmy with the mask. The same hand went on to the cylinder and a finger pointed at the valve or whatever it was.

— I turn this?

The hand tapped the cylinder.

Jimmy turned the thing — it went easily — and he heard the hiss and watched as Outspan sank back into his jacket. He shut his eyes and lifted his thumb to Jimmy.

Jimmy put his hand to his own forehead, back into his hair. He could feel the sweat parting with his hand. He was dripping, fuckin’ melting — and cold as well.

— Alright?

Outspan grunted a single syllable. It was fuckin’ music.

— Great, said Jimmy.

The muck was drying on his jeans, although they were still wet — freezing — against his leg. He didn’t care. He pulled the boots off, but it wasn’t easy. The laces were slimy and thick. He couldn’t get a proper grip on the heel. But he got them off and threw them in a corner — he didn’t care. He got his feet, his legs into the sleeping bag. He could hear Outspan exhaling. He’d left the flap open. He leaned forward as far as he could and grabbed the zipper, missed it, got a proper hold of it — and saw Les climbing into his tent.

He shut the flap — he hated the noise zips made. He lay back, wriggled himself into the bag.

He was going to warm up. He might even doze. He’d a working day ahead of him. He nearly laughed.

— Come here, he said.

He sat up.

— Remember we were talkin’ about Imelda Quirk?

Outspan kind of nodded.

— Well, I rode her, said Jimmy.

He looked across at Outspan, tried to see his face.

— Recently, like.

He heard a small grunt.

— Just thought yeh might like to know, he said.

He saw Outspan’s hand. He lifted the mask a small bit.

— Thanks.

— No problem.

He woke again. He’d slept — he couldn’t believe it. There was daylight bleeding easily through the tent walls. He took his arm out of the bag and looked at his watch. Quarter to eight. That wasn’t too bad. He’d survive on that.

He looked across at Outspan.

Outspan was looking at him. He lifted the mask.

— Alrigh’?

— Grand.

— Okay.

— Stiff, said Jimmy.

— Comes with the room.

— How about you?

The mask was back on but the thumb, up, gave Jimmy his answer.

— D’yeh want to go home?

Outspan lifted the mask again.

— No way, he whispered. — Fuck off.

Jimmy lay there for a while. He was bursting. Earlier, when he’d got back with the oxygen, he’d have pissed in the sleeping bag, no problem; he’d have enjoyed it. Now though, he sat up — God, his back. He found the boots. He unzipped the tent and dropped them outside. There was blue in the sky. It wasn’t too cold. He sat with his arse in the tent and put the boots back on. They weren’t too bad, not as wet as he’d thought they’d be. Standing up wasn’t easy. It was fuckin’ agony, until he was upright and human again.

He wasn’t the only one up. There were plenty of heads — hundreds of them — wandering, chatting. Cooking.

The jacks was no worse than it had been the day before. He stood at the urinal. There was no way he was going into one of those boxes. He could park the shite till he got home, then he’d wait till the house was empty.

— High point so far?

It was a young fella beside Jimmy.

— Wha’? said Jimmy.

— High point, said the kid. — Last night.

Jimmy couldn’t remember last night; it took a while to bring it back. The kid was waiting for Jimmy’s answer. He had some sort of a mohawk/mohican haircut.

— Christy, said Jimmy.

— Yeah, said the kid. — He was savage.

Jimmy’s answer had loosened his head; he knew where he was again. There was a whole big day ahead of him. The kid walked with him out of the jacks area. A nice lad — he reminded Jimmy of his own.

— What about today? said Jimmy.

He’d just spotted a good-looking coffee van across the field. He checked his pockets. He had money.

— The Arab Spring, said the kid.

— Good?

— Savage.

— Annythin’ else?

— Moanin’ At Midnight, said the kid. — Have you heard them?

— No, said Jimmy. — Don’t think so.

— They’re Bulgarian, said the kid. — They’re amazing.

— I might give them a go, said Jimmy.

He resisted the urge to buy the kid a coffee and a bun.

— Seeyeh, he said.

— Later, said the kid.

Jimmy wondered where his own were. Marvin was somewhere near; he’d come down with his buddies the day before, in the back of some cousin’s van, with the instruments and gear. It was way too early to text him. Aoife would be coming down later with Mahalia and Brian, and maybe young Jimmy. He looked at his watch. They’d all be in bed too. Except Brian. He’d be at the Xbox.

He put milk in Outspan’s coffee and pocketed four or five sachets of sugar. He watched out for guy ropes as he made his way back. There was another Darfur away to the right behind more trees, and a field of wooden huts and the fuckin’ yurts on the other side of the lane, in behind the big house — the mansion.

He’d no hangover. He felt grand, fine — good.

He had to be a bit careful here with the coffee, getting back into the tent. He put down a cardboard cup and unzipped the flap. He put the other cup down beside it. He turned, back to the flap, and lowered himself.

— Fuck it.

His arse had missed the tent floor by a foot. He was sitting on the wet ground. It was grass; it wasn’t too bad. He was soaked, though.

— Fuck.

It was only water — dew. He’d be grand, and he hadn’t knocked the coffee. He got the boots off again — he was fuckin’ sick of this. He left them outside. He leaned out — grunted — and grabbed the coffees.

— You awake?

— Yeah.

— Here.

Outspan groaned and started to sit up. Jimmy didn’t know if he should help him or not. But Outspan didn’t seem any more crippled than Jimmy. The oxygen mask was parked on top of his head, like a gobshite’s sunglasses.

He was sitting up.

— Fuckin’ hell.

He took the cup from Jimmy.

— D’yeh want sugar?

— Sound.

Jimmy got the sugar out of his pocket.

— How many? he asked.

— All o’ them, said Outspan.

— I got yeh a croissant as well.

— Thanks — sound.

— Yeh like them, yeah?

— I do, yeah. Are they warm?

— No.

— Ah well.

Jimmy waited till Outspan had ripped open the sachets and poured the sugar into his coffee. There was nothing shaky or desperate about the way he operated. He stirred it a bit with a finger.

Jimmy opened the paper bag and held it out to Outspan. He looked in the bag.

— Two o’ them.

— One’s for me — fuck off, said Jimmy.

Outspan held the croissant in front of his mouth. He looked around.

— We won’t worry too much abou’ the crumbs.

He bit a good lump off the croissant. So did Jimmy. It was great, soft — he was starving.

— How’re yeh feelin’? he asked.

— Shite, said Outspan. — Not the best.

— Are you okay?

— I’m okay, said Outspan. — Not too bad.