Roddy Doyle: The Guts

— Will it rain?

— No.

Les put the cylinder up on his shoulder and they started to make their way slowly to the entrance.

— Jacks first, lads?

— They should put you in charge of the fuckin’ country. Outspan took the cylinder with him into the phone box. They waited.

Noeleen texted. Gate 8 . Jimmy texted Marvin. Gate 8. Remember your bulgarian X .

Outspan kind of fell out of the box. But he was okay.

— Success?

— We used to ask tha’ after a night ou’, remember?

— Yeah.

— Now it’s if I can go for a shite withou’ passin’ out or dyin’, said Outspan. — For fuck sake.

Les took a babywipe from his bag and started to wipe the cylinder.

— No offence.

— Don’t blame yeh, said Outspan.

Then they were moving again.

— I’ll have to charge when we get through, said Jimmy.

— No problem.

— I’ll be back but.

— Who gives a fuck, said Outspan.

The thought hit them all, even Des, just as they reached the security barrier.

— Oh Christ.

They’d never get through with the oxygen.

The security guy actually looked frightened when he saw the cylinder and followed the tube to the mask and he saw the state of Outspan.

— Can’t let you through with that, he said. — Sorry.

— He needs it, said Jimmy. — It’s medical.

— Sorry. It’s too heavy — if someone threw it. There’s no way.

Jimmy half expected Les to take over; this should have been something he’d trained for. Negotiating, mediating. But Jimmy was still in charge.

— Listen, he said. — Have you anny idea how many laws you’ll be breakin’ if you stop him from bringin’ his oxygen in?

Jimmy had no idea if they’d be breaking any laws at all.

But it worked.

— Okay.

— Sound — thanks.

— Hold on to it though, said the security guy.

— Don’t worry — thanks.

— Do they think I’m goin’ to sell it?

— Shut up, for fuck sake.

They were in.

— Righ’, said Jimmy. — I’ll see yis outside the Crawdaddy tent in half an hour.

— Okay.

— Good luck.

He saw the sign for Gate 8, and he was on his way, charging across the field. It was early for the crowds so the going was straight. The next four hours would be mad. All his acts — his job, his fuckin’ career — were compressed into the afternoon.

That was shite, too dramatic, but it was still going to be mad.

Noeleen was at the gate, and she was with someone — a man.

— Jimbo!

— Howyeh.

— This is Christian.

— Howyeh, Christian.

She had wristbands, passes, bits of important laminated paper.

— Great, grand, great — thanks. I’ve to run. The Halfbreds are waitin’ on me.

— Poor you, she said.

— I know. Nice meetin’ yeh, Christian.

— And you, Jimbo, said Christian. — Nice to be able to put a face on a name.

— Exactly.

The fuckin’ eejit.

They both laughed.

Then Jimmy saw Marvin and the Bulgarians coming out of the trees.

— Here’s Moanin’ At Midnight, he said.

— They’re gorgeous, said Noeleen. — So sweet.

— They haven’t a word of English, said Jimmy.

He hoped she’d forgotten that Boris the drummer was also the manager, and that his English was fuckin’ excellent.

— The education system must be shite over there, he said.

— Like here, said Christian.

— Spot on.

A thing in Jimmy’s guts — his stomach — burst and charged through him; it nearly doubled him up.

Joy.

This was fuckin’ great.

Fuckin’ madness.

— Where — is — stage? said Marvin.

— Come, said Jimmy. — Come.

The lads followed Jimmy.

— See yis later, he shouted back to Noeleen and Christian.

— Great job, he whispered to Marvin.

— Thanks.

The other two lads were laughing.

— All set? said Jimmy.

— For — sure.

They were a good bit ahead of Noeleen now. Jimmy handed them new wristbands and passes.

— Backstage passes.

— Cool.

— VIP area.

— Cool.

— Remain in character.

— This — no — worries.

— I’ve to look after another band for a bit, said Jimmy. — You know where to go?

— Yeah.

— Here.

He gave Marvin his last twenty.

— Do you need this?

— Not really, said Marvin.

— Grand.

He took it back.

— I’ll look after you later.

He was gone, back across to the Crawdaddy.

The field was starting to fill. The first gigs of the day would be starting soon. Jimmy passed two drunk heads. Left over from the night before, or fresh? It didn’t matter. Connie and Barry would be going spare, backstage. But fuck them, they’d be loving it.

There was a fence that blocked the backs of all the gig tents. Jimmy followed it, left. He was walking, trotting a good while before he saw the sign, Artists and Crew. He showed the girl at the narrow entrance his pass — and he was through. Backstage. The holy of fuckin’ holies. He was in his natural habitat.

He heard Connie before he saw her.

That wasn’t true. He saw her but he didn’t realise it was Connie. She was wearing the dress she must have worn to her young one’s graduation. She’d done something to her hair as well. She’d become a middle-aged woman, happy in her years. She was laughing — with her kids.

For fuck sake.

A text. From Aoife. We’re here. X

— Hi, Jimmy, said Connie.

— Brenda.

— Lovely day.

— Yeah.

— I’m so excited.

— Great.

— We’re trying out some new songs, she told Jimmy.

Oh fuck .

— Great. Where’s Barry?

— Around somewhere, said Connie.

The kids looked nice. Like his own.

— Well done on the Leaving results, he told the girl.

— Thanks, she smiled.

— Did the soundcheck go okay? he asked Connie.

— Great, she said. — They couldn’t be nicer.

There was something wrong. Something very wrong. He smiled again at the kids. Is your mammy on tablets? he wanted to ask — he nearly did ask. He checked his watch. They’d be on in a few minutes.

— So, he said. — New songs.

— You’ll love them, she said.

— Grand.

— I’m worried about the polar bears.

— Yeah.

She’d become Cat Stevens, pre-Islam. Or Joan Baez.

— Will you still be playin’ the drums? he asked her.

— God, yes.

He wanted to hug her.

— And the old songs?

— We’ll lead with them, said Connie.

— Good.

— Don’t worry, Jimmy, she said. — We know our fucking fans.

That sounded like Connie. She was in there somewhere.

— Here’s Barry, she said.

Barry looked like Barry. He was pushed into his leathers.

— The Minister’s son is here, he said. — Fuck.

— Howyeh, Barry.

— Yeah, said Barry.

— Good luck with the new songs.

— She told you?

— She did, yeah, said Jimmy. — There’s one — is there? — about polar bears?

— It’s a whopper, said Barry.

Barry smiled. And Jimmy smiled.

— Can’t wait, said Jimmy. — Great, listen. I’m goin’ to go round to the front. So I can see the show like a fan.

He legged it, and texted Aoife as he went. Great. X . There was one in from Des. Tent is nearly empty . That was fine. It would start to fill once the punters outside heard the opening bars of ‘Erectile Dysfunction’. They’d charge in, hoping for a look at the young one in the video. Another from Aoife. Where u? X . He had to stop, so he could spell out Halfbreds Crawdaddy don’t miss x . Then he was off again. The backstage area was actually backstages; it was like the back garden of four or five circus tents. It was huge. He’d been moving now for minutes and he still wasn’t out. He heard the Halfbreds kick off. He knew the song immediately — ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke’. Connie would look great, standing behind the drums in her party frock. If they gave ‘Erectile Dysfunction’ a good lash and the polar bear delivered, Jimmy’s phone would soon be hopping — gigs, sales, telly.