Roddy Doyle: The Guts

— If he falls off —

They could only watch.

The chair was way ahead of them now. Outspan was still on it. Jimmy could see his head. The chair seemed to be flying along, quite smoothly from this distance, like it was on ice.

— He’s right at the front.

— He’ll fall into the fuckin’ pit.

The chair seemed to jump. Jimmy could see it — there was a break in the heads in front of him. He saw — what he thought he saw was a clump of people jumping, hands up, and they sent the chair and Outspan up onto the stage.

— He made it.

— Fuckin’ brilliant.

They watched Outspan struggle out of the chair. He brought the oxygen with him and it looked like he was going to skull Robert Smith with it.

— He isn’t, is he?

Smith was a fair-sized target.

Security lads ran on from the wings. Outspan hitched up his jeans, dropped onto the chair with the cylinder, managed to turn it, back to the audience, and scoot — push — himself off the stage.

He was gone.

— Oh fuck —

But then he was up again, a fuckin’ whale. They laughed as they watched the chair fly over the sea of heads and hands, away from them.

— We’d better get him.

The chair was being sent off to the right. They got out of the pack and tried to follow it. Jimmy tripped over passed-out kids, went around sleeping babies in buggies.

He looked. Outspan was still there.

Then he was gone. The crowd had thinned. There weren’t enough hands to keep him up.

It wasn’t far but it was dark, and there wasn’t a landmark to help them.

But they found him.

The chair was on its side and Outspan was sprawled beside it.

— Is he alright?

— Oh fuck.

— Put him on the chair. We can carry him away from here.

The poor cunt was close to weightless. The cylinder was nearly as heavy as him. They carried him over towards an empty patch of the field. They lowered the chair to the grass.

— Are you alrigh’? Liam?

— Fuckin’ amazin’, said Outspan.

— Wha’?

— Tha’ was fuckin’ amazin’.

He was laughing. He looked a bit mad.

— The best ever, he said.

He’d stopped laughing.

— I was fuckin’ terrified, he said. — It was great.

He took a blast of the gas.

— I gave a fuck, he said.

— D’you want to go now?

— I do in me hole, said Outspan. — Who’s next?

They’d enough money left for hotdogs, autographed by the fuckin’ pig, and another round. Outspan looked wretched but his eyes were lit. Like a kid’s eyes.

— Jimmy told me you play rhythm guitar, said Des.

— Who? said Outspan. — Me?

— Yeah.

— Used to. Years back.

— D’you fancy being in the band? said Des.

It was the most amazing thing Jimmy had ever heard.

— I might, said Outspan.

— Great.

The most amazing, generous, fuckin’ brilliant thing he’d ever heard.

— Plant the legend, said Outspan. — Wha’.

— Absolutely.

— Every half-decent band should have a dead guitarist, said Outspan.

It took a while, but they laughed.

— What about you, Les? said Des. — Fancy moving back to Ireland?

— No, said Les.

— No?

— No, said Les. — I’m happy over there.

— Grand.

They headed back to Darfur. The day was in Jimmy’s feet and legs. They were heavy, sore. But Christ, Jesus. What a fuckin’ day.

Outspan was asleep in the chair. The other three had one last can. Outspan woke and crawled into the tent. Jimmy stood –

— My fuckin’ back.

— and followed him.

— Seeyis, lads.

—’Night, Jim.

He got the boots off, and kneed himself in the face while he was doing it. He burrowed into the bag. Lay back. Waited. For sleep. He was still buzzing. His ears. Everything.

My thanks to Keith Cullen, Peter O’Connor, John Walsh, Dan Franklin, Deirdre Molina and John Sutton.