Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Yeah.

— You agree.

— Yeah.

— You don’t.

— No, I do.

— Well, I fuckin’ don’t.

— Oh, fuck off, Jimmy. I’m just trying to put it off.

— Put what off?

— Everything. I’m tired.

— So am I.

— I know.

— Strange, though.

— Brian?

— No, said Jimmy. — Yeah, but no. I mean, the day.

— What about it?

— It was nice, said Jimmy. — I enjoyed it.

— Me too.

— Spent the whole day tellin’ people I love that I’ve cancer, and I enjoyed myself.

Her head was on his chest again.

— You still tired? he asked.

— Oh God.

He couldn’t get out of the car. He couldn’t move.

It wasn’t sudden — the feeling. It had been there since he’d woken up.

It was getting worse.

It wasn’t depression. Although he didn’t know.

It wasn’t black.

It didn’t have a colour — or weight.

He’d never understood static electricity, how or why it happened, why one door handle was a shock and another, the same design, wasn’t; why Mahalia’s hair had stood up straight whenever he’d pulled off that green jumper she’d had when she was a little thing. He didn’t think he’d ever been interested in why it happened. It just did.

This was the same as static. It was how he’d have started to describe it.

The car park was small. There was space for eight cars. Noeleen’s car wasn’t there yet.

He hadn’t told her. He would, today.

Tomorrow.

He was in no fit state to tell her today.

He’d touch something, the wrong thing, and he’d die. That was how he’d start, if he was trying to explain it. But, actually, he didn’t have to touch anything. That was what paralysed him. Earlier, in bed, he woke up thinking he’d died. He was waking into his last thought. If he woke up properly, he’d be gone; he’d never even have existed.

It would go away. He just had to wait.

Terror. That was it.

He’d be grand. The dread would be gone — it was going; he knew it was nothing. He’d just wait another minute.

He’d be angry then. He had the routine. He’d get rid of that too. He’d slam a door, fire off an email — reply to some fuckin’ eejit and have to apologise later.

Fuck it.

Fuck it.

He had the radio on. He could hear the news; he could separate the words. Gaddafi was dead — that was the biggie. He’d remember that. Sitting rigid in his car, in the car park behind work, and hearing that Gaddafi had been killed — how wasn’t clear; a grenade, a bullet or a bayonet — maybe all three. Where the fuck would you buy a bayonet these days?

He’d go in in a minute. Face the day. Try to sell a few records. He might even tell Noeleen. Get it over with.

He’d see.

Probably not.

He’d watch the news later, at home. He’d make Brian watch with him, and Mahalia. A big day. The death of a dictator. Maybe not, though — Brian would want another Chinese, to celebrate.

Poor oul’ Muammar. Jimmy wouldn’t be selling him any Irish punk or post-punk hits of the ’70s and ’80s. A lost opportunity. Gaddafi could have died plugged into his iPod, listening to the Halfbreds or the Irregulars.

There was a thought.

Jimmy would go in now and stick it up on the homepage: Gaddafi died listening to Irish punk. Get a few laughs, shift a few units.

In a minute.

The parcel was on the table in the kitchen.

Waiting for him.

It was propped there, against the ketchup. Facing the door, so he’d see it. Brown cardboard, from Amazon.

— Nice one.

Aoife was at the counter, chopping something. He picked up the package.

— What is it?

— A puppy, said Aoife.

He pulled back the flap.

— Gift wrapped. For fuck sake.

He read the message. I love you. XXX

— Loveyoutoo, he muttered.

She smiled. He was imitating the boys. And he was Jimmy again, not the jittery lump she’d seen leaving the house earlier. He pulled off the ribbon and tore at the blue wrapping paper.

He looked at the yellow cover, and laughed.

— Brilliant. Chemotherapy & Radiation for Dummies . Fuckin’ brilliant.

— You like it?

— Love it.

He laughed again.

— Fuckin’ great.

He was delighted.

And so was she.

— You haven’t read it before, no?

— No.

He held her with one arm and held the book over her head. He read the blurb at the top of the cover.

— Understand cancer treatment options, get a handle on the side effects, and feel better.

He lowered the book.

— Fuckin’ hell. I feel better already.

He kissed her.

— Thanks.

— You’re welcome.

He flicked quickly through the book — lots of lists and pictures.

— It’ll be very useful, he said. — Very instructive.

— It was supposed to be a joke.

— I know, he said. — And it is. A good one as well. Because, especially. Let’s face it. You’re not great at the jokes.

— I am! Am I not?

He laughed.

— Gotcha.

— Oh Jesus.

It was Mahalia. She’d stopped at the door.

— Is it, like, safe to come in?

— Why wouldn’t it be? said Jimmy.

— The flirting, said Mahalia. — It’s disgusting. At your age, like.

— Feck off, you.

She passed him on her way to the fridge.

— Don’t eat anything, May, said Aoife. — Dinner’ll be in a minute.

— You should be happy I’m not, like, anorexic, said Mahalia.

— We are, said Jimmy. — Very happy. Although now, the way things are goin’ in this country, some anorexic kids wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

— Ah, Jimmy! He’s joking, May.

— No, I’m not, said Jimmy. — D’you know what a recession is, May?

— Yeah, actually, said Mahalia. — I do. A period of —

She lifted her hands and did the quotation marks thing with her index fingers.

— temporary —

She dropped her hands.

— economic decline during which trade and industrial activity are, like, reduced.

They stared at her as she shut the door of the fridge.

— That’s brilliant, said Jimmy. — Where’d yeh learn that?

— School, said Mahalia. — Hello!

— Can you say it in Irish?

— The sound of silent laughter, said Mahalia, as she went past him, out.

— Where did she come from?

— My side, definitely.

Jimmy found a good picture in the book. He read the caption.

— A healthy, protein-rich breakfast starts the day off right.

— Can’t argue with that.

— Looks like an omelette, said Jimmy. — The picture’s a bit grainy. Tomatoes, mushrooms.

She said nothing.

He read a heading — the book was full of them.

— Embracing carbohydrates and fats.

— Jesus, said Aoife. — It never occurred to me that you’d read the fucking thing.

Jimmy slapped the book shut.

— Fair enough, he said.

— It’s a horrible word, though, isn’t it?

— Wig?

— Cancer.

Jimmy had brought the book up to the bed.

— So loaded, said Aoife.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Anyway, look it. I won’t be goin’ for a wig.

— God.

— It’d just be stupid.

— No, said Aoife. — I agree. It’s just the thought. Your hair —

— Hardly me best feature, said Jimmy. — Let’s keep it real, love.

She loved what he’d said but it couldn’t stop the tears. He joined her; he couldn’t help it. It had become the nightly event — nearly every night. They often chatted as they cried, as if they were just chopping onions.

— Will the kids accept me without hair? Jimmy asked.

— I don’t — why wouldn’t they?