Roddy Doyle - The Van

— I don’t know, said Bertie. — Yeh might be righ’.—Would you let your mot rule yeh like tha’?

— No way.

— Why d’yeh think he does then?

— She’s different, said Jimmy Sr after a bit. — She’s pushier. She’s — It wouldn’t happen with Veronica, or Vera. He’s soft, there’s that as well—

That was what he believed; that night. You couldn’t be one of the nicest, soundest people ever born and suddenly become a mean, conniving, tight-arsed little cunt; not overnight the way Bimbo had; not unless you were being pushed. He knew what she’d said to Bimbo; he could hear her saying it, — It’s either me or him; something like that. The van or Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was opening up chips bags, getting his fingers in, spreading them inside and flicking the opened bag off them onto the shelf above the fryer. It was tragic.

Other times, he just hated him.

He missed him.

Bertie was great company but Bertie was Bertie. Bertie didn’t need anybody. He was as hard as fuckin’ rock. Bertie could entertain you all night and listen to your troubles all night but Bertie could never have been your best friend. Bertie didn’t need a best friend.

Jimmy Sr wasn’t like that though. He wished he was, but he wasn’t. When Bertie wasn’t around — and he wasn’t around a lot — Jimmy Sr never missed him; he didn’t feel a hollow. But he missed Bimbo and the fucker was standing beside him shaking the chips.

— Yeah? said Jimmy Sr.

He put the salt and sauce to the side, out of his way.

— Eastern Health Board, said the man outside.

Jimmy Sr was bending to point him to the clinic, beyond the shopping centre, when he noticed the piece of plastic the man was holding up. It was a white identification card. Jimmy Sr didn’t take it. He stood back.

He didn’t look like an inspector. He looked ordinary.

Then Jimmy Sr remembered; he wasn’t the boss.

— There’s someone here wants yeh, he told Bimbo.

It wasn’t his problem. His heart got faster, then slowed. But his throat was very tight, like something big was coming up. It ached. His face tingled; he felt a bit guilty. That wasn’t on though; it wasn’t his problem.

Bimbo rubbed his hands on his trousers to get the flour off them as he came over to the hatch. He looked at Jimmy Sr and out at the man, then looked worried.

It was Friday evening, coming up to the Happy Hour; getting dark.

Bimbo rubbed his hands and made himself smile.

— Yes, sir? he said. — Wha’ can I do for you?

The man held up the card till Bimbo took it.

— Des O’Callaghan, he said. — I’m an environmental health officer with the Eastern Health Board.

How did you get a job like that? Jimmy Sr wondered. Again it struck him how normal Des O’Callaghan looked. Quite a young man too, for an inspector.

Bimbo’s fingers smudged the card so he rubbed it on his shirt, looked to see if it was clean and gave it back to Des O’Callaghan.

— Is somethin’ wrong? Bimbo asked him.

Bimbo looked like he needed company so Jimmy Sr moved over closer to him, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Bimbo would have to sort out this one out for himself.

— I’m going to have to inspect your premises, said Des O’Callaghan.

— D’yeh have a warrant? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked like he was going to fall, like he wanted to agree with Jimmy Sr but was afraid to.

— I don’t need one, Des O’Callaghan told Jimmy Sr, without even a trace of snottiness or sarcasm. He was good. Jimmy Sr was impressed, and scared. — I’m entitled to inspect these premises under the Food Hygiene Act.

Des disappeared and came in the back door.

— Wipe your feet, said Jimmy Sr. — Only coddin’ yeh.

Des got down on his hunkers and looked around. Jimmy Sr nudged Bimbo. He waited for Des to run a finger along the floor and then look at it, but he didn’t do that. Bimbo thought about getting down beside Des. He bent his knees a bit, then decided not to.

Des was looking under the hotplate now.

— The licence’s at home, said Bimbo. — D’you want me—?

It wasn’t easy talking to the back of the man’s head. Bimbo gave up.

Des stood up. He wasn’t taking notes or anything, or ticking things off. He looked into the chip bin. No harm there, thought Jimmy Sr; the chips were only in it a few minutes. Des looked at the milk bottles full of water. Then he touched something for the first time since getting in. He turned one of the taps at the sink and noticed that it was loose and not connected to anything.

— I’m gettin’ it fixed, said Bimbo.

Des said nothing.

What was he looking at now? Jimmy Sr wondered. He shifted a bit to see. The walls; he was staring at the walls.

— Is everythin’ alrigh’? said Bimbo.

Des still said nothing. Jimmy Sr decided to wipe the hatch counter, to give him something to do. His cloth was bone dry. He nearly had it in the chip bin to rinse it when he saw Des looking at him. He changed his direction just before his hand went into the bin and started wiping the outside of the bin. God, he was a fuckin’ eejit; he hadn’t thought — He whistled. He turned the bin a bit to see if he’d missed any of it, then stood up and went back to the hatch.

He almost didn’t recognise Bimbo, the way he was looking at him. He’d never seen Bimbo look that way before, cold and intelligent. He reddened; he didn’t know why. Then his mind caught up with him—

He thinks I ratted on him. He thinks I ratted on him!

He couldn’t say anything.

Then Des spoke.

— Can I see your hands, please? he said.

— Wha’?

— Your hands, said Des. — Can I see them, please?

— Why? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo already had his hands held out, ready to be handcuffed. Then he turned them and opened his palms. Now Jimmy Sr understood. He did the same. He tried to get Bimbo to see him, without making it obvious to the inspector. He hadn’t ratted on him. He had to let him know.

Des looked down at their palms.

— The nails, please.

They flipped their hands over. Bimbo let out a sigh. It sounded cheeky.

— Do we pass? Jimmy Sr asked Des.

If he got snotty with him Bimbo would know that he hadn’t done the dirty on him.

— I’m afraid not, said Des.

He looked around again.

Jimmy Sr had to lean back against the counter. Oh fuck — He thought he was going to shite, a cramp ran through him: Bimbo thought it was his fault.

—’Fraid not, said Des, just short of cheerfully.

Bimbo still had his hands held out. Des nodded at them.

— I’m finished, he told Bimbo.

Bimbo put his hands into his pockets. Jimmy Sr went to put his hand on Bimbo’s shoulder, then didn’t.

— I’m going to have to close you down, lads, said Des. — I have the power.

Jimmy Sr was surprised he could talk.

— Now, hang on—

— Let me finish, said Des. — Please. — Thanks. Which one of you is the proprietor?

Jimmy Sr pointed.

— He—

— I am., said Bimbo.

Bimbo half-turned, to let Jimmy Sr know that he was to stay out of it.

— I am., Bimbo said again.

— Okay. Mister—?

— Reeves.

— Right, Mister Reeves. — have to tell you that your van poses a grave and serious danger to public health.

Bimbo looked at the floor. Jimmy Sr did too.

— I’m closing you down now, said Des.

— What abou’ our fuckin’ jobs? said Jimmy Sr.

— I haven’t finished speaking yet, said Des.

Bimbo spoke to Jimmy Sr for the first time since this had started.

— Shut up, will yeh.

He didn’t bother looking at him when he said it.

— You close down now, said Des to Bimbo. — The walls are filthy, the floor is filthy, there’s no water supply—