Roddy Doyle - The Van

— Yeh did.

— I didn’t.

— You were the only one tha’ seen me!

— Well, it wasn’t me, righ’!

Bimbo’d stopped.

Just as well for himself.

He heard Bimbo giggle, forcing himself.

— Am I tha’ bad? he said.

The air seemed wet.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

He wiped his nose.

— I pay yeh well, don’t I? — Don’t I, Jimmy?

— Yeh do, — yeah.

— Well then?

He was pleading with him. But it was too late.

— When we started ou’—, said Jimmy Sr. — When we—

He tried to dry his face.

— When we got the van—

— When I bought the van, d‘yeh mean? said Bimbo. — When I bought the van; is tha’ what yeh mean?

He was gloating, the cunt. Trying to explain was a waste of time.

The stones had stopped.

— Forget it, said Jimmy Sr.

Gina came into the van. Sharon had lifted her in.

— Out, said Bimbo.

Sharon was in.

— Get her out, said Bimbo.

— Don’t talk—

— Out!!

Gina started bawling.

Jimmy Sr was on top of Bimbo. He had him in a headlock. He tried to get at his face, to get a clean thump in. Bimbo was thumping his sides, his arse; he got Jimmy Sr in the bollix, but not hard enough. Sharon and Gina were gone. Jimmy Sr gave up on the fist and opened his hand; he got his thumb to Bimbo’s face somewhere and pressed. Bimbo whined. He found a wad of Jimmy Sr’s fat over his trousers and he squeezed, dug his nails into it. Jesus, it was agony — Jimmy Sr let go of him and got back. He tried to kick him but he couldn’t reach. He slipped. He grazed his arm on the counter trying to stay up.

That was it; there was no mending anything now.

— I’m goin’, he said.

He climbed out of the van. It was dark now. It could have been any time of night. He wiped his face. He’d go home. No, he’d walk a bit first. His eyes would be red. He’d get his breath back to normal first.

He was glad.

He turned around and headed for the coast road. He had to go past the van. He didn’t look at it.

Bimbo caught up with him.

— Come on back.

— Fuck off.

— Come on—

— Fuck off.

— Jimmy—

— Fuck off.

Bimbo stayed with him.

He only wanted Jimmy Sr back so that he wouldn’t feel guilty; he needed him to go back to work for him. He could ask Jimmy Sr’s arse if he thought—

Bimbo grabbed at Jimmy Sr’s arm, trying to stop him. Jimmy Sr turned on him, and they were fighting again, in a clinch, gasping before they’d started. Bimbo’s head hit Jimmy Sr’s mouth.

— Sorry—

They held onto each other, heaving. There were people coming up from the bus-stop

Bimbo spoke.

— Let’s go for a pint.

— Okay.

They drank and stared at each other. Afraid to speak. They looked away. Into their pints. Everywhere. When Jimmy Sr saw Bimbo looking at him he looked back until Bimbo gave up.

A lounge boy went by.

— Two pints, said Jimmy Sr.

His voice sounded grand now. He was dry again. He leaned over to get his hand into his pocket when he saw the young fella putting the pints on his tray and coming over to them. Bimbo tried to beat him to it.

— I’ll—

— No way, said Jimmy Sr.

He took the pints from the young fella and passed one over to Bimbo.

— There.

He hoped no one came in, Bertie or Paddy. Bimbo had finished his first pint. He held up the one Jimmy Sr’d just bought.

— Cheers.

Jimmy Sr waited. He felt good now. He was almost happy, in a very unhappy kind of way. He’d made his decision, done what he should have done weeks ago. He lifted his pint.

— Cheers.

The young fella was going by again.

— Two pints, like a good man, said Bimbo. — We may as well, he said to Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

— Fair enough.

— For old time’s sake.

— Fuck off.

— Ah, Jimmy—

— Ah Jimmy nothin’.—I won’t be goin’ back, yeh know.

— Yeah.

— It’s the only way.

— But — No, you’re righ’.

The young fella unloaded the tray.

— I’ll pay yeh your redundancy money though, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr. — Alrigh’?

— Thanks very fuckin’ much, said Jimmy Sr.

He thought of something else.

— I’M buy a fuckin’ chipper van with it.

They tried not to look as if they were staring each other out of it. Jimmy Sr coughed, cleared his throat, thought about going into the jacks to spit. He examined the head of his pint.

— Wha’ happened, Jimmy? Bimbo asked.

It took Jimmy Sr a while to understand.

— Fuck off, would yeh, he said.

He didn’t care what had happened any more. It was over and done with. He’d no time any more for that What Happened shite.

— Two pints, he shouted.

Five or six pints later — Jimmy Sr’d lost count — Bimbo was looking demolished. Jimmy Sr was holding his own, he thought; knackered, yeah, but not rat-arsed. He nearly missed the door when he’d gone to the jacks the last time but he was grand. There was still no sign of Bertie or Paddy.

Bimbo was pathetic, sinking down further into his chair, like someone had let his air out. He was licking up to Jimmy Sr now because the No Hard Feelings wankology had failed.

— Come on, Jim, — come on.

Jimmy Sr let Bimbo keep his hand stretched out over the table, waiting for Jimmy Sr to shake it. Bimbo took his hand down. Jimmy Sr didn’t have any feelings at all now but he wasn’t particularly interested in making Bimbo feel any better. The cunt deserved to suffer. He should just have got up and gone home and left Bimbo on his own. But he couldn’t.

Bimbo’d told him that he didn’t know what he’d do now without him, told him that it wouldn’t be the same without him, told him that the sun, moon and fuckin’ stars shone out of his fuckin’ hole; desperate for Jimmy Sr to give him a sign that he still liked him.

Bimbo put his hand out again, then forgot what he was doing. The man was demolished.

He saw Jimmy Sr.

— The best — fuckin’ — worker in the wor — the fuckin’ world, he said.

Jimmy Sr looked around.

— Fifty-nfty, said Bimbo.

He sat up.

— Wha’ d’yeh say-y? — Fif’y-nfty.

— What’re yeh fuckin’ sayin’, man?

— Fif‘y-fif’y, said Bimbo. — Half for me an’ half for — The way it was—

— No.

Maybe though—

— No way.

— Go on. Par’ners—

— Forget it — Fuck tha’; no way.

This pint had got very warm. It wasn’t nice at all.

Bimbo slipped back down. He walloped the table with his knees when he was trying to get up again. The glasses wobbled.

— Mind!

— S-sorry ‘bou’—

He tried to put his hand on Jimmy Sr’s leg. He couldn’t reach.

— Jimmy — you’re my bes’ frien’—

— No, I amn’t, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuck tha’.

— Yeh are—

— Forget it, pal — I’ve learnt me lesson; fuck tha’.

He knocked back the pint before he remembered that it was horrible. Bimbo was muttering. Jimmy Sr kept the glass at his mouth in case he couldn’t keep it down. He badly needed a cold one; then he’d be alright.

— I’ll kill it, said Bimbo.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— Tha’ poxy van, said Bimbo.

He staggered up. He staggered, but he stayed up.

— Come on, Jim, he said. — C’me on.

Bimbo drove. He went up on the roundabout near the coast road and he fell asleep twice but he got the van to Dollymount, in between the dunes and out onto the sand; through the soft stuff (—We’re stuck. No — Go on, go on; we’re movin’) and out to the hard sand.

They got out. The wind was lovely. The tide was out, way out.