The Guts Page 16

  This was terrible.

  He looked at the window. He put the trumpet to his mouth. He blew.

  —There now, said Des.

  —Wha’?

  —It’s not about force, said Des.

  —I know.

  —It’s the buzz.

  Des pursed his lips.

  —My cheeks didn’t fill with air, he said.—Did you notice?

  —Yeah, Jimmy lied.

  —Take two breaths, said Des.

  Jimmy looked down at him.

  —First one, said Des.—Then the extra one.

  —Tell yeh wha’, Des. Stand up and show me.

  —Oh, said Des.—Sure.

  He stood up, and stood beside Jimmy.

  —So, he said.—Breathe in. Fill your lungs.

  Jimmy did.

  —Now, said Des.—The bit extra. Imagine you’re filling your stomach with air. I think that’s how we imagine it anyway, filling our stomachs, not our lungs. You can exhale now.

  —Thanks.

  —Put the mouthpiece to your lips. Purse the lips, good and tight. Breathe in. No – keep the lips tight. Yeah – and breathe. And blow. Release the air. You’re in control. Just—blow – . Great. That was a G.

  —Was it?

  —Not really, said Des.

  It was fuckin’ freezing. The station platform – southbound – was the most exposed place on earth. Fuckin’ Attenborough hadn’t a clue.

  —Has there been a murder, love?

  —No, we’re filmin’ a video.

  —Ah, lovely. Is the young one in it?

  —She is, yeah.

  —She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?

  —Yeah.

  —She must be petrified though, God love her.

  —It’s only for a bit. She’ll have her coat back on in a minute.

  —Ah grand.

  He hunched down, and looked at it framed in the monitor. Barry standing like Elvis Costello c. 1977, Brenda standing behind the drums like Moe Tucker c. 1967, the Dart crawling past them as Barry roared it for the fourth time.

  —SHE’S SMILING BACK AT ME —

  AND SHE’S SHOWING ME HOWTH JUNCTION —

  He was singing straight into the weather, sweating, losing weight on one of the coldest days of the winter.

  —Happy?

  The director, Pete, was hunched beside Jimmy.

  —Yep, said Jimmy.

  —Cut! That’s our take. Now’s your moment, Avril!

  Jimmy stood up straight, and felt fuzzy, weak, just for a moment. But the cold quickly fixed him. He watched the cameraman lift the camera and bring it closer to the station sign. He watched the young one, Avril – she was a model, one of those glamour ones. She usually did photo shoots in a bikini, launching new sewerage schemes with county councillors. Jimmy watched her point at the sign, at the Junction in Howth Junction, and raise her eyebrow – exactly as the script demanded.

  It was a different batch of people this time. Different patients, different nurses. This new one smiled when he asked for ice and lemon.

  Still the same terror as he watched the bag of poison being hoisted. He’d never yawn when that happened. He’d never feel like a veteran.

  There was a fella beside him who was obviously up for a chat. Jimmy put in his earphones and headed him off at the pass. He didn’t turn on the sound; he couldn’t have coped. But he scrolled through the bands and chose the songs for his funeral.

  —I was fine for two days after. But then – Jesus, Les.

  —It’s the steroids, said Les.—They mask the nausea. But they wear off.

  —It didn’t happen the first time but.

  —No, said Les.—Same here.

  —Horrible.

  —Yeah.

  —Thanks, by the way.

  —It’s fine, said Les.—Any time you want to talk —

  —Thanks.

  —No problem.

  —I don’t want to worry Aoife or – or – the kids. Sorry.

  —Fine.

  —I’m out in the fuckin’ garden.

  —Just remember, it’s normal.

  —I know.

  —And it stops.

  —But it fuckin’ comes back.

  —I know.

  —And I can’t even vomit.

  —Yep.

  —How’re things with you anyway, Les?

  —Fine.

  —Thanks for this.

  —It’s fine.

  The barman told him to go back outside and around to the basement. That was where the gigs were.

  He waited at the top of the stairs. He could hear the music – he could feel it, coming up from the wooden steps. He went down the first six or seven, to the turn. The heat came up at him – it felt like a crowd. He stayed there a while, a few seconds. He was hoping Marvin wouldn’t see him. He hadn’t told him he’d be coming – he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to embarrass him. He’d only stay for half a song.

  He made his move.

  It got hotter every step down. It was ages since Jimmy had felt crowd heat like this. The gigs he’d been organising were usually a couple of dozen middle-aged people, looking awkward, trying to remember what they were supposed to do.

  The beat became real sounds as he got to the bottom of the stairs, and his head dropped below the top of the door at the same time that a kid on the platform – it wasn’t a stage – grabbed the mic off its stand and screamed.

  —He was incredible.

  —Did he see you?

  —I only stayed for a bit.

  —It’s great you saw him.

  —Ah Jesus, Aoife. I’m so fuckin’ proud.

  —Tell him.

  —I will, don’t worry. The place was jammered.

  —Great.

  —It only fits – it couldn’t be much more than a hundred. But it was packed. Teemin’. But you should’ve seen him. D’you remember Jason an’ the Scorchers?

  —No.

  —Country-punk. No?

  —No.

  —They were brilliant. Mad live now – mad. All over the stage. And the guitarist used to spin around while he was playin’. An’ Marvin did that – exactly like it. He nearly decapitated a few o’ the punters at the front.

  —Great.

  —I’m goin’ up to play me trumpet.

  Norman lived just off the New Cabra Road.

  Jimmy waited for his da to park his van behind him. He looked at his da checking that he had the right house, squinting a bit. He looked a bit uncertain, even unhappy. Then he saw Jimmy’s car in front of him.

  —Here’s my da now, he said, and he opened his door.

  The fuckin’ nausea – it was lurking, waiting for him. He needed air. He needed his da.

  He got out of the car. Fuck the nausea.

  —How’s it goin’? he said.

  His da was out of the van, hitching up his jeans.

  —Howyeh, he said.—How’re things?

  —Grand, said Jimmy.

  He stepped back, and to the side.

  —This is Ocean, he said.—From work.

  —Hiiii.

  —Ocean, he said.—This is my dad. Jimmy – as well.

  —Howyeh, Ocean.

  —Ocean is – she’s coordinatin’ the project, Jimmy told his da.—Does that sound okay, Ocean?

  —That sounds great, said Ocean.

  His da was staring at her a bit. Jimmy hadn’t told him she’d be with them.

  —We might as well go in, said his da.—He knows we’re comin’. I had to shout a bit on the phone. He’s gone a bit deaf, I think.

  He pushed the gate. He had to give it a lift too, to get it open.

  —Tragic really, he said.—Goin’ deaf in a house full o’ records. I’ll oil his gate while we’re here.

  He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell.

  —Did yis hear tha’? he asked Jimmy and especially Ocean.—I couldn’t hear annythin’.

  He put his ear to the pebbled glass and pressed the bell again.
<
br />   —You’d want to be a dog to hear tha’ fuckin’ bell, said his da.

  He ran his hand down the side of the glass, along the paint and wood.

  —Needs a bit o’ work, he said.

  —Here he comes, said Jimmy.

  They saw the shape, then the man behind the glass, and the hand going to the lock.

  —Here we go, said Jimmy’s da.

  The door was opening.

  —There y’are, Norman.

  —Is it Jimmy Rabbitte?

  —It is, said Jimmy’s da.

  —There’s no need to shout, said Norman.

  He was a small man, and kind of papery. Jimmy didn’t think he’d ever met him before. He couldn’t remember a younger version. He was smiling, but unfriendly. He took something out of his waistcoat pocket.

  —Look.

  He was talking to Jimmy’s da. He’d paid no attention to Jimmy or Ocean.

  —See here? Three settings.

  —What’s tha’, Norman?

  —Stop shoutin’, I told yeh. It’s my hearin’ aid.

  —Should it not be in your ear or behind it or somethin’?

  Jimmy and Ocean followed his da and Norman into the house.

  —Christ.

  —Oh my God.

  Every wall they could see was covered in shelves of records. Jimmy stopped to look, to slide a few from their perches. But something stopped him: Don’t touch till you’re let. He kept going down the hall – made narrow by shelves – to a big bright room that was, after he’d spotted a kettle and the fridge, the kitchen. He heard Ocean behind him shutting the door.

  His da was looking at the ceiling.

  —Spot of damp there, Norman, he shouted.—Look it.

  —Where?

  —There.

  —That’s been there for years, said Norman.—That one up there?

  —Yeah.

  —It looks like Perry Como.

  —Does it?

  —Oh, it does.

  —You’ve a fair few records here, all the same, Norman.

  —Hold on a minute, said Norman.—I have to adjust me yoke here. When I move from a low ceilin’ to the high one.

  —Will I say it again or wha’? said Jimmy’s da.

  —Say what?

  —You’ve a great collection o’ records.

  —I know.

  —That’s why I brought young Jimmy with me.

  —I know.

  —And – what’s your name again, love?

  —Ocean.

  —An’ Ocean, Jimmy’s da told Norman.—She’s here as well.

  —I can see that.

  If the room had a middle, Norman was in it. He was moving no closer to the shelves; he was telling them nothing, and showing them nothing.

  —Norman, said Jimmy’s da.—The Eucharistic Congress.

  —What about it?

  —You heard me?

  —Every word.

  —Grand. Sorry if I seem—. Annyway, Jimmy’s lookin’ for music from 1932.

  Norman looked at Jimmy.

  —1932?

  —That’s right, said Jimmy.

  —Is it in here, Norman? asked Jimmy’s da.—Or in one o’ the other rooms?

  —Is what in here?

  —1932.

  —Why would there be a year in my kitchen?

  —Your 1932 records, said Jimmy’s da.—Are they in here?

  —Hold on here, said Norman.—Do you think I catalogue the records by the year?

  —Well —

  —Are yeh mad? said Norman.

  —I’m open to persuasion.

  Norman pointed at a wall.

  —So that’s supposed to be 1947, is it? Or 1583?

  —I think I left somethin’ in the van, said Jimmy’s da.

  He walked past Jimmy.

  —I’ll be back with a spanner, he said.—We can beat the information out o’ the fucker.

  He hitched up his jeans and kept going. Jimmy looked around. He did the full turn.

  —This is amazin’, Norman, he said.

  Norman nodded.

  —I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, said Jimmy.—Have you, Ocean?

  —No, said Ocean.—It’s like the Smithsonian.

  —Exactly, said Jimmy.

  —It’s such a thrill, said Ocean.

  Norman was listening.

  Jimmy met his da at the hall door.

  —I had to get out before I smacked him, said his da.—I’ll go back in now an’ get him movin’.

  —Stay here a bit, said Jimmy.—Ocean’s chattin’ to him. He’s givin’ her the tour. I thought I’d leave them to it.

  —Usin’ her feminine charms, yeah?

  —Yeah. Spot on.

  —She’s wastin’ her time, said Jimmy’s da.

  —Wha’?

  —Norman, said Jimmy’s da.—Did yeh not notice?

  —Notice wha’?

  —He’s gay, for fuck sake.

  —Norman?

  —The Norman in there, yeah.

  —He’s gay?

  —Yeah.

  —Since when?

  —Wha’?

  —Like, he’s old, said Jimmy.

  —It’s not a recent thing, if that’s what yeh mean, said his da.—I don’t think it works tha’ way. Yeh don’t wake up thinkin’ you’re gay at the age of seventy-eight or nine.

  —But –, said Jimmy.

  —I fuckin’ hope not, an’anyway.

  —But—. I mean – how long have yeh known?

  —Always.

  —All your life, like?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy’s da.—Norman was always Norman.

  —Even way back?

  —All I can tell yeh is tha’ he was always Norman. In the family, like. An’ no one gave much of a shite.

  —He was openly gay, like?

  —Jesus, man. Go back sixty years. D’you think those words meant annythin’? 1952. Here’s Norman Rabbitte. He’s openly gay. For fuck sake.

  —Okay.

  —No one was openly annythin’ in 1952, Jimmy’s da told Jimmy.—But as near to fuckin’ open as he could be, Norman was open. An’ it was all grand, in the family. As far as I ever knew. But relax, don’t worry. He was probably miserable.

  Jesus Christ, my da’s becoming me.

  —There now, said Jimmy.—Listen.

  They heard music coming from the back of the house.

  —Ocean’s worked her magic.

  They went after the noise, and found it.

  —Jesus.

  It was ceili music, but wilder and rougher than Jimmy thought was normal. And there was something else in it, something that made him want to laugh.

  —Is tha’ feet?!

  Norman turned to look at him. He was holding the cover of an old Parlophone 78.

  —Dancing, he shouted.—They’re all dancing!

  The room was full of the sound of dancing feet, dozens, maybe hundreds, of pairs of shoes landing on a wooden floor.

  —What year is that from, Norman?!

  —Wha’?

  —Wha’ year – ?

  —1932!

  —Brilliant!

  Jimmy could feel the feet beneath him, coming up from the floor. The dancers on the record were all long dead – they had to be – but he could feel them in the room. There were moments when they were all in the air, then – bang – down, they hit the floor together.

  The nausea could fuck off, and the diarrhoea.

  —What’s it called, Norman?!

  —’Kiss the Bride in the Bed!’

  Jimmy looked at his da, and at Ocean.

  —Track One! he shouted.

  —What’s this?

  —That’s the second time in the last few months you’ve looked at a dog and asked, What’s this?

  —It’s a dog.

  —Yes, said Aoife.

  —Is it ours?

  —Yes.

  —I don’t want a dog.

  —Yes, you do.

  —Okay.


  Shepherd’s pie – Jimmy’s choice. He could only manage baby food and he didn’t want the kids to see that even the thought of most food made him want to be sick.

  But the nausea – he hated the fuckin’ word – seemed to be gone. That feeling that made him snap his eyes and even his head – his mind – shut.

  —Any gigs comin’ up, Marv?

  —No.

  —How come?

  —Dunno.

  —Grand, said Jimmy.

  He could eat. He could look properly at the kids, even the ones who wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t upset him. It was temporary.

  —So, he said.—The dog.

  He put some mince in his mouth.

  —Delicious, he said, to Aoife – to all of them.

  Young Jimmy thought of something; his head was up from his plate.

  —Hey, Dad, he said.—That sounded like you said the dog is delicious.

  The laughter filled the place.

  —All these years, said Jimmy.—And you never knew what went into shepherd’s pie.

  —That’s, like, gross, said Mahalia.

  She was eating beans and mashed potato.

  —Anyway, said Jimmy.—We’ve a dog. That right, Smoke?

  Brian nodded so much his face had problems keeping up.

  —Well, said Jimmy.—I want the right to name him.

  There was silence, except for the cutlery.

  —What’s wrong?

  —Nothing.

  —Does he have a name already?

  —No, said Mahalia.

  —Then wha’ then? said Jimmy.—There’s somethin’ wrong. What?

  —There’s nothing wrong, said Aoife.

  —It’s the way you said it, said Mahalia.

  —Said what?

  —I want the right to name it.

  —How did I say it?

  —Like it was your last wish, like, said Mahalia.

  —Did I?

  Aoife was looking at Mahalia.

  —You’re amazing, she said.

  —I’m just saying the truth, said Mahalia.

  —Yes.

  —Did I though? said Jimmy.

  A chair scraped, not very dramatically. But Brian was standing, wet-faced, heading for the door to the hall.

  —I’ll go after him, said Jimmy.—God, Jesus – I’m sorry.

  —Leave him a minute, said Aoife.

  —I was jokin’, said Jimmy.

  —We know.

  —I’m sorry.

  The self-pity felt a bit like the nausea – but only a bit.

  He whispered, to all of them.