The Guts Read online

—I wanted to call him Chemo.

  —Cool.

  —Savage.

  Jimmy kept whispering.

  —But I don’t suppose I can call him that now.

  —No, said Aoife.—Anyway, look at him. He’s gorgeous.

  The new dog – he was only a pup – was asleep, beside his basket.

  —What is he? Jimmy asked.

  —He’s a bit of an omelette, said Mahalia.

  —Wha’?

  —Cocker spaniel, like, poodle and greyhound.

  —Jesus, said Jimmy.—How did the greyhound get down – ?

  —Don’t.

  —I’ll tell yeh but, said Jimmy.

  He looked across at the pup.

  —It’ll be like bringin’ a wheelbarrow for a walk.

  He stood up.

  Don’t hitch your jeans.

  —I’ll go up to Brian.

  —Bring up the rest of his dinner, said Marvin.

  —Don’t start. Leave Brian alone.

  The radio, the Roberts – great fuckin’ invention. It was on, low. Jimmy could tell – there was something about the voice, the news being delivered.

  —Hang on.

  He turned it up.

  —What’s happened?

  —Shush – listen. Ah, no.

  —What’s wrong?

  —Whitney Houston’s after dyin’.

  He sat beside Brian on the bottom bunk.

  —Alrigh’?

  Brian nodded.

  —I’m sorry, said Jimmy.

  He put his arm around Brian’s shoulders.

  —I just –, he said.—I joke about these days. It’s my way.

  —It’s funny.

  —But I go too far.

  Brian was crying now. Jimmy loved it and hated it. Loved it, because one of his children needed him; hated it, for the same reason – and the fear that he wouldn’t be able to help.

  —Are –, Brian started.—Are—.

  Jimmy let him try again.

  —Are you – ?

  It was too much for the kid; it would take forever.

  —Am I goin’ to die? said Jimmy.

  Brian nodded. He was humming now. That was how his crying sounded. A steady hum, like the washing machine going through its last spin.

  —No, said Jimmy.—At least – . We could both be hit by a bus the next time we go out. Even with our sat navs.

  —No – no mocking.

  —Sorry. You’re right. But you know what I mean. I could trip on the dog. Or – a dog could fall out of the sky and land on our heads.

  A laugh got out.

  —Good man, said Jimmy.—But this chemo thing. It’s short for —

  —Chemotherapy.

  —Exactly – great. It’s a precaution. The cancer’s gone. The operation before Christmas. You remember —

  Brian nodded. His face, the left side, was up against Jimmy’s chest, and Jimmy’s shirt was soaking. It felt like wet paint was being lightly smeared across his skin.

  —Well, he said.—It was a complete success. You know that.

  Another paintbrush up and down his chest.

  —The cancer, the tumour, like – it’s gone.

  —Forever?

  —That’s the plan, said Jimmy.

  He was crying now too. He didn’t want to – but he did. He was still able to talk.

  —The chemotherapy will kill any little cancerous cells that might be still in there. Chemo – chemicals. It’s really strong medicine.

  —I read about it, said Brian.

  —Did yeh?

  —Yeah.

  —Where?

  —Downstairs.

  —I mean, what did you read?

  —Wikipedia, said Brian.

  —And you understood it?

  Brian’s hair painted a shrug onto Jimmy’s chest.

  —It’s easy.

  —Good man.

  —But it makes you sick.

  —For a while, just. Till it’s over.

  —I know.

  They weren’t crying now.

  —I don’t like the jokes, said Smokey.

  —Okay, said Jimmy.—No more jokes.

  —Only sometimes.

  —Thanks, said Jimmy.—How’s school?

  —Okay. It’s a bit boring.

  —It hasn’t changed, so.

  —That’s a joke.

  —No, it isn’t.

  —Why are we laughing then?

  —Cos it’s nice and we love each other and we like bein’ together. I’d say that covers it.

  Brian nodded again.

  —I like laughing, he said.—Just not jokes about you.

  —I hear you, said Jimmy.—So has anyone been sayin’ things in school?

  —What things?

  —About chemotherapy – .

  —No.

  —Or cancer.

  —No.

  —Grand, said Jimmy.—What’ll we call the dog?

  They had two tracks now, two days before Jimmy’s next session of chemo. ‘Kiss the Bride in the Bed’, and a real showstopper, ‘The House On My Back’, sung by a wild woman called Dolores McKenna.

  —Can we do something with the name? he asked.

  —The name? said Ocean.

  —Can we call her Weepin’ Dolores or somethin’ like that?

  —I guess.

  —Make her more interestin’.

  —Interesting?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—It’s a bit dull – just plain Dolores. If we – wha’? – embellish the name a bit, people will hear more in the song.

  Ocean didn’t get it. She even looked a bit hurt.

  —But don’t get me wrong, said Jimmy.—It’s brilliant. An’ well done, by the way.

  He was talking too much. He could hear himself but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  —Let’s hear it again.

  He watched Ocean, Norman-trained, bring the stylus to the edge of the record. He could tell she loved what she was doing. She brought the stylus down like she was being talked through it by air traffic control.

  They’d keep the crackles. It was like the sound was battling its way through the eighty years since Weepin’ Dolores and the piano player had been in the studio.

  It was simple, heartbreaking, the song of an emigrant who knew she’d never escape.

  —THERE’S THE HEARTH STONE —

  AND THE BELLOWS —

  AND THERE’S MY OLD DOG—JACK —

  It had none of the Paddy, none of the dishonesty at the core of every Irish song Jimmy had ever heard, except ‘Teenage Kicks’ and maybe ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’.

  —OH—I’M TRAIPSIN’ THE WORLD —

  WITH THE HOUSE ON MY BACK —

  He lifted the stylus. It came back immediately, the delicacy and importance of the movement. He didn’t have a record player. They’d been waiting till the kids grew up.

  Norman walked in.

  —You’re back, Norman.

  Norman looked a bit lost.

  —How was that? Jimmy asked him.

  I’m worse than my da. I’m my da’s fuckin’ da!

  —Fine, said Norman.—Grand.

  —We were talkin’ about Dolores McKenna there, said Jimmy. —D’you know annythin’ about her, Norman?

  —There’s no need to keep repeating my name, said Norman.—I know who I am.

  —Grand. Great.

  —That’s her only record, said Norman.

  He looked pleased, then anxious.

  —That’s – my God, said Ocean.—Her only recording.

  —No, said Norman.—Only record. It’s the only one in the world. As far as is known.

  —Oh – my God.

  —Jesus, Norman.

  Jimmy went to lift Dolores off the turntable.

  —No!

  He stopped.

  —Let Ocean do it.

  —Okay, said Jimmy.—Fair enough.

  He got out of her way.

  —Anyway, he said, to Ocean.—That line, I’m
traipsin’ the world.

  —I love it.

  She slid the record into the purple sleeve.

  —Me too, said Jimmy.—But – here’s why I was wonderin’ about adjustin’ her name a bit.

  —What? said Norman.

  —Well, said Jimmy.—If she was American. A blues singer.

  —Black?

  —Is there any other colour? said Jimmy.—Anyway, when she sang that word traipsin’, we’d know she meant a bit more than just traipsin’. Walkin’ around, like.

  There was no distance between his brain and his mouth; that tube had come out with the surgery, into the bucket with the bowels. And the smile – the grin. He could feel it in his skin. It belonged to a man who knew he’d be wanting to vomit and die in less than forty-eight hours.

  —What’re you talking about? said Norman.—Are you talking about sex, by any chance?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.

  —And you think that line is about sex?

  —No, said Jimmy.—It’s what can be suggested.

  —It’s a girl with a lovely voice who misses her dog.

  —I know.

  —And her mother!

  —I know. I know. Just bear with me.

  He talked to Ocean.

  —A blues singer in America in 1932 could sing the word traipsin’ in a way that hid meanings from official America. She could have been singin’ about sex or —

  He looked at Norman – he tried to.

  —missin’ the sex.

  —With her dog?!

  —No, not with her fuckin’ dog. Jesus, Norman, I’d have thought that you of all people would’ve —

  —What? said Norman.—Would’ve what?

  Ocean rescued him.

  —An Irish woman sings traipsing in 1932, she means, I guess, moving along slowly with a bundle on her back. An African-American woman sings it in 1932, and she means, okay, moving along slowly. But she also means fucking. That, I think, is what Jimmy is saying. Right, Jimmy?

  —No. Yeah. No.

  He took a breath.

  —No, no. Listen. Ireland in 1932 was a miserable place. That’s my guess, and I bet I’m right. Kids with no shoes, hunger, bad housin’, the Church supervisin’ everythin’. But the official picture was different. Happy peasants, glad to be rid of the Brits.

  He was loving this.

  —So anyway. One of the few escapes, beside real escape – emigration, like – was music. It’s always been like tha’. Music is the great escape. In the words an’ the rhythm. You could do things an’ say things that weren’t allowed. And not just sex now. Although everythin’ is sex.

  It was hard to look at both of them, at either of them. But he did.

  —But anyway. The music. Happy when times were bad. Or laments when they were bein’ told that things were lookin’ up. They could tell the priests an’ the politicians tha’ they’d do whatever seemed natural an’ they wouldn’t be askin’ for permission. Inside in the song. In Ireland, in 1932.

  Norman and Ocean stood side by side, almost touching. They looked like a strange but happy couple.

  —So, said Jimmy.—Dolores there. She’s singin’ about carryin’ the weight of her memories wherever she goes. And it’s brilliant. Thanks, Norman.

  Norman smiled.

  Norman fuckin’ smiled.

  —It’s a sad image and it’s a very sad song. But where’s the defiance?

  They were still glued to him.

  —Where’s the fuck-you to the dump she’s had to leave? It’s when she sings about traipsin’ —

  —Bellows, said Norman.

  —Sorry, Norman?

  —Bellows, he said again.

  —What about it?

  —I think it might mean the mickey, said Norman.

  He took the hearing aid yoke from his waistcoat pocket, and put it back in.

  —You mean it’s phallic? said Ocean.

  —That’s a better way of putting it, said Norman.

  —That’s interesting, said Ocean.

  —It’s the way she stresses it, said Norman.—The word. I think she might have winked there.

  —The hearth’s the vagina, said Ocean.

  —And Jack?

  —He’s not really a dog, said Norman.—And he has the bellows.

  —In 1932.

  —July the 17th, said Norman.—To be exact.

  —But it’s hidden, said Jimmy.

  —Oh, it is, said Norman.—It’s still a song about emigration.

  —And it’s brilliant, said Jimmy.—But I’d love to find – what we need is a singer who hides nothin’. Is he here, Norman? Or she.

  —No, said Norman.—No.

  —Well, said Jimmy.—I’m goin’ to find him.

  —The cancer trousers are back.

  —Lay off, Aoife.

  The nights were the worst. When he couldn’t sleep and he knew he wouldn’t be able to – until he woke up.

  Two nights to go.

  —What’re you doing?

  —Oilin’ the valves, he said—I’m not sure if I’m doin’ it properly.

  —It looks complicated.

  —Not really.

  She picked up the bottle.

  —Blue Juice Valve Oil, she read.

  —Yep.

  She let him take the bottle. She watched him as he dipped the nozzle against what must have been one of the valves and let a few drops roll out onto its side – it looked oily already – before putting it down, on top of the bedroom radiator.

  —Jimmy, she said again.

  —Wha’?

  —Can I say something?

  He couldn’t hear her. He could – but he had to try hard. It was like trying to follow what someone was saying in a packed pub.

  —Go on.

  —Look at me.

  —Hang on.

  He lowered the valve back into the cylinder, or whatever it was.

  Go away, go away.

  He jiggled it till he thought he heard a click and a tightness – the valve was home – and he screwed it down. He put fingers on the valves, and lowered them. He lifted the fingers and watched the valves rise.

  —Done.

  —I’m still here.

  The way she’d said it – she was lovely.

  —Sorry.

  —Nervous?

  —Not really. Yeah. Very.

  He put the trumpet in the case.

  —I’m terrified, he said.

  Now he looked at her.

  —Not the chemo, he said.

  —I know.

  —The nausea.

  It felt good to say it.

  —It’s like puttin’ your hand on a hotplate, he said.—Deliberately. Why would you fuckin’ do that?

  —Do you want to stop?

  —No. You mean call it off?

  —Yes.

  —No. Yeah, I’d love to. I’d – I’d faint with happiness if I was told – if they rang now an’ told me it was over.

  Her arms were around him.

  —But no.

  She pulled at the waistband, and let it go.

  —Lay off.

  —Sorry. I’m listening.

  —I’m finished, he said.—And sorry about the cancer trousers. I know you hate them.

  —I want you to hate them.

  —I do.

  —Not really.

  —No, I do. It’s just – the tension, I suppose.

  He tried to show her.

  —It’s all around my stomach, like it’s in it. Have I put on weight?

  —No.

  —It feels that way. With proper jeans on.

  —Will you come downstairs?

  —Yeah, yeah. In a minute.

  —No, listen, she said.—I don’t know what you’re going through. Don’t take this wrong – but you’re frightening the kids. Even Marvin. Especially Marvin. When you’re like this. And I know – . But – do you understand, Jimmy?

  —Yeah.

  He nodded.

  —Yeah.


  His eyes were wet. So were hers.

  —I’m tryin’.

  —I know.

  He wasn’t sure the bed would still be there when he moved, whether they were right at the edge of it and he’d end up face-first on the floor; he didn’t know where he was here. His feet were tangled in – it might have been a dressing gown, or a towel.

  He was freezing.

  —Are you in a hurry? said Imelda.

  —No, he said.—No.

  —Liar.

  —I’m not, said Jimmy.—Seriously.

  He’d walked in earlier, into the kitchen. He’d looked at Aoife. He’d smiled. Brave man, only one night left to chemo.

  —How are you? she’d asked.

  —Grand.

  —How was the day?

  —Grand, he said.—Not too bad. Shifted a few units.

  —Good.

  He’d gone upstairs. He’d sat on the bed. He’d thought about leaving, sliding out of the house. Driving to Howth Head. Stepping off it. Onto the rocks and into the sea.

  It wasn’t real thought. He was messing.

  He walked back into the kitchen. He looked down at the dog.

  —Do we have a lead for this thing? he said.

  —In under the sink, said Aoife.—But he’s a bit small for it, I’d say.

  She was right. The lead was a thick length of rope, probably made for a harpoon. And, now that he thought of it, the dog didn’t have a collar yet.

  —Do we have any string?

  —No way, like.

  It was Mahalia.

  —Why not?

  —You’ll strangle him.

  —Only if I want to.

  —Not funny, she said.—Hang on.

  She was gone – he had to wait. But it was fine; he wasn’t panicking.

  Mahalia was back.

  —There.

  She handed him what looked like the cord of a dressing gown.

  —Grand, he said.—Hang on, this is mine.

  —Tough shit, Sherlock.

  He tied the cord around the dog’s neck, not too tight. He stood up and gave it a little tug. The dog yelped, and skidded. It was the shock, not the tightness.

  Jimmy had to get out. He felt devastated, and fuckin’ great. He didn’t trust himself.

  —I’m gone.

  —We’ll eat when you get back.

  If I get back.

  Gobshite.

  —Grand. Come on, Messi.

  —Bring this.

  Aoife handed him a SuperValu bag.

  —Why?

  —Poo.

  —I’ll wait till I get home.

  —You’re hilarious, she said.

  He put the bag in his pocket.

  —See yeh in a bit.

  —Has he been wormed, by the way? he shouted back from the hall.

  —Keep him off the grass!