The Guts Page 9

  —It’s good to be home, he said.

  He thought of something. He looked at Brian and Mahalia.

  —No school?

  —Mam said we could stay at home till you came home, like, said Mahalia.

  —Chancers, said Jimmy.—Usin’ me as an excuse.

  He had Brian laughing again.

  —So I’m home, he said.—So off yeh go, back to school.

  —Can we have a takeaway —

  —No!

  Aoife and Jimmy shouted it together.

  —I think that’s a No, said Mahalia.

  Brian got his schoolbag out from behind the door. He stopped, went, stopped. He turned to Jimmy.

  —Are you finished?

  —Finished wha’? said Jimmy.—The hospital, d’yeh mean?

  —Yeah.

  —I think so, yeah, said Jimmy.—I’ll be in for the day just. Now and again. Once a week or somethin’. But I’ll be home every night.

  He looked at Brian’s face and tried to take the worry off it.

  —It’ll be grand, he said.

  He was exhausted. Wiped. The dog was back on the floor, scratching at the mat at the back door. He was surrounded by noise; that was what it was like.

  He was fucked, shattered.

  He smiled at Brian.

  —How’s school been since?

  —Okay.

  —Okay?

  —A bit boring.

  —How is it borin’?

  —Just is.

  —I’m flaked, he said.—I think I’ll lie down for a bit.

  He looked at the faces looking at him.

  —I’ll be up when you come home.

  He stood up as sharply as he could manage and he made sure he didn’t grunt or moan.

  —It’s great to be home.

  He looked down at the dog. He smiled again. He fuckin’ hated it. The sister’s dog, a fuckin’ spy.

  —How long is a few days? he asked Aoife.

  —Two weeks, she said.

  —Fuck sake, he said.—Where’ve they gone?

  —A cruise, she said.

  —A cruise? he said.—Recession me hole.

  —Mediterranean. Starting in Genoa.

  —Grand, he said.—And endin’ in acrimony. See yis in a bit.

  He headed to the stairs.

  —Will I wake you later?

  No.

  —Yeah, he said.—That’d be nice.

  The light at the sides of the curtains wasn’t as sharp. The sun had gone over the house.

  He’d slept. Brilliant. He’d shut his eyes and he’d gone to sleep. Simple as that.

  He could make out music, some shite downstairs. Hall & Oates, he thought it was. ‘Maneater’. Aoife was listening to Nova on the Roberts. He’d give out to her later, wasting internet radio on shite like that. She loved what she called his musical fascism.

  He could hear yapping now too. Caoimhe’s excuse for a dog. Out the back. Although he couldn’t be certain. The estate was full of yappers. If he’d ever needed to prove that this was a middle-class area it wouldn’t have been the houses he’d have pointed at. They were just ordinary, three-bedroomed, with small gardens; reasonable at the time, ludicrously expensive for a few years and probably worth fuck all now. It wasn’t the houses that marked the place, or most of the people. They were the same as everywhere. Although middle-class gobshites were a bit more complicated, harder to spot and easier to write off than the working-class ones.

  —What school did you go to?

  Jimmy had never been asked that question until the eejit next door, Conor, had asked him. Two or three years back, this was. Jimmy had had to think before he’d answered. He couldn’t remember the name of the fuckin’ place.

  They were in Conor and Sinéad’s front room, pretending they were relaxed and having a great time.

  —Blackacres, said Jimmy.

  Conor looked lost.

  —The community school, said Jimmy.

  —Ah, said Conor.

  —It wasn’t a bad oul’ school, said Jimmy.—A bit mad.

  —In Barrytown, said Sinéad.

  Her face would have made more sense if she’d said, in Soweto. But she was trying her best.

  —Blackacres was the name of the farm the houses were built on, Jimmy told her.—The barn was there for years after. The smell of pig shite – Jesus.

  Sinéad and Aoife laughed.

  —I think they called it Blackacres Community School to avoid callin’ it Barrytown Community School.

  —There’s nothing wrong with Barrytown, said Sinéad.

  —D’you know Barrytown, do yeh, Sinéad? he asked her.

  Aoife’s eyes were huge, charging across the coffee table at him.

  —Yes, I do, said Sinéad.

  —Do yeh?

  —Yes, said Sinéad.—I’m from Barrytown.

  Aoife grinned.

  Jimmy looked at Sinéad and tried to recognise her.

  —What part? he asked.

  —Just Barrytown, said Sinéad.

  —Old Barrytown? said Jimmy.—The part tha’ was there before the houses?

  —I lived in a house, said Sinéad.

  Jimmy tried to see her twenty years before, or twenty-four or five. That was the thing: the young ones in old Barrytown, the ones from the older houses, the snobby houses, they’d all been rides, what every young fella in new Barrytown dreamt of. But this one, Sinéad, was too young. She was about ten years younger than Jimmy.

  —D’yeh have any sisters? he asked her.

  Aoife’s mouth hung open, a bit.

  —Yes, said Sinéad, and she left it at that.

  He listened now for noise next door, in the bedroom beyond the wall. Sinéad was probably in there, somewhere in the house. She’d had the twins since that night. He often saw her pushing that double-decker buggy.

  There was no sign of life in there. No sound.

  His phone was in his tracksuit bottoms, zipped in safe like his lunch money. He’d left it off while he was in the hospital. He didn’t have to lean too far. He grabbed a leg and lay back again. He was still comfortable, kind of half asleep. He got the phone out and turned it on.

  Where he grew up, most of the dogs were huge. Their shite was mountainous, borderline human. Everyone he knew had been bitten by a local dog.

  The phone started beeping as it rolled out five days’ worth of texts. He didn’t have an iPhone or a BlackBerry. Just an old-fashioned Nokia. He’d had a BlackBerry for a month but he’d got rid of it. There’d been no escape from work. Aoife had put it out on the windowsill one night.

  The texts had stopped. He knew most of them were from his da, and the football scores. Liverpool had played while he’d been drugged. One text from his da would tell him the result. For fuck sake. They’d lost again.

  The others could wait. He texted Darren. Did u no Sinead Ni Cheallaigh? The phone hopped on the pillow beside him. It was Darren. Yes. How’s the arse? Apostrophe and all, the over-educated prick. Still attached. Did u no hr well?

  The dogs in Barrytown hadn’t yapped. They’d barked. They’d howled. If they started riding your leg, or even got up on your back, you didn’t object.

  The phone again. Very well. The bastard. He’d leave it at that.

  The dogs here were small and mouthy. They were proper pets, extra children really. That was the indicator, the thing he’d have pointed out to any sociologist. Don’t look at the houses or the cars or the schools. Look at the dogs.

  He liked how he was now. Nice and lazy. A bit of fever, maybe. Nothing expected of him. He closed his eyes.

  The phone again. I fucked her til she begged for mercy in Irish. Jimmy laughed. Darren never spoke like that. He was definitely spoofing. That was grand. He sent one back – Good man – and turned off the phone.

  It was a bit darker now.

  He could hear feet outside and young ones talking.

  —Ohmyfuckingod, no way.

  He heard the front door. He heard it slammed shut.
Right under him.

  He stayed where he was. He’d go down in a bit. Mingle. Meet and fuckin’ greet.

  —How’s school?

  —Grand.

  —Grand?

  —Yeah. Kind of.

  The ads were on, so the sound was down. They were all watching The Apprentice, the Irish one. Jimmy couldn’t remember the last time they’d all watched telly at the same time. They were sticking it out, staying together for the night. He liked that; he appreciated it. The couch was all his, and the remote as well. He could have switched to The Frontline, to the union men with beards discussing the Croke Park Agreement, and they’d still have stayed with him.

  —How’s the study goin’?

  Marvin was on the floor, his head close to Jimmy’s feet. He was staring at the silent Bulmers ad.

  —Grand, he said.

  —Doin’ a bit?

  —Yeah.

  It was three weeks to Christmas, six months or so to the Leaving.

  —Good man, said Jimmy.—Don’t overdo it, though.

  —Oooh, said Mahalia.—Sarcasm.

  Brian laughed and looked up at Jimmy.

  —I’m not bein’ sarcastic, he lied.

  Marvin was still staring at the telly.

  —Yeh still there, Marv?

  —Yep.

  —Yeh don’t want to peak too early, said Jimmy.—Yeh with me?

  —Grand.

  —Good man.

  Why was he being like this, goading a kid he adored?

  —Here we go, he said.—They’re back.

  He turned the sound up.

  —It’s a bit loud, said Aoife.

  He turned it up a bit more, and down. Brian looked at him again. He winked.

  He sat up a bit. Don’t fuckin’ groan. He leaned out and patted Marv’s shoulder. Marv didn’t move, didn’t swerve out of reach. That was good. The shoulder felt big, hard; it belonged to a man.

  That was the problem.

  That was the thrill.

  —Who’ll be fired tonight? he asked.

  —All of them, said Marvin.

  —You’re right, said Jimmy.—He should.

  —Ah no, said Aoife.—I like the little fella.

  —They’re all, like, little, said Mahalia.—Which one?

  —The young one, said Aoife.—The mouthy little fella.

  —He’d drive me demented if I had to work with him, said Jimmy.—Look at the state of him.

  —Well, I hope he wins.

  —Ah Jesus, Aoife. Why?

  —He reminds me of you.

  They laughed. They all looked at him, even Marvin. He loved it.

  He got up with the rest of them. He put bread in the toaster. He put bowls on the table.

  He felt strange – kind of loose. He sat down.

  No one noticed.

  The fuckin’ dog was there, clawing at the dressing gown, tearing holes in the fuckin’ thing.

  He gave up.

  He bent down – he was grand. He got his hand under the dog and picked it up. It was nearly weightless.

  Brian was watching.

  —What’s it called again?

  —Cindy, said Brian.

  —That’s right, said Jimmy.—Stupid name.

  He felt stronger now, more solid.

  The dog turned a few times on his lap; she’d plenty of room. Then she lay down and curled up. He patted her back. The dog-in-law.

  —What are you smiling at?

  —Nothin’.

  Hi.

  He could feel his heart. Like he’d been running. He searched the rest of the page but he knew there was nothing else. No attachment, or a sentence pushed down to the bottom of the page by the Enter key. There was just the one word – and the name.

  Les.

  Christ. Oh, Christ.

  His phone rang. It seemed to hop off the pillow as he was staring at Les’s name. It was his da.

  —Jimmy?

  —Howyeh.

  —It’s me.

  —Yeah.

  —Your mother was wonderin’ how yeh were.

  —I’m grand.

  —Good to be home, I’d say, is it?

  —Great, yeah.

  —Are yeh able to eat an’ tha’?

  —Yeah, no bother.

  —Food, like.

  —Yeah, I know wha’ yeh mean.

  —So, that’s good, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah. No, I’m grand.

  —How’s everyone?

  —Grand.

  —Glad to see yeh home?

  —Ah yeah.

  —Great, that’s great.

  —Thanks, Da.

  —I’ll leave yeh alone. Good luck.

  —Thanks for phonin’.

  —No bother.

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t told his da about Les’s email. And his ma. He could phone them now; they’d be delighted.

  No.

  His heart was still hopping.

  He had to get more from Les first. Hi. There had to be more than that.

  He shut the laptop. He closed his eyes.

  —He wants a sat nav.

  —He doesn’t have a fuckin’ car.

  —I don’t think that’s the point, said Aoife.

  He watched her whisking the eggs. He’d woken up wanting scrambled eggs. And batch. There’d been eggs in the fridge and she’d gone down to the Spar for the bread.

  —What use would a sat nav be to him? he asked.

  —Why does it matter?

  Brian’s letter to Santa was on the table in front of him.

  Dear Santa, I hope you are well. I want a Sat Nav. One that won’t break easy. And a Xbox game that is appopiate for my age. I’m nearly 11. Thank you very much. Yours sincerely. Brian Egan-Rabbitte.

  He was crying again.

  She didn’t notice.

  He was sick of the tears. He just wished the kids would stop growing up. Or, Brian anyway. He’d have been happy enough with one child to hold onto.

  The dog-in-law was at him again, trying to pull the tracksuit bottoms off him.

  —Will I cut the toast into soldiers for you? she asked.

  —No, he said.—You’re grand. Just dump the egg —

  He looked across and saw her waiting, grinning. She’d caught him out.

  —Ah fuck off.

  He had the laptop with him. He was going to go back to work, in the kitchen. That was the plan. For a couple of hours. He’d get rid of some emails, have a look at what Noeleen had been doing to the homepage while he’d been under the knife.

  He googled sat nav.

  —A hundred and twenty quid, he said.—Or a hundred and thirty.

  He scrolled down the PC World page.

  —That kind o’ range, he told her.

  She was emptying the eggs onto the toasted batch. The smell was a killer.

  —Would they be cheaper in the North? she asked.

  —I’d need a sat nav to find the fuckin’ North, he said.

  She laughed.

  He was happy. There was no escaping it. Happy and starving. And the starving – it was great. Like his guts were moving, waking up, demanding to be filled. There was nothing wrong or missing. He wanted food.

  —So, he said.

  He looked at the PC World page again and had a closer look at one of the sat navs.

  —It’s a rechargeable battery, he said.—As far as I can make out. So that’s grand. He’ll be able to walk around with it. Find his way to school an’ that.

  He pushed the laptop aside to make room for the plate that was coming at him. He pushed the dog aside as well, with his foot.

  Aoife put the plate down.

  —Thanks, he said.

  She put her hand on his head, then pulled him gently against her. Just for a second.

  Fuck, he was starving.

  —But, he said.

  —What?

  She sat down beside him. She was going to watch him eat.

  —Do we really want him walkin’ to school
with a sat nav? Holdin’ it out in front of him. Do we want to expose him to the slaggin’ he’ll definitely get?

  He could eat now.

  —Maybe there are others in his class getting the same thing, said Aoife.

  —I doubt it, said Jimmy.

  —Yes, she said.—I know. We’d be seeing all the ads.

  —That’s right.

  —But, she said.—Brian is Brian.

  —True, he said – he knew what she meant.—This is exactly what I needed, by the way.

  —Thanks.

  He examined the toast. It was nice and soft. He rolled it into a cigar.

  She was staring at him. She pointed across at the cooker.

  —Have I just been your mother over there?

  —Fuck off.

  She nodded at the rolled-up toast on its way to his mouth.

  —You’ve never done that before, she said.—Not in front of me.

  —Lay off, he said.—It was just an idea.

  —An idea or a memory?

  —Okay, he said.—A memory. It’s just the once.

  He shoved the toast, the whole roll, into his mouth, and regretted it. He was stuck. Stuck and fuckin’ choking. Being killed by a scrambled egg. In front of the woman he loved. One of the women he —

  He was having a fuckin’ ball.

  He swallowed the mush. There was nothing to it.

  —Brian is Brian, he said.—An’ fuck the begrudgers.

  —An’ fuck the fuckin’ begrudgers.

  He laughed. A speck of the toast flew onto her shoulder. She didn’t see it.

  —That’s not a bad impression of me, he said.

  —It wasn’t you, she said.—It was your father.

  She leaned the small bit over and kissed him.

  —There’s nothing quite as sexy as scrambled egg on a man’s breath.

  —Okay, he said.—Okay. Never again. So.

  He nodded at the laptop.

  —That’s a sat nav for Brian.

  —And a few small things.

  —Grand, he said.—I’ll be able to go into town. Next week – I’d say. Or the weekend. We can do it together.

  —Great.

  —What about the others? he said.

  There’d be no madness, no more requests for toys that didn’t exist, or toys that every other kid in the country wanted and expected. Jimmy had driven to Belfast one Saturday, searching for a Buzz Lightyear. This was ten years ago, maybe more. When travelling north was still a bit of an adventure, when you knew you were crossing the border. He’d been going to stop in Newry but he was behind all these other Dublin registrations, hundreds of them, most of them turning for Newry, and he decided they were all on the hunt for a Buzz. So he kept going up to Belfast, and there wasn’t a Buzz to be had, not even a Unionist one. He was in a cafe, just about to get dug into his – fuckin’ hell, he remembered – scrambled egg on toast, when Aoife had called him. Her friend, Tara, had phoned and told her that there were Buzz Lightyears in Wexford, a consignment of them straight off the Rosslare boat. So he’d finished his egg and driven the length of the country to Wexford, and he’d got the Buzz Lightyear. For Marvin. He’d got to the Toymaster door about two minutes before they were closing for the day.