The Guts (16 page)

Fergal was gone.

—You handled tha’ well, Darren.

—Fuck off, said Darren.

—So, said Jimmy.—Seriously now. Are Faith and Max family?

—No.

—Ever?

—Not yet.

—I’m with yeh, said Jimmy.—A few more years, a few more visits.

—Yeah, said Darren.—That seems to make sense.

—That’s twenty-three so, said Jimmy.—I’m surprised. I expected more.

—Yeah, Darren agreed.

Jimmy made his mind up.

—I wonder how many kids Les has, he said.

—One, said Darren.

—D’yeh think so?

Darren looked at him over the specs – then properly.

—I know, he said.

—Maisie, said Jimmy.

—Yeah.

—Lovely name.

—Yeah.

—How did yeh know? Jimmy asked.

He didn’t know what he felt – how to feel. Robbed. Guilty. Relieved. Fuckin’ useless.

—We’ve been in touch.

—You an’ Les.

—Yeah.

—Me too, said Jimmy.

It had never occurred to him that Darren and Les would have been talking to each other, that Darren would have contacted Les, or Les would have contacted Darren. It made sense. It made sense! They were brothers, for fuck sake, closer in age than Jimmy was to Les.

—Have you seen him? Jimmy asked.

Darren didn’t answer quickly.

—No.

—Phone?

—Yeah.

—Me too, said Jimmy.

He hated hearing himself.

—Is he alright? he asked.—D’you think?

—Yeah, said Darren.—Yeah.

He wasn’t holding anything back; Jimmy didn’t think he was.

—Is he married?

—No.

—That’s twenty-five so. In the family.

—Right.

Mahalia was passing through, with Tracy’s Shauna and Darren’s Fay hanging onto her. And, he saw now as well, Mahalia was trailing Sharon’s Gina. And – Jesus – Gina was following Max.

—Christ, Mahalia, said Darren.—You’re taller than your mother.

—That’s, like, no big achievement, said Mahalia.

Darren laughed – he burst out laughing. Jimmy wanted to hug Mahalia.

He put it to his mouth, and blew. But nothing came out. Just the sound of his breath.

He tried again. Deep breath.

Nothing.

He’d watched a guy on YouTube explaining how to get sound from the trumpet. It was the lips – the aperture. Say M, your man said, then smile. Then blow.

—Mmmmmm.

Nothing.

Maybe his smile wasn’t convincing enough. He was faking it.

—Mmmmmm.

There were white spots, and he had to sit on the side of the bath till they went.

He was grand again; he wouldn’t be fainting. The smile had been too big, too desperate, like your man’s in Wallace & Gromit. He made it smaller, take it or leave it.

He blew.

He heard a cheer from downstairs, and applause.

He phoned Des. But Des had been ahead of the rest, and he’d changed his mind about going to the Chinese. He’d got into a taxi instead, and gone home.

—Alone?

—Unfortunately.

—So you saw nothin’?

—Saw nothing, heard nothing.

—Okay, said Jimmy. You don’t know anyone that teaches trumpet, do yeh, Des?

—No.

He phoned Noeleen.

—Jimbo.

—Howyeh.

—How was Christmas?

—Grand. Great. Quiet. You?

—Same here. So.

—Do I have to phone Ned?

—Strange question, Jimbo.

—I know. But. Did I apologise to him?

—No.

—How was he?

—Angry.

—Okay.

—Phone him.

—Okay.

—It’s been nearly a week.

—I know. I’ll phone him.

—And you’re in tomorrow?

—Yeah.

—We’ll talk.

That sounded a bit ominous.

—Yeah.

He sat on the bath, the trumpet in one hand – it was so fuckin’ cool – and his phone in the other. He found Ned’s number.

—Hello?

—Ned.

—Yes?

—It’s Jimmy. Rabbitte.

—Ah.

—I owe you an apology.

—Ah.

—I’m sorry, said Jimmy.—I was out of my face. I’m not excusin’ myself now. I shouldn’t’ve hit you.

He shouldn’t have said that, reminded the poor man that he’d given him the slaps.

—So look it, he said.—I’m sorry.

—Thank you, Jimmy, said Ned.

—Yeah, well, said Jimmy.

He looked at himself holding the trumpet. He liked what he saw. The chemo could fuck off.

—I meant to phone you earlier, he said.—But it took—. The drugs, yeh know. The painkillers.

Shut up, for fuck sake
.

—I probably shouldn’t have been drinkin’ at all, he said.

—Forget about it, said Ned.—It never happened.

—Fair play, Ned. Thanks.

—But, said Ned.—I’m just thinking. It might be an idea to apologise to Ocean too.

Fuckin’ why?

—I’ll do that, Ned. Good idea. I’ll do it when I see her.

—Hold on, Jimmy. I’m just passing the phone over to her now.

—Hi, Jimmy!

He hung up and got out of the bathroom. It was becoming a David Lynch film in there. He went into the bedroom and lay back on the bed.

Aoife was sitting beside him when he woke and knew he’d been sleeping. It was cold, and dark.

—Jesus, it’s freezin’.

He was trying to climb in under the duvet.

—Your shoes, Jimmy.

He got them off, dropped them on the floor.

—Get in with me.

—Dinner’s ready.

—I’m your starter, said Jimmy.

He moved across the bed, onto the trumpet.

—Fuck, sorry – me trumpet.

—God, you’re sleeping with it now.

—I’m not.

—I don’t know, she said.—I’m jealous.

—No need to be, he said.—It’s a hard oul’ hole.

—Ah Jimmy!

—Only messin’.

He held her.

—Warm me up, nurse.

Her arse was in his lap. He put an arm around her and pulled her nearer.

—It’s pizza.

—Lovely.

He pulled her even closer. She didn’t object. He could feel the material; she was wearing one of his shirts again.

—Listen, he said.—I’m in a bit of a moral dilemma.

She didn’t move but she definitely seemed to be further away.

—It’s not what you might think, he said.

—I’ve no idea what I might think, she said.

—I want your advice, he said.

—Go on.

He told her what he’d seen on the street after the do, and how he’d whacked Ned. He said whacked, not slapped. He told her about the call to Noeleen and the call to Ned.

—And she was with him.

—Who?

—The Ocean one, said Jimmy.

—With this Ned guy?

She started to sit up.

—Yeah, he said.—He handed the phone to her.

—God, said Aoife.—The fucking monster. What did you say to her?

—Nothin’. I just hung up.

—You should have told her to get out of that man’s house as quickly as possible. Where does he live?

Quite close was the answer but he wasn’t going to tell Aoife that.

—The thing is though, he said.—It isn’t illegal.

—It should be, said Aoife.

—Why?

—It’s obvious. The age difference. He’s exploiting her.

—How do we know?

—What?

—It’s horrible, said Jimmy.—No argument. He’s more than twice her age.

And so was Jimmy.

—Way more, he said.—Must be nearly three times more.

—Spare me the maths lesson, Jimmy, said Aoife.

She was getting out of the bed.

—Hang on, he said.—Please. Aoife.

She stayed put.

—It’s not illegal, okay?

—Okay, said Aoife.

—They’re both consentin’ adults.

—Don’t rub it in.

—Well, okay. Sorry. But they are. An’ he’s one of our clients. A bit of a big one. So what do I do?

—Ditch him.

—Okay. Why?

—He’s a pervert.

He took a breath.

—Not really, he said.—But okay. And his back catalogue’s shite. That’s two good reasons not to like him. Which is easy enough anyway. He’s a prick. But do I drop him because o’ that?

—I would, said Aoife.

—Would you?

—Yes.

—Would you, though?

—Is there any way we could kill him?

—There’s plenty, said Jimmy.—But I don’t think we’d get away with it.

—And your motives would be ludicrous, said Aoife.—You’d kill him because he played a banjo in one of his songs.

—Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy.—And it wasn’t just one of his songs.

He sat up.

—So anyway, he said.—I’m stuck with him, yeah?

—It’s disgusting, said Aoife.—But yes. I’m glad you hit him.

—Well, I’m not sure about that.

—What?

—When I apologised to him —

—What?! You didn’t tell me this.

—Yeah. Earlier. I told you.

—You said you spoke to him. You said nothing about apologising.

—Well, I didn’t phone him to talk abou’ the football, said Jimmy.

—Go on.

—So when I said sorry and then he passed the phone to your woman —

—The child.

—Ah stop.

—The orphan.

—Grand. The thought struck me. That me hittin’ him had brought them together.

—No.

—No?

—No. No, said Aoife.—It’s too weird.

—She fell into his arms, said Jimmy.—Felt sorry for him. No?

—No.

—It’s impossible, is it?

—No.

—So it’s possible then. She’s a Yank.

—Oh.

—So do I apologise?

—You did already.

—Again.

—Why should you?

—For hangin’ up on her.

—No.

—Sure?

—Yes.

—There’s Noeleen as well.

—Ah, you didn’t hit Noeleen?

—No, said Jimmy.—No, I didn’t – relax. But she was talkin’ a bit at the do. Things aren’t goin’ too well, and we can’t really afford to be leakin’ clients.

—At his age, I’m sure he’s leaking.

Jimmy laughed.

—That’s very good.

—Oh, thank you.

—So anyway. Do I apologise again – more?

—No.

—How come?

—See what happens.

—Fine. Grand.

—Should we be worried, Jimmy?

—What about?

—Business, she said.—Your job.

He felt it; he knew. This was what he’d been wanting.

—Probably, he said.—I’m not sure. Maybe.

She sighed. So did he.

—On top of everything else, she said.

—Yep, he said.—But I think we’re okay.

—I’m sure it’s fine.

—Yeah.

A note this time. He held it. As long as he could.

The dog downstairs howled.

—You’re upsetting Cindy!

Grand.

—Ned.

—Ah.

—It’s Jimmy.

—Ah.

—It’s a few days early, I know, said Jimmy.—But Happy New Year, Ned.

Nothing came back from Ned. The beardy bollix.

—Listen, Ned, said Jimmy.—I think I owe you another apology. No, look it, I know I do. So, sorry. Yeh there, Ned?

—Yes, said Ned.—I’m here.

—No excuses, said Jimmy.—I’m sorry.

—Okay.

—Thanks. You still there, Ned?

—I’m here, said Ned.

Jimmy heard one of those theatrical sighs – the only type the prick at the other end was capable of. Then a different, chirpier prick spoke.

—Thanks for phoning, Jimmy.

—No, I had to. Listen, we’ll meet. Go through stuff. A few gigs in the spring.

—Sounds good.

—Germany.

—Great.

—Denmark.

—Great.

—Norway, said Jimmy.—But anyway, I’ll leave yeh. I just wanted to —

—No, said Ned.—Thanks for phoning.

—No, you’re grand, said Jimmy.—Always a pleasure. Anyway, so – you’re a lucky man.

—I know.

—I’m glad yeh realise that, said Jimmy, and he laughed.—Anyway. Next time, give her one for me.

—Bye.

—Good luck, Ned.

Fuck off, Ned
.

—The Pope? said Noeleen.

He’d had the idea that morning, listening to the news on the way in.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.

He grinned; he actually laughed – just a burst.

—Tell me again, said Noeleen.

She did her businesswoman thing, put one foot up on her chair.

—Right, said Jimmy.—In 2012 – the day after tomorrow. There’s a thing – it’s called the Eucharistic Congress. Here in Dublin. And it’s the first time since 1932.

—And?

—It was huge back then.

—But not this time.

—Wait, said Jimmy.—Just wait. If they were havin’ it tomorrow, I’d agree. But it’s later in the year an’ this is the Catholic Church, remember. They’ll get a crowd.

—It won’t be Oxegen, Jimmy.

Her foot was still up on the chair.

—No, said Jimmy.—It’ll be bigger.

—How – ?

—Just listen, Noeleen, for fuck sake.

He was grinning.

Her foot came down off the chair – the oul’ muscles weren’t what they used to be. But she was still listening.

—They’re invitin’ the fuckin’ Pope, he said.—It was on the news this mornin’. Remember the last time?

—Not really, she said.

That was right; she was younger than him. He hated that – he fuckin’ hated that.