The Guts (2 page)

—No, I’m not.

He smiled.

—But —

—Because, if you are, said Jimmy.—I have to tell yeh. Most o’ the women older than you are actually dead.

—Well, at least I wouldn’t have to talk to them. An’ just so yeh know.

He sat up, moved his pint an inch.

—What I said earlier. Abou’ goin’ blind an’ tha’. Everythin’ deterioratin’ when yeh get older.

He waited, made sure Jimmy was paying proper attention.

—Go on, said Jimmy.

—I still wake up with a hard one, said his father.

—Do yeh? said Jimmy.

Don’t blush, he told himself. Don’t blush.

—Every mornin’, said Jimmy Sr.—Includin’ Sundays.

—That’s great. Well done.

—Fuck off.

Jimmy Sr picked up his pint, took a swig, put it back down.

—I know, he said.—You’re my son an’ all. So it’s a strange thing to be tellin’ yeh an’ it isn’t even dark outside. I wouldn’t have told yeh twenty years ago. I wouldn’t’ve dreamt of it. But what’re yeh now? You’re wha’? Forty-seven?

—Bang on.

—Well then, I thought I’d let yeh know, said Jimmy Sr.—I noticed yeh grunted there when you were sittin’ down. An’ there’s a lot more of your forehead on view than there used to be. Happens to us all. It’s desperate. Men are hit particularly bad. So, but. It isn’t all bad, is what I’m tryin’ to say. Father to son, like.

—D’you know wha’, Father?

—Wha’?

—That’s the first time you’ve ever spoken to me like tha’. Father to son.

—Is tha’ right?

—Yeah.

—No.

—Fuckin’ yeah.

—You’re not annoyed, are yeh?

—No, I’m not.

—Grand.

—But tell us, said Jimmy.—Wha’ do yeh do with your hard one?

—You’re missin’ the point, son. That’s a different conversation. An’ I don’t think it’s one we’ll ever be havin’.

—Grand, said Jimmy.

They said nothing for a bit.

—How come Bertie has such a young son? Jimmy asked.

—Ah Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—He rode his missis. It’s no great mystery.

—Still though, said Jimmy.—He’s quite old to be havin’ a teenager for a son.

He watched his father shrug. One of the shoulders was slower
coming back down than the other and he seemed to be in a bit of pain as the second shoulder settled.

—Bertie’d be a bit younger than me, said Jimmy Sr.

—Not that much, said Jimmy.—One of his kids, the mad one. Jason. He was a year behind me in school. He must be forty-five or six now.

—He must be, said Jimmy Sr.

—Where is he these days?

—Over there, said Jimmy Sr.

—The fat guy in the Arsenal jersey?

—That’s him, said Jimmy Sr.—He’s let himself go since he came off the heroin. Still lives at home.

—Hate tha’.

—Don’t be talkin’. It’s not natural. The state of him. Bertie says he has an Arsenal duvet cover an’ all.

—They’re not a bad team.

—They’re overrated. Ah, it’s sad. He did time, yeh know.

—Portlaoise.

—That’s righ’. Gun but no bullets. Still, he had the gun. Walks into a credit union with it. So, fuck’m. He deserved what he got. But annyway.

He picked up his pint. There was about half of it left.

—Hang on, said Jimmy.

He went up to the bar to order another pint for his da. He wanted to stand, just for a bit. He was restless, angry. Not really angry – nervous.

He looked at Bertie’s Jason. He didn’t look like a man to be scared of, a man who’d done time for armed robbery. He was sitting beside two other guys – now they looked a bit frightening – but he wasn’t really with them. They were much younger than Jason, harder, firmer, shouting quietly at each other.

—Fuckin’ did.

—Fuckin’ didn’t, fuck off, m’n.

He waited for the pint and paid for it. He took the change.

—Thanks.

And he went back down to his da.

—There yeh go.

—Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

He put the empty glass on the table to his left, and put the new one on top of his beer mat.

—So. Young Jason.

—Yeah.

—He gets out. But the family’s gone.

—Where?

—No, not gone anywhere. Just not his any more. She doesn’t want annythin’ to do with him. A lovely bird, by the way. You’d never guess it, looking at George fuckin’ Clooney over there in his Arsenal gear. Fuckin’ lovely.

—Kids?

—Two. I think. They don’t want to know him either. She did a great job while he was away. I’m not bein’ sarcastic. She did a great fuckin’ job. Bertie’ll tell yeh himself.

—Yeh fancy her.

—I do, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—Absolutely. I walk past her house every day. I sit on her wall.

Jimmy laughed.

—She’s gorgeous, said his father.—An’ she has the two kids, boy an’ a girl, one of them in Trinity College doin’ law for fuck sake, and the other one in London, workin’ in a bank that actually lends money. An’ that makes her even more gorgeous.

He picked up his pint and knocked back about half it.

—So Bertie an’ his missis are lumped with poor Jason.

—Jesus.

—Yeah, said Jimmy’s da.—It’s rough.

They looked across at Jason.

—It’s not the fact tha’ he’s there in the house, said Jimmy’s da.—That’s not too bad. There’s only him an’ the young lad, the Facebook fella. The rest are gone, so there’s plenty o’ room. It’s not that. It’s more the fact of him. Remindin’ them. He’s a fuckin’ disaster. A fat middle-aged teenager.

—That’s harsh.

—I’m quotin’ his father. An’ I see what he means.

—Every family has its fuck-ups, said Jimmy.

—I know, said his da.—I know tha’. I’m not bein’ judgmental. Well, I am. But I know.

Leslie was the name hanging, swaying, right in front of them. They both knew it; they both saw it. Les was Jimmy’s other brother. He’d walked out of the house after a row with his mother, twenty-two years before.

—I know, said Jimmy’s da.

He sighed.

—Yeh do your best, he said.—We all do. Bertie as well. But
fuck. I’m sure they love him. They probably love him. They try to. But it’s his lifestyle.

They were laughing again.

—The boom bypassed him.

—It fuckin’ did. An’ judgin’ by the head on him over there, he’s missin’ the recession as well. I’d say just sayin’ recession would take a lot out o’ poor Jason.

—What’s he on? Jimmy asked.—He’s on somethin’.

—Fuck knows, said Jimmy Sr.

He took a slug from his pint. He put the glass back on its mat.

—She goes into his room, Bertie’s mott. An’ she comes out cryin’.

—Why doesn’t she just stay out?

—That’s what I said, said Jimmy Sr.—An’ Bertie says she can’t help it. She feels guilty. She’s a woman, yeh know yourself. How’s your own woman?

—She’s grand. How’s Ma?

—Grand. Are yeh havin’ another?

—No, said Jimmy.—I’m drivin’.

—Fair enough.

—I have cancer.

—Good man.

—I’m bein’ serious, Da.

—I know.

Jimmy was shaking. He hadn’t noticed while he was working himself up to tell his father. But he knew it now. He pressed his hands down on his thighs, made his arms stiff. He wondered if his eyes were bloodshot, because they felt like they had to be.

—Jesus, son.

—Yeah.

—Wha’ kind?

—Bowel.

—Bad.

—Could be worse.

—Could it?

—So they say, said Jimmy.

—They?

—The doctors an’ tha’. The specialists. The team.

—The team?

—Yep.

—What colour are their jerseys?

Jimmy couldn’t think of an answer.

—It’s terrible, said his da.

—Yep.

—When did yeh find ou’?

—A few days ago, said Jimmy.—Monday.

—God.

Jimmy relaxed his arms. The madness was gone; they seemed to be his again. His father was fidgeting, like he’d found something sharp he’d been sitting on. Then Jimmy knew what he was doing. He was trying to get nearer to Jimmy without actually moving. Without making a show. He leaned across the table and put his hand on Jimmy’s arm. He kept it there.

—It’s not natural, he said.

—Cancer? said Jimmy.—I think it is. It’s —

—Stop bein’ so fuckin’ reasonable. It isn’t natural for a father – a parent, like – to hear tha’ kind of news from his child.

—Well, I had to tell yeh.

—Sorry, Jimmy. Sorry. I’m makin’ a mess of it.

He took his hand off Jimmy’s arm, and put it back.

—What I mean is, it should be the other way round. D’you know wha’ I mean?

—I do, yeah.

Jimmy Sr took his hand away and sat back into his chair.

—How did Aoife take it?

—Wha’?

—Aoife. How was she when yeh told her?

—I didn’t tell her, said Jimmy.

—Wha’?

—I can’t.

—You have to.

—I know.

—Fuck the drivin’. Have a pint.

—No.

Jimmy wiped his eyes, although he wasn’t crying.

—I’m afraid to eat or drink annythin’, he said.—I kind of expect it to be agony.

—Is it?

—No. Not at all.

—How did yeh find out?

—Blood, said Jimmy.—I was bleedin’.

—God —

—Nothin’ spectacular. Just, yeh know —

Jimmy watched his father wipe his eyes. He
was
crying.

—Sorry.

—You’re alrigh’.

—Who else have yeh told?

—No one, said Jimmy.

—I’m the first?

—I thought I’d tell you. Get it done, the first time. Then it’d be easier. I’ll be able to tell Aoife.

—I’m flattered.

—Sorry.

—You’re grand, said Jimmy Sr.—I
am
flattered. Weird, wha’.

—I was goin’ to tell Ma but somethin’ made me swerve towards you instead.

—It’ll kill her.

—You always say tha’.

—Fuck off.

—It’s true, yeh do. Even tha’ time when I said the Beatles weren’t as good as the Stones.

—But look it, your mother loves the Beatles.

—She couldn’t give a shite about the Beatles.

—You’re right, said Jimmy Sr.—Truth be fuckin’ told, it was the Bee Gees tha’ made your mother giddy. The early stuff, yeh know.

—Could be worse.

—It fuckin’ could. So.

Jimmy watched his father brush his thighs with his open hands.

—Wha’ now?

—Chemo, said Jimmy.

—Fuck.

—Yep.

—What is it? Exactly?

—I’m not sure yet, said Jimmy.—I started googlin’ but I stopped.

—Frightenin’, said his da.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—But borin’ as well.

—Borin’?

—Yeah.

—How is it fuckin’ borin’? Jesus, son, yeh don’t have to pretend.

—I’m not.

—Cancer’s borin’?

—No, said Jimmy.—Just readin’ about it.

He realised – he knew the feeling: he was enjoying himself. A weight – one of them, a big one – had been lifted. He definitely felt lighter.

—Even if you have it? said his da.

—Especially if you have it, said Jimmy.

Literally lighter. And light headed. He was tempted. He could leave the car in the car park, have a few pints, walk home or get a taxi and risk the smashed windscreen or wing mirror.

—So anyway, said his da.—Wha’ happened?

—Okay, said Jimmy.—I went to the specialist cunt an’ he gave me the good news. It’s early days, so they should be able to deal with it. Surgery an’ —

—Surgery?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Did I not mention surgery?

—No, yeh didn’t.

—Well, yeah, said Jimmy.—An operation. They’re takin’ it out.

—Your bowels?

—Most of them – it. About 80 per cent.

—For fuck sake.

—But the chemo thing, said Jimmy.—He tells me I’ll be havin’ chemo. An’ other things I don’t remember. I listened. But —

—Too much to take in.

—That’s it, said Jimmy.—But anyway. He mentions chemo. An’ he shakes my hand an’ brings me to meet the team. An’ it’s all grand. They’re great – no messin’. Very reassurin’. Although that’s shite, because it hadn’t sunk in. It’s fuckin’ weird – I was kind of delighted. Grateful, like. But anyway, I’m in good hands. So.

He really was enjoying himself.

—I went back to work, he said.

—That’s a bit strange but, is it? said his da.—A bit of a fuckin’ under-reaction or somethin’.

—I don’t think so, said Jimmy.—I know what yeh mean. But no. I was numb, Da. I hadn’t a clue. So I went back. I was hungry on the way back. Starvin’.

—Did yeh drive?

—I did, yeah. No one told me not to. But I was grand. I got back to work. Bought a sandwich an’ a packet of Tayto –

—Maybe your last.

—Fuck off.

—D’yeh want a pack now?

—No, said Jimmy.—No, yeah. I’d love one. Thanks.

His father groaned as he stood. Jimmy watched him straightening as he walked across to the bar, hitching up his jeans with a finger in the loop where the belt went at the back. He watched him wave across at Bertie’s Jason, watched him pat some guy at the bar’s shoulder – Jimmy didn’t know the guy. He watched his da order a pint and two bags of crisps, watched him head over to the jacks, watched the guy at the bar opening one of the Tayto bags.

He’d go soon. Home. He’d talk to Aoife – he’d tell her. It wouldn’t be too bad.

It would be fuckin’ terrible.

He felt fine, though. He was grand. He watched his da coming back from the jacks. He was slower – was he? Of course he was. The man was seventy-four or something. He watched him pay for his pint and the crisps. He watched him push the open bag at the guy at the bar. He heard them laugh. He saw the barman shove a fresh bag across the counter. He saw his da take it.

He lobbed one of the bags at Jimmy as he sat down and parked his new pint. The arse and the glass landed at the exact same time.

—What’re yeh grinnin’ at? said his da.

—Nothin’.

—Yeah, maybe. Where were we?

—Me bein’ bored, I think, said Jimmy.

—That’s right. Fuck sake. Go on.

—So, like, I bought a sandwich an’ the Tayto —

—It’s all comin’ back.

Jimmy opened the bag he had now and took out a good big one.

—An’ I sat at me desk, he said,—an’ I googled chemotherapy. An’ I clicked on the first link, the Wikipedia one, an’ I read. It was somethin’ like this, listen. Chemotherapy is the treatment of a disease with chemicals by killing micro-organisms or cancerous cells, an’ so on. An’ I just thought, I can’t read this shite.