The Guts

—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.

  —I’m with yeh.

  —It wasn’t that I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want to take it in. It was borin’.

  —Ignorance is bliss, maybe.

  —Maybe that too as well, yeah. But I’ll tell yeh. There was a picture – on the Wikipedia page, like. A woman gettin’ her chemo. She had the scarf, yeh know – the baldness. Sittin’ back in a big chair.

  —Was she good lookin’?

  —Park tha’ for a minute. She was wearin’ big mittens, on her hands, like, and these wine cooler yokes, padded tubes. On her feet. To reduce the harm to her nails.

  —An’ was tha’ borin’?

  —No, said Jimmy.—No. Tha’ frightened the shite out o’ me.

  —Yeh don’t want to damage your nails.

  —Fuck off, Da. It’s not – it’s. If it can damage fingernails, what’ll it do to the rest of me?

  —Toenails are even harder.

  —I know, said Jimmy.—I could cut meat with mine.

  —Me too, said Jimmy Sr.—I broke the fuckin’ nail scissors tryin’ to cut them. How’re the crisps goin’ down, by the way?

  —Grand, said Jimmy.—Why?

  —Well, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’ yeh said earlier. You said yeh were afraid to eat annythin’.

  —Oh, yeah. Yeah. No. I’m grand.

  —I thought crisps might be a no, said Jimmy Sr.—They look like they’d rip the hole off yeh. Just the look o’ them, yeh know.

  —Here, said Jimmy.—D’you want the rest of them?

  He held out the bag.

  —No, you’re grand, said his da.

  —I need water, said Jimmy.—The salt.

  He stood up and went across to the bar. He’d go home in a few minutes. The barman was looking at the golf on the telly over the door to the toilets. Jimmy waited. He counted the tellys. There were seven of them. All on, sound down. Golf, news, golf, singing, rugby league, ads and golf. The barman looked away.

  —When you’re ready.

  —Yeah?

  He looked foreign, Polish or Latvian or that part of the world. But he wasn’t foreign.

  —Could yeh give us a glass of water, please?

  The barman sighed and turned away.

  That proved it, Jimmy decided. The cunt was a Dub.

  The barman came back with a pint glass of water. Jimmy took it.

  —Thanks.

  Nothing from the barman. The ignorant prick.

  He went back to his da.

  —I’ll have to go in a minute, he said.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I’ll tell Aoife – tonigh’.

  —Won’t be easy.

  —No.

  —Fuckin’ hell, son.

  —I know.

  —D’you want me to tell your mother?

  —No, said Jimmy.—No. Thanks. I’ll tell her myself. Tomorrow – probably. There’s the kids too – fuck.

  —How’ll yeh manage tha’?

  —I haven’t a clue, said Jimmy.—There’s probably a book. Or a website. How to tell your kids you have cancer. Fun with cancer dot fuckin’ com.

  He smiled.

  —I’m gone, he said.

  He took the car key from his pocket.

  —Seeyeh.

  His father stood up too.

  —I’ll come with yeh.

  —To the house?

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—The car park just. I’ll see yeh to your vehicle.

  —I thought you were here for the nigh’.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—No. I think those days are gone.

  —You’re a new man.

  —I’m an old fuckin’ man, said Jimmy Sr.—I can’t have a few pints annymore without havin’ to get up to go to the jacks three or four times a night. So I have my pints earlier an’ I call it a day, earlier, if tha’ makes sense. An’, fuck it, I’m happy enough.

  —What about the lads?

  —The lads, said Jimmy Sr.—The lads are kind of a distant memory. But that’s a different story. Not for tonigh’. Come on. We’ll get you home.

  They walked to the exit. Jimmy let his da lead the way. His da waved at someone in a corner – the pub had more corners than New York – but Jimmy couldn’t make out who it was. The place was fuller than it had been. It was still quiet enough but most of the tables were occupied. It felt foreign, in a way. He didn’t know who was who, or what was going on. He didn’t go to places like this any more. Not that he couldn’t catch up. There wouldn’t be much training needed, or upskilling, to get back in the swing. Not the drinking – the reading, the knowing. The guy beside the cigarette machine was definitely waiting for someone. The way he was standing; he half expected to get thrown out. And Jimmy half recognised him. He’d gone to school with his brother – or his father. And the w
oman sitting on her own with her vodka parked exactly in the centre of her table, like it might be someone else’s.

  Jimmy knew her.

  —Imelda?

  She looked at him.

  —Jimmy Rabbitte! For fuck sake!

  She laughed and stood and opened her arms and he marched in there between them and felt her hands slide across his back. He was late with his own hands, getting them to move. She kissed his cheek, about half an inch from his lips. Then she stepped back, nearly into the table behind her. She laughed again.

  —Let’s see yeh.

  She smiled at him.

  —You’re lookin’ well, Jimmy.

  —So are you, he said.

  —Ah well.

  She was looking well. She might have been a bit pissed – Jimmy wasn’t sure – and a few kilos heavier, but Imelda Quirk would never not look well.

  His da was at the door.

  —Yeh righ’? he shouted.

  —Just a minute, Jimmy shouted back.

  —Yeh goin’ somewhere? said Imelda.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. Home to my wife, to tell her I have cancer. ’Fraid so.

  —Typical Jimmy, said Imelda.—Always runnin’.

  He didn’t know what to say – he hadn’t a clue.

  —Get out your phone, she said.

  —Wha’?

  He could feel his da looking at him. But he looked across to the door and his da wasn’t there.

  —Your phone, Jimmy, said Imelda.—Not your mickey.

  He laughed. He wasn’t blushing, and that made him ridiculously happy. He took his mobile from his pocket.

  —Ready? she said.

  —You’re givin’ me your number.

  —You’re still a fuckin’ genius.

  He laughed again. She recited the number, quickly.

  —Get tha’?

  —No bother, he said.

  He saved the number.

  —Phone me, she said.—When you want to.

  —Will do, he said.—Great seein’ yeh. It must be twenty years.

  —Don’t fuckin’ start, she said – she smiled.—I was still in primary school twenty years ago. Is that understood?

  —Loud an’ clear, said Jimmy.—I’m gone. I’ll phone yeh.

  He probably wouldn’t. He had cancer, kids, a wife he loved.

  —Grand, she said.

  She was sitting down again. There’d be no kiss goodbye, no hug.

  —Tomorrow maybe, he said as he left.

  —It’s up to you, Jimmy.

  His da was leaning against Jimmy’s car and the alarm was going. He’d heard it inside when he was talking to Imelda. Now though, it was loud – and his. He pointed the key and clicked. It stopped.