The Guts

  —Can I see your wristband there?

  Jimmy pulled back the sleeve of his hoodie.

  —That’s great, thanks.

  Why did they give a shite if he had a wristband? He was leaving.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

  —I’ll be back in a sec, he told them.

  —Fine.

  —I’m gettin’ an oxygen canister from the car, said Jimmy.

  He saw that news change both faces.

  —For a friend, said Jimmy.—Asthma.

  —Okay, said the talker.

  —Thanks.

  He was running again. On the road. It was much quieter out here, as if the festival noise stopped at the gate. He wasn’t sure how far he had to go before the gap in the wall for the field. He didn’t think it was far. There was another spotlight ahead, at the edge of a field. The car park.

  Jimmy got his mobile out of his pocket. He kept moving. He got Les’s number. He was jogging again, sweating. Les didn’t answer. He tried Des. No answer. The pair of fuckin’ arses. Fuck knew where they were – and how they fuckin’ were.

  He’d found the gap in the wall. The going was bad here. Thousands of boots, months of rain. The muck, the water went over his boots. He had to pull them free. He went down on a knee. His leg was soaked.

  But he was through. He’d another pair of jeans back at the tent. And socks – two spare pairs.

  He couldn’t find the car. He couldn’t remember the car. It wasn’t his; it was Outspan’s ex’s. He thought it might be a Saab – he couldn’t remember.

  He was near it, somewhere. He looked back at the gap in the wall. The angle was familiar. They’d come this way the day before.

  He got the key out – the zapper. He pressed it and listened. He couldn’t hear the locks pop open.

  Shite.

  He stood at the next row of cars. He pressed again and looked for a light, and listened. He went through two cars to the next row. He pressed again.

  He heard it – the little whop. He locked the car he couldn’t see, then pressed again.

  He saw it and heard it. He’d found the car.

  There were people asleep in some of the cars he passed, a family in one of them, and a gang of heads in another.

  He got the boot open. He pulled back the blanket and pulled out the cylinder. It was aluminium, he thought, and smallish; it wasn’t heavy. There was a face mask or something as well – there had to be. He found it.

  He got the phone out. On way bak – 5 min. He sent it to Outspan.

  He locked the car.

  It was more than five minutes. Not much more, though – it couldn’t have been.

  —I’m back. Liam?

  He’d run with the cylinder on his shoulder, where the beer had been the day before. It had been much easier to carry but right against his head; he’d half expected it to explode.

  Outspan hadn’t changed. He could’ve been dead or alive – but he moved a hand and helped Jimmy with the mask. The same hand went on to the cylinder and a finger pointed at the valve or whatever it was.

  —I turn this?

  The hand tapped the cylinder.

  Jimmy turned the thing – it went easily – and he heard the hiss and watched as Outspan sank back into his jacket. He shut his eyes and lifted his thumb to Jimmy.

  Jimmy put his hand to his own forehead, back into his hair. He could feel the sweat parting with his hand. He was dripping, fuckin’ melting – and cold as well.

  —Alright?

  Outspan grunted a single syllable. It was fuckin’ music.

  —Great, said Jimmy.

  The muck was drying on his jeans, although they were still wet – freezing – against his leg. He didn’t care. He pulled the boots off, but it wasn’t easy. The laces were slimy and thick. He couldn’t get a proper grip on the heel. But he got them off and threw them in a corner – he didn’t care. He got his feet, his legs into the sleeping bag. He could hear Outspan exhaling. He’d left the flap open. He leaned forward as far as he could and grabbed the zipper, missed it, got a proper hold of it – and saw Les climbing into his tent.

  He shut the flap – he hated the noise zips made. He lay back, wriggled himself into the bag.

  He was going to warm up. He might even doze. He’d a working day ahead of him. He nearly laughed.

  —Come here, he said.

  He sat up.

  —Remember we were talkin’ about Imelda Quirk?

  Outspan kind of nodded.

  —Well, I rode her, said Jimmy.

  He looked across at Outspan, tried to see his face.

  —Recently, like.

  He heard a small grunt.

  —Just thought yeh might like to know, he said.

  He saw Outspan’s hand. He lifted the mask a small bit.

  —Thanks.

  —No problem.

  He woke again. He’d slept – he couldn’t believe it. There was daylight bleeding easily through the tent walls. He took his arm out of the bag and looked at his watch. Quarter to eight. That wasn’t too bad. He’d survive on that.

  He looked across at Outspan.

  Outspan was looking at him. He lifted the mask.

  —Alrigh’?

  —Grand.

  —Okay.

  —Stiff, said Jimmy.

  —Comes with the room.

  —How about you?

  The mask was back on but the thumb, up, gave Jimmy his answer.

  —D’yeh want to go home?

  Outspan lifted the mask again.

  —No way, he whispered.—Fuck off.

  Jimmy lay there for a while. He was bursting. Earlier, when he’d got back with the oxygen, he’d have pissed in the sleeping bag, no problem; he’d have enjoyed it. Now though, he sat up – God, his back. He found the boots. He unzipped the tent and dropped them outside. There was blue in the sky. It wasn’t too cold. He sat with his arse in the tent and put the boots back on. They weren’t too bad, not as wet as he’d thought they’d be. Standing up wasn’t easy. It was fuckin’ agony, until he was upright and human again.

  He wasn’t the only one up. There were plenty of heads – hundreds of them – wandering, chatting. Cooking.

  The jacks was no worse than it had been the day before. He stood at the urinal. There was no way he was going into one of those boxes. He could park the shite till he got home, then he’d wait till the house was empty.

  —High point so far?

  It was a young fella beside Jimmy.

  —Wha’? said Jimmy.

  —High point, said the kid.—Last night.

  Jimmy couldn’t remember last night; it took a while to bring it back. The kid was waiting for Jimmy’s answer. He had some sort of a mohawk/mohican haircut.

  —Christy, said Jimmy.

  —Yeah, said the kid.—He was savage.

  Jimmy’s answer had loosened his head; he knew where he was again. There was a whole big day ahead of him. The kid walked with him out of the jacks area. A nice lad – he reminded Jimmy of his own.

  —What about today? said Jimmy.

  He’d just spotted a good-looking coffee van across the field. He checked his pockets. He had money.

  —The Arab Spring, said the kid.

  —Good?

  —Savage.

  —Annythin’ else?

  —Moanin’ At Midnight, said the kid.—Have you heard them?

  —No, said Jimmy.—Don’t think so.

  —They’re Bulgarian, said the kid.—They’re amazing.

  —I might give them a go, said Jimmy.

  He resisted the urge to buy the kid a coffee and a bun.

  —Seeyeh, he said.

  —Later, said the kid.

  Jimmy wondered where his own were. Marvin was somewhere near; he’d come down with his buddies the day before, in the back of some cousin’s van, with the instruments and gear. It was way too early to text him. Aoife would be coming down later with Mahalia and Brian, and maybe young Jimmy. He looked at his watc
h. They’d all be in bed too. Except Brian. He’d be at the Xbox.

  He put milk in Outspan’s coffee and pocketed four or five sachets of sugar. He watched out for guy ropes as he made his way back. There was another Darfur away to the right behind more trees, and a field of wooden huts and the fuckin’ yurts on the other side of the lane, in behind the big house – the mansion.

  He’d no hangover. He felt grand, fine – good.

  He had to be a bit careful here with the coffee, getting back into the tent. He put down a cardboard cup and unzipped the flap. He put the other cup down beside it. He turned, back to the flap, and lowered himself.

  —Fuck it.

  His arse had missed the tent floor by a foot. He was sitting on the wet ground. It was grass; it wasn’t too bad. He was soaked, though.

  —Fuck.

  It was only water – dew. He’d be grand, and he hadn’t knocked the coffee. He got the boots off again – he was fuckin’ sick of this. He left them outside. He leaned out – grunted – and grabbed the coffees.

  —You awake?

  —Yeah.

  —Here.

  Outspan groaned and started to sit up. Jimmy didn’t know if he should help him or not. But Outspan didn’t seem any more crippled than Jimmy. The oxygen mask was parked on top of his head, like a gobshite’s sunglasses.

  He was sitting up.

  —Fuckin’ hell.

  He took the cup from Jimmy.

  —D’yeh want sugar?

  —Sound.

  Jimmy got the sugar out of his pocket.

  —How many? he asked.

  —All o’ them, said Outspan.

  —I got yeh a croissant as well.

  —Thanks – sound.

  —Yeh like them, yeah?

  —I do, yeah. Are they warm?

  —No.

  —Ah well.

  Jimmy waited till Outspan had ripped open the sachets and poured the sugar into his coffee. There was nothing shaky or desperate about the way he operated. He stirred it a bit with a finger.

  Jimmy opened the paper bag and held it out to Outspan. He looked in the bag.

  —Two o’ them.

  —One’s for me – fuck off, said Jimmy.

  Outspan held the croissant in front of his mouth. He looked around.

  —We won’t worry too much abou’ the crumbs.

  He bit a good lump off the croissant. So did Jimmy. It was great, soft – he was starving.

  —How’re yeh feelin’? he asked.

  —Shite, said Outspan.—Not the best.

  —Are you okay?

  —I’m okay, said Outspan.—Not too bad.

  —How’s your coffee?

  —Grand.

  —Croissants are nice, aren’t they?

  —Better than nothin’.

  —You’re sure you’re okay?

  —Yeah, said Outspan.—One thing but.

  —Wha’?

  —Why didn’t yeh call an ambulance?

  —Fuck, said Jimmy.

  —Well?

  —It never occurred to me – sorry.

  —Fuckin’ eejit.

  Outspan looked terrible. He had the cylinder beside him, lying on the grass. Jimmy had watched him earlier, heading off to the jacks, bent over, slow. It had been horrible to watch. He hadn’t known what to do – or say.

  —D’yeh need a hand?

  He’d half got up, ready to go after Outspan. Outspan didn’t look back.

  —Prob’bly, he’d said.

  He’d looked livelier coming back, a bit easier in his movements. He sat down beside the oxygen.

  —What’s the plan?

  Jimmy had put on his clean jeans. He leaned back into the tent –

  —Fuck —

  – and got the remains of the programme out of the pocket of the old ones. It was soggy but legible. He had to bring it right up to his eyes.

  —There’s one o’ my bands on at a quarter past twelve.

  —Who?

  —The Halfbreds, said Jimmy.—Mad pair o’ cunts. Husband an’ wife.

  —Fuck sake.

  —They might break up onstage.

  —Sounds good.

  —They usually do, said Jimmy.—Tha’ reminds me.

  He got his phone out.

  —Textin’ the missis?

  —The boss.

  —I thought you were your own boss.

  —The partner, said Jimmy.

  Noeleen had the backstage passes for Marvin and the lads; he’d forgotten to bring them.

  There was a text in that he hadn’t noticed – Leaving now X – from Aoife. He texted back. Great. X. He’d phone Marvin. It would save him the bother of a half-dozen texts. And he wanted to hear Marvin’s voice. He texted young Jimmy. Alrite? Xx.

  —Hungry? he said.

  —Starvin,’ said Outspan.

  —Rasher sandwich?

  —Fuckin’ great.

  —There’s a place over there sells them, said Jimmy.

  He stood up. The night on the ground was out of his bones.

  —I’ll have a look in at this waster.

  He unzipped the tent.

  Les was awake.

  —Mornin’, said Jimmy.

  —Alright?

  —Grand. Yourself?

  —Fine, yeah. I think.

  —Does a rasher sandwich sound good?

  —Sounds great.

  —Grand.

  There was a queue at the rashers. He phoned Noeleen. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay with Outspan. It had been so easy, slipping out of the life. But fuck it; it was his job, his income – his son, for fuck sake. And he loved it. He just needed to think properly.

  —Jimbo!

  —Howyeh, Noeleen.

  —The big day.

  —Yeah, he said.—Did yeh camp?

  —There is no fucking way I’d camp.

  She was on her way, still on the motorway. They’d meet at the gate. She’d text him when she was parking.

  The queue had moved. He could smell the rashers. He was starving – fuckin’ weak.

  He’d call Marvin now.

  He saw Des. With a woman. A good-looking woman. A bit long in the tooth for her shorts and mucky Uggs. But a woman – in shorts and mucky Uggs.

  Marvin answered like he’d been waiting.

  —Hi.

  —Marv?

  —Hi.

  —How are things?

  —Good, yeah. Grand.

  —All set?

  —Yeah – nearly. Yeah. We need – do you have backstage passes or something?

  He arranged to phone Marvin after Noeleen had texted him. It was getting messy. He should have had the passes and everything sorted before the weekend. What if Noeleen had a puncture or went into a ditch?

  But it was fine. Everything would be grand. He was next in the queue.

  —Des!

  Des, even at a distance, was still a bit stoned. He had to peer over his huge grass before he spotted Jimmy.

  —D’yeh want a rasher sandwich, Des?

  Jimmy watched as Des translated the question from English into Des, and back.

  —Yeah!

  Jimmy hoped Des would bring the woman over with him so he could get a good look at her. But he didn’t. He kissed her on the mouth – fair enough – and they swapped phone numbers. They looked like they both needed help; she was in huge grass of her own.

  The sandwiches were ready for him on the counter, a block of flats in tinfoil. He handed over twenty-four euro and got nothing back. He texted Aoife. Bring sum money. X

  Des was beside him.

  —You had a fuckin’ adventure, said Jimmy.

  Des thought about this.

  —Yeah.

  Les was sitting with Outspan, and Outspan was sucking on the oxygen. Jimmy was worried again. But he handed out the sandwiches and sat down.

  —You didn’t think of water, did you? said Les.

  —No.

  Les leaned into his tent and took out four cans. br />
  —Oh Christ.

  —Too much salt in the bacon, said Les.

  They ate.

  —Where were you? Outspan asked Des when he’d parked the mask on his head.

  Des looked around.

  —Somewhere over there, he said, although he didn’t point or nod.

  —With a woman, said Jimmy.

  —Good man, Dezlie.

  —What was her name, by the way? Jimmy asked.

  —Em – .

  Des took out his phone, but remembered before he looked at it.

  —Yvonne.

  —Sure?

  —Yeah – Yvonne.

  The rashers were working the magic on Outspan.

  —Did yeh get into her?

  Des was still searching for the bread inside the tinfoil.

  —It was –, he started.—I —

  He’d found the bread.

  —Great.

  He bit. They waited.

  —It was unusual, said Des.—I woke – I kind of woke up with her.

  —Nice.

  —Together, said Des.

  —That’s the way.

  —And, well – she definitely knew me but I wasn’t sure about her. She – eh – she held me like we’d been —

  —Intimate.

  —Yes.

  —Do yeh not remember but? said Outspan.—What’s the fuckin’ point?

  He dragged the mask down to his face and gave himself a blast.

  —Some of it –, said Des.—I remember – kind of flashes.

  —That’s not too bad.

  Des smiled. There was a quick shift; he was one of the lads again.

  —There was another man, he said.

  —In the tent?

  —In the bird?

  —This morning, said Des.—Just there.

  —Who was he?

  —Her brother, said Des.

  —Ah well —

  —Or her husband.

  That was great. They were back in last night’s swing, stretched back and laughing.

  —Are yeh serious?

  —Yes, said Des.—I’m not sure.

  —It could be important.

  —I know.

  Outspan tapped Les’s elbow with his foot.

  —Wha’ about you?

  Les stared at Outspan’s foot.

  —I was off with the fairies, he said.

  Jimmy was happy enough with the answer. He didn’t want to know more.

  —I’ve to work, he told them.

  His phone rang just as he was getting it from his pocket.

  —Where the fuck are you?

  It was Barry, the Halfbred.