Read Online The Guts by Roddy Doyle - Free Book Online Page B

were good crack. Jimmy and Aoife reared their kids and managed dead bands across the kitchen table and once every month or so they left the kids with the newest babysitter and went to one of their own reunion gigs, in Whelan’s or somewhere else that made sense to people their age. And there was always something – good or bad, but always good – to bring home later.
    —I said brown bread! Fuck!
    They watched Barry Brown fling the tray across the dressing room. The room was about as wide as the tray, so the clatterarrived while he was still swinging his arm and the tray came back off the wall and hit the side of his head.
    Barry was lead singer with the Halfbreds. His drummer, a fifty-year-old girl called Connie Cunte, looked at the mess on the wall.
    —It is brown bread, she said.
    She was married to Barry.
    —Stop being so fucking vain, Barry, she said.—Put your glasses on, dude.
    They had two boys in Gonzaga and a girl in Alex, they’d told Jimmy and Aoife. The fees were killing them.
    —What the fuck is Alex? Jimmy whispered to Aoife.
    —A school.
    —I thought they were after sendin’ their young one off to Egypt or somethin’.
    —It’s Alexandra College.
    —Mad pair o’ cunts.
    They’d been mad back then, before kids and fees – before Aoife – famous for it and not a lot else. And somehow they’d brought their madness with them into their current lives. Insanity cuddled up to respectability, in their clothes and on their faces, in everything about them.
    —Mad as shite, said Aoife.
    Jimmy loved the way she said that.
    They watched Connie Cunte eat a brown bread sandwich straight off the wall, no hands. She was licking the paint.
    —It’s not the right brown bread, said her loving husband, Barry.
    —Barry, said Jimmy.—Fuck off.
    —Hey!
    Barry pointed at Jimmy.
    —Who’s going out there tonight?
    He pointed at the wrong door.
    —I don’t know, said Jimmy.
    He felt Aoife’s hand on his knee.
    —I fucking am! Barry yelled.
    They heard Connie swallow and laugh.
    —So, Barry yelled, and took a breath.—No sandwiches, no show! Read the fucking rider!
    Barry worked in the Department of Finance. He often had the Minister’s ear.
    —Will you go out there and tell the fucking crowd? he yelled.
    —I will, yeah, said Jimmy.—No problem. There’s only aboutten out there anyway. So I’ll tell each of them individually. In fact —
    He waited till Connie had turned from the wall and was listening properly.
    —You not showin’ up, said Jimmy,—is probably a much better night out than you actually goin’ onstage.
    —Fuck off!
    —No problem, said Jimmy.
    Barry and Connie huddled again. It was what they did. They huddled, then roared at each other.
    —No!
    —Go on!
    —No! Okay, okay – fuck!
    Aoife squeezed Jimmy’s knee as Barry turned to them.
    —I misunderstood, he said.
    —I know, said Jimmy.—It’s not a problem.
    Jimmy put his hand out, and Barry took it.
    —Is the Heineken okay? Jimmy asked him.—The cans are the right shape, are they?
    —Fuck off.
    —Grand.
    Jimmy hadn’t been accurate when he’d told Barry that there were only ten in the audience. There were twelve. But that figure grew to thirteen when the drummer left the band halfway through their crowd pleaser, ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke,’ but hung around for the rest of the gig so she could drive Barry home.
    —I’m the designated driver, you stupid cunt!
    It was a great night.
    One of many.
    Aoife did the sums – the accounts – one night. (Jimmy ran away from money and adding. Aoife did all that.) She looked across at Jimmy. This wasn’t too long ago, although it felt like decades.
    —D’you know what? she’d said.
    —What?
    —It’s paying the mortgage.
    —What is?
    —shiterock.
    —Go ’way.
    —It is.
    —That’s brilliant, isn’t it?
    —It’s fantastic.
    They’d laughed; it just burst out.
    It got better. It became their business, his job.
    His company.
    Their company.
    He’d jacked