But he was up now, buttoning his shirt. He heard the flush, the tap.
— Where’re yeh goin’?
— I’m just goin’, he said. — Work.
— Ah. And I was goin’ to put you in my mouth one last time.
— Really?
— No. Fuck off.
— Can I say somethin’?
— Go on, said Imelda. — But keep puttin’ your trousers on.
She sat back into the bed.
— I’ve —, he started.
Don’t!
— I’ve —
Fuckin’ don’t.
— I’ve cancer, he said.
She laughed. Her head hit the wall behind her.
— Sorry, she said. — I don’t mean I don’t care.
She smiled.
— I’m really sorry.
— It’s okay, said Jimmy.
She looked very calm. Kind of flat — neutral.
— When did you find out?
— A while back, he said. — I should have —.
— Bowel, she said.
— Wha’?
— Your cancer.
— How did yeh know tha’?
— The scar, Jimmy.
He looked down to where it was, hidden behind his clothes.
— I’ve had my face up against it quite a lot over the last few months, she said. — I could see it was newish. Tuck your shirt in, Jimmy. You’re not a teenager.
He smiled. They were over the hump.
— So anyway, he said.
She sat up a bit straighter. She was pushing a pillow behind her when she spoke.
— And that’s the excuse, yeah?
— Wha’?
— Your escape route, she said.
She let go of the pillow and looked at him.
— You tell me you have cancer. After you fucked me, mind you. Thanks very much, by the way. You were magnificent.
— Look, Imelda —
— Every grunt was music to my ears.
She wasn’t angry, or sarcastic. She wanted him to laugh — he thought she did.
He sat on the bed and put on his socks and shoes.
— So, she said.
She tapped his back with her foot, kind of kicked it.
— Go on, she said.
— Wha’?
— You’ve got cancer, she said.
— Yeah.
— And?
— I need —
He was putting on the wrong sock. It was one of her husband’s, from under the bed. Blue. His were black.
— What? she said.
She nudged him again with her foot.
He couldn’t tell her about the sock. They’d never spoken about the husband, or Aoife. Steve. That was all he knew. He travelled a lot. That was all.
He did his laces.
— I have to spend time with the kids.
She laughed again.
— Lovely, she said.
— Serious, he said.
— As cancer.
Had she always been that quick?
— So, she said. — Like —. You’ve suddenly got cancer.
— Yeah, he said. — Not suddenly, no.
— You’re — you must be, wha’? Jesus, it’s like measurin’ a pregnancy. You’re havin’ chemo by now. Are yeh?
He nodded. He thought she shivered. But she was naked and it wasn’t warm.
— Look it, he said. — I couldn’t tell you.
—’Course yeh couldn’t, Jimmy. You haven’t gone bald or anythin’.
— No.
— Lucky, she said. — So. I’m just curious. When we finally met. Had the chemotherapy started?
— Yeah.
— Grand.
— Just.
— Wha’? The same day?
— No, he said. — Once. But not then — the first time.
— Go on, Jimmy, she said. — Hop it.
— Sorry.
— For what?
— I should’ve told yeh.
— Yeah, she said. — But it’s no odds, really. I kind of knew anyway.
— Did yeh?
— Not really, she said. — That’s just tha’ women’s intuition shite. I don’t believe in it. Unless it suits me. Go on.
— I’d better.
— Yep, she said. — Fuck off.
— An’ I’m sorry —
— Jimmy. I’m not givin’ you the satisfaction. Go on. Fuck off.
He’d been dismissed. Already gone; it was like he’d never been there.
He was downstairs, at the front door. He felt exposed — he even checked his fly. He’d liked it that they’d never spoken about the families. He’d started once, to tell her about May and the drinking. But she’d stopped him. I don’t want to know. He’d loved it. He’d laughed. Except.
He wanted her to show something.
He could creep back up the stairs. Open the door here, close it loudly, go back up and catch her. Crying? Not a hope. He didn’t know. He knew nothing about her.
He had to go. Cop on, cop on.
He’d parked the car at the Hiker’s. He was meeting his da.
For fuck sake.
He’d go on up to the main road and walk back down to the pub from that direction.
It was unfinished. Unstarted. There’d been nothing to it, except the sex and the bit of chat. Every man’s fuckin’ dream. Every man in Barrytown would have envied him, if they’d known. Maybe that was the problem.
He didn’t trust himself. He’d tell his da — or Aoife. The way he was.
He took the phone out. Thanks X. Proper spelling. He fired it off. She wouldn’t answer. He didn’t know why, or why not. He knew nothing. He hadn’t a clue.
— Did you talk to Noeleen?
— No. I forgot.
— Jesus, Jimmy.
— Sorry.
— We need to know.
— I know.
— D’you want me to talk to her?
— No.
— It’s a simple question.
— I know, he said. — Tomorrow. I swear.
— It’s humiliating.
— Yeah. But it’s grand. Has to be done. It’s grand.
— What’re you reading?
— This.
— Just Kids. Patti Smith. Oh, we like her, don’t we?
— Fuck off.
— Have you spoken to Marvin yet?
— Tomorrow, said Jimmy. — I’ve an appointment. He’s agreed to meet me at six.
— Jesus, said Aoife. — What are we like? He’s a schoolboy.
— He’s a fuckin’ rock star.
— Cool.
— Yeh like the idea?
Marvin nodded.
— Yeah.
Jimmy spoke to young Jimmy.
— And yourself?
Bringing in young Jimmy had been Jimmy’s idea.
Young Jimmy shrugged, looked at his brother, shrugged again.
— Yeah.
— Great.
It was a fuckin’ miracle. He was sitting with his sons and they had this thing in common.
— Will what we’re doing, said Marvin. — Will it, like, be illegal?
— Christ, said Jimmy. — I never thought —. I suppose it will.
— Cool.
— You alrigh’ with that? he asked young Jimmy.
Young Jimmy shrugged.
— Yeah.
— Great. So.
He caught himself rubbing his hands together. He hated that; it was oul’ lad behaviour.
— I’ve chemo tomorrow, he told them. — Last session.
— Nice one.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — So after that — the sick days, yeh know — I’ll book the studio.
— Cool.
— I’m delighted, said Jimmy. — Thanks, lads.
— What about royalties?
— Feck off.
— Seriously, said Marvin. — You warned me about being exploited.
— Good point, said Jimmy. — Here’s what. We’re recordin’ a song that never existed. Yeah?
He saw young Jimmy sitting up, as if he was just now really getting it.
— Really, he told the lads. — It’s fictional. You’re with me?