— I KISS HER FEET —
I’M GOING TO HELL–I think I should say lick there.
— Lick her feet? said young Jimmy.
— Good idea, Marv, said Jimmy.
— Why would he want to lick her feet? said young Jimmy.
Marvin shrugged.
Aoife told Jimmy he’d put on weight. She said it the way women do, pretended it was a question.
— Have you put on a bit of weight?
— No.
— It suits you.
— It can’t fuckin’ suit me. It isn’t there.
— Just saying, she said. — Take a chill pill.
He didn’t see it. The weight. He didn’t feel it. A bit puffy around the face. That was how his da had described it.
— It suits yeh.
— Fuck off.
He was paying for the studio time himself. He had to. There was no way of avoiding it, if the scam was going to work.
— An’ your hair never fell ou’.
— No.
— Will yeh keep shavin’ it?
— Don’t know — probably.
— I WANT HER NOW —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
He hadn’t a clue how much they had in their account. He hadn’t gone onto banking 365 in months. And he hadn’t had that chat with Noeleen. He’d kept waiting for Aoife to tell him they were skint again. It would have been the trigger. But she hadn’t, so he hadn’t. So they were grand.
— WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —
— I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
It was a song now, a real thing. Marvin had gone off with it, to batter it into oldness with his buddies.
— DON’T HAVE A SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
He’d got the all-clear. Himself and Aoife sat there, at the victim side of Mister Dunwoody’s desk. The prick glanced down at the file before he looked at them and smiled. He told Aoife. Jimmy watched the fucker flirt with Aoife as he told her that her husband’s biopsy specimen had presented negative margins, how he’d gone up her life partner’s arse and come back empty-handed. They’d promised each other they wouldn’t cry, if the news was good. They thanked Dunwoody and went for a pint.
— He was tryin’ to get off with yeh, said Jimmy.
— No, he wasn’t.
— He fuckin’ was.
— No.
— He never looked at me.
He loved the way she drank her pint, like a man.
— Why? she said. — Are you jealous?
— No.
— No?
— No, said Jimmy. — If I was ever gettin’ off with a man, it definitely wouldn’t be him. I’m fuckin’ starvin’.
— D’you think I’ve put on weight? he asked.
— Big time, said Imelda.
— But it suits me.
— Ah yeah.
This was — this was mad now — outside his parents’ house. She’d been driving past, and she stopped when she saw Jimmy getting out of his car. He watched her get out of her Punto. There was a chunk off the side of it — useless prick she was married to, couldn’t get that sorted. She seemed a bit shy and that made him want to run at her — and run away, up to his parents’ front door. God, she was lovely. She’d always be lovely.
— Hiya.
— Imelda, he said.
— I saw yeh there, she said.
— I was hopin’ you’d stop, he said.
— And I did.
— D’yeh miss me?
— Ah yeah. Fuck off.
She was smiling.
— How are yeh? she asked. — I’d been meanin’ to ask, to phone yeh, like.
— I’m grand, he said.
He told her the news, the all-clear; he even mentioned the negative margins.
She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek, and stayed there for a while.
— Brilliant, she said.
He stepped back — impressed himself. And fuckin’ cursed himself.
— I’ve to go in, he said.
He nodded sideways at his parents’ gaff, kept his eyes on her.
— How are they?
— Grand.
— So. Anyway. That’s brilliant news.
— Yeah, thanks, he said.
She stepped back, and turned, and turned again.
— Give me a bell, she said.
She knew he was watching as she climbed back into her car. She flung back one last word.
— Whenever.
And she shut the door.
He wouldn’t. Whenever.
There’d been a bit of grief at home about the studio date. He’d booked a different day — today, now that he thought of it — and then found out that Marvin had his Irish oral — the Leaving Cert. Marvin hadn’t told him. Aoife had hit the fuckin’ roof.
— Your oral, Marvin!
— I’ll fail anyway.
— You won’t! Jimmy!
— What?
— Did you not think of checking?
— He never —
— It’s May! He’s doing his Leaving.
— Okay, grand. I can change it, it’s not a problem. For God’s sake, Marvin.
He looked at his watch. He was still at work. Marvin would be finished by now. He took out the phone. He’d text him.
Hows it goin?
But he sent it to Imelda.
Fuck, fuck, fuck — fuck fuck. Eejit, eejit. He double-checked that it had gone to Imelda and not someone else. And, yeah, it had gone to the right woman, the wrong woman, and, actually, he didn’t feel like an eejit at all.
For fuck sake.
Hows it goin?
He fired it off to Marvin.
He’d had enough — he was going home.
All these posters. Yes, No, Yes, Yes, No. There was another referendum coming up. Stability, austerity. Say yes to Europe. Tell Europe to get fucked. He’d no real idea what it was about. But he’d educate himself.
He’d ask his da.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Two messages. One from Marvin — Grand. One from Imelda — Grand X. He was a sick cunt, all the same. Trying to think of more messages that would produce the same answer from his eldest son and his floozy.
Glad it went well. X He sent that one back to Marvin. A proper dad message. He really didn’t want to destroy his life.
He texted his da. Pint?
He’d meet up with his da or go straight home. The phone hopped. What kept u? That was that. A pint on the way home. A bit of reality. There in hlf hr.
— Y’alrigh’?
His da was looking at him. He felt like he’d been caught.
— I’m grand, he said. — Why?
— Yeh seem distracted or somethin’, said his da.
— No, I’m grand, said Jimmy. — A bit — eh — jumpy, I suppose.
His da was talking again — he had to concentrate.
— Wha’ has yeh tha’ way?
— Don’t know, said Jimmy. — I think it might be the news.
— More news?
His da looked scared.
— No, no, said Jimmy. — No. Sorry. The same news. The all-clear, like.
— Grand.
— I’m — I don’t know. I’ve to get used to — I suppose — normality. Again.
— It’s borin’, said his da. — I don’t know if you remember tha’.
— I do, yeah, said Jimmy. — No, but — I’m grand.
— How’s Aoife?
Did his da know something?
— Grand, said Jimmy. — Great.
— Good, said his da.
— Marvin did his oral Irish today.
— How’d tha’ go?
— Grand, I think, said Jimmy. — We’ll have the autopsy when I get home. Actually —
He dug out his phone.
— I’ll text Aoife, he said. — He’ll be home by now. She’ll’ve got more out of him than I could.