— No way are they shite, said Garth.
— Who listens to them?
— I do, said Garth.
Jimmy liked Garth, and he liked the feeling that he liked him.
— And tell us, Garth? he said. — Are you some kind of a born-again Christian, tryin’ to convert my son to Supertramp?
— No way, said Garth. — He converted me.
— He what?
— He says the CD’s yours.
— It isn’t.
— He says it is, said Garth. — It’s old looking and the price on the sticker is in old punts, like, not euros.
Aoife walked in.
— Tell Garth here, said Jimmy.
Garth was turning black again and he was trying to put the chicken leg into his pocket.
— Tell him what?
— That I hate Supertramp, said Jimmy.
— You don’t, said Aoife.
— I do!
— Don’t listen to him, Garth, said Aoife. — He loves them. Or he used to.
She walked across the kitchen. Garth was trying to get away from her. He looked like he was going to climb up into the sink.
— Go on then, Jimmy said to Aoife — Name one Supertramp song.
She hadn’t a clue — she never had.
—’Dreamer’, said Aoife. — ’The Logical Song’, ‘Breakfast in America’, ‘Take the Long Way Home’, ‘It’s Raining Again’. I think that’s the order they’re in on the Greatest Hits collection you used to play all the time. Is your dad a music fascist too, Garth?
— Don’t know.
Jimmy gave up. There was no point in trying to talk to Aoife now — not about Supertramp; fuck Supertramp — about the cancer.
He went in and sat with Brian for a while. He sent Brian up to bed, then sent Garth home, and the others went to bed. It was running taps and the toilet flushing for about an hour, and quiet shouts, and a loud thump that must have been Marvin giving young Jimmy a dig or young Jimmy giving Marvin a dig. He hadn’t seen either of them all night but the house was full of them. And he could hear Mahalia singing. He sat in the dark and listened to the life above him.
I’ll miss this.
He hadn’t felt it coming and he got rid of it quickly.
Sentimental shite.
Now he lay on the bed with Aoife. She was crying onto his chest.
And he liked it.
— I bet Supertramp have a song about cancer, he said.
— Fuck off you.
— I never liked them.
She lifted her head.
— You did.
— Okay.
She put her head back down.
— You’re such a baby.
— It’s why you love me.
He heard her gulping back her tears, trying to stop.
— Sorry, he said.
She said nothing.
— I had to tell you.
— I knew, she said.
— Knew?
— Yes.
She patted his stomach.
— How? said Jimmy. — Did someone phone you? They’d no right —
— No.
They spoke softly. The bedroom door was open, a bit. In case Brian woke.
— I just knew, said Aoife. — You weren’t yourself.
— So I had cancer?
— Something was wrong. It was in your face.
— I should’ve told you.
— Yes.
— I was goin’ to.
— Why didn’t you?
— I was goin’ to tell you that I was goin’ for the test, said Jimmy. — Then I decided — I suppose — to wait till after. If it was clean —
She hit him. He hadn’t — he could never have expected this. It was like she’d driven her fist right through him.
— Jeee-zuss!
He got his hand to her shoulder and shoved her away, almost over the side of the bed.
— Shit —
He reached out to grab her. But she wasn’t falling. They were both breathless and scared. Her hair was shorter these days but it was still hanging over her eyes.
The silence was loud and colossal.
A mobile phone buzzed.
— Fuck —!
They’d both jumped — the shock.
— Yours, said Aoife.
She exhaled, and breath lifted her fringe.
— It doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.
— Go on, she said.
— It doesn’t matter, I said. It’s only a fuckin’ text.
— It’s your dad, she said. — He’s the only one who texts you this late.
There was no hostility in what she said.
He found the phone and she was right. It was from his da. Wayne fuckin Rooney!!
— Is anything wrong? Aoife asked.
— No, said Jimmy. — Not really. It’s grand. I’m sorry.
— Me too.
She was on her knees, on the side of the bed. Jimmy leaned across and she let him hug her. Her face was wet. He kissed it. He didn’t cry, and that seemed good.
— I’d better answer him, he said.
He knew she was looking at him, looking for difference or slowness — or bloodstains. He picked up the phone. He wrote, or whatever it was called — texted. Complete cunt. He sent it back to his da. He put the phone on the floor, and lay back.
— I know I should have told you, he said.
— It’s okay.
— I thought it would go away. Fuckin’ stupid. Once I did the right thing an’ made the appointment.
— I understand.
— It was stupid.
— So are lots of things.
— I suppose. Anyway. I didn’t want to worry you. That’s the truth. Then I found out.
He stopped for a while. He was grand.
— And I was stunned, he said. — Fuckin’—. When I went back to work after. And I eventually had to talk — this fuckin’ twit wonderin’ where an order was supposed to go. When I opened my mouth there was no jaw. I couldn’t feel it. Like I’d been at the fuckin’ dentist. As if goin’ to the — here we go — oncologist. Impressed?
— Good lad.
— As if goin’ to the fuckin’ oncologist hadn’t been enough, I had to drop in on the dentist on the way back. But your man didn’t notice.
— Is he really a twit?
— No. No, he’s grand. He’s young.
— Oh, that.
— Yeah. So anyway. I came home. And I was goin’ to tell you. That was the plan. I even stopped off at SuperValu an’ bought a bottle of wine. Remember?
— Yes.
— I had it all mapped out. The two of us in the kitchen. Some fuckin’ hope.
— Brian had a match.
— That’s right.
— I drank the wine while you were gone.
— That’s right.
— Well, I opened it.
— You drank it.
— Okay. Not all of it.
— Grand.
— Anyway. I wasn’t pissed.
— You were all over me, said Jimmy. — Later, like.
He looked at her.
— You rode a man with cancer.
— Jesus.
— And I couldn’t tell you after that.
— I wouldn’t have believed you.
— That’s music to my fuckin’ ears.
Now he cried. He couldn’t help it. Actually, he wanted to. He felt no better and he felt no worse but it seemed natural, something she’d have wanted to see. Reassurance. And then he couldn’t stop for a while.
— Can I not just text everyone?
— No, said Aoife. — It wouldn’t be right.
— But last night you said —
She’d said this after she’d made him come in about three seconds.
— You said I was to think about nice things, said Jimmy.
It was Saturday morning. The kids — he hadn’t told them yet; Jesus — were either out or still in bed. Brian was on a sleepover and the mother of his pal, Ryan, was bringing them both to the football. The father was in England, working. Jimmy would go and watch the second half and bring them back here. But now Jimmy and Aoife were alone.