Magnificent Joe (18 page)

‘We'll have to sort out the arrangements,' I
say.

‘Her brother's dealing with it. He'll be here the day after tomorrow.'

‘Oh. I didn't know you were in touch with
him.'

‘I am now. I called Joe and got him to find his mother's address book.'

‘Right. So it's out of our hands.'

‘Aye.' Mr Green shrugs. ‘He did little enough for her during her lifetime…'

‘How did Joe sound when you talked to
him?'

‘Glum, I would
say.'

‘I just dropped him off this morning. I haven't looked in on him or anything.'

‘Well, we can't babysit him, can
we?'

‘No,
but—'

‘Look, son, we'll keep him on the straight and narrow, right? Keep him involved in the panto and all that, and keep an eye on him until we know how things are going to turn out. We won't leave him to rot – don't worry.'

‘Yeah.' I find myself agreeing with him, and it doesn't seem to matter that he can't even get down the lane to Joe's house under his own steam; it's good enough to know that someone else is with me on
this.

‘He'll be all right,' says Mr Green.

‘Aye, he'll be all right.'

When I get in, I go to the phone and call Lee immediately. I shouldn't put it off any longer. I don't want to work – I've never wanted to work – but I have to, and this is the only offer I have. It seems to ring for a long time, but eventually he answers.

I tell him it's me and he cuts me off in a flurry of speech: ‘Fucking hell, man. Where've you been? I've been trying to reach you for days.'

‘Eh…' I gulp back my surprise, and say, ‘Sorry, my phone's knackered. I only just managed to get your number off my SIM card. I meant to call you before, but I've been in hospital and all sorts.'

‘Hospital?'

‘Aye, I was pissed and I had a fall. Just a bit battered, like.'

‘But you're all right for work?'

I circle my wrist; it's stiff and sore. ‘I'll be fine.' I'm going to need some painkillers. ‘So what's the plan?'

‘Tomorrow morning, mate, bright and early. We're working the weekend to catch
up.'

‘Tomorrow?' I will definitely need painkillers.

‘Good news,
eh?'

‘Aye, it's great news.'

He gives me all the details. I scribble down directions on the back of the envelope the phone bill came in. It's in the middle of nowhere, out in the country, but at sixty quid a day the money's good enough to make that worth my while. Better yet, it's cash in hand. We'll be working on the conversion of some old stables into a pair of houses, which makes a change at least. All in all, it sounds a lot better than I had any right to expect.

‘I'll be there,' I tell
him.

I put the phone down and wonder if I could get away with a couple of cans of Special Brew in celebration. No. I have to deny myself. I have never before started a new job with entirely new people, and I'm surprised to find myself wanting to make a good impression. The bruises look bad enough, but rocking up with a foggy hangover to boot would definitely be bad form. The feed-me-booze voice gets quieter but doesn't shut up entirely, and to take my mind off it, I walk into the kitchen and switch on the radio. It fills the room with information from Iraq: sixty-eight killed in a marketplace here; US Marine blown up there. The usual shit, but I leave it on because I know there's a real programme in the next time slot. Anyway, the world could do with fewer US Marines. If I'm not going to drink, I need some dinner.

I'm looking at the contents of the fridge when I realize there's a problem. If I go to work tomorrow, that means leaving Joe on his own for another day. I don't know if he's ever been alone for that long in his life. Without someone to impose routine upon him, someone to stand between him and whatever random events ricochet in his direction, sooner or later he'll spaz out. And why not? We've all got a breaking point.

I decide that I'd better have a word with him, at the very least, but when I telephone, he doesn't answer. Maybe he's in the shower, or having a shit. I go back into the kitchen. It turns out that what is on the radio is not what I expected, but one of those smug, unfunny sitcoms. Fuck knows who listens to them, but they probably live in Surrey. I twist the dial until I reach a music station. Some bed-wetter with a guitar. Fuck. Commercials. Bollocks. I turn it
off.

I'm going to have to go over there.

—

I drive down the lane to Joe's house. The car wallows through the potholes and the loose change rattles in the ashtray. The headlights gild the verge against the heavy dark; a tumult of bramble whirling like razor-wire, the rigor mortis of last season's hogweed. A rabbit bursts from the undergrowth and zigzags down the channel of light ahead of me before disappearing into the hedge. It's cold. I turn up the heater.

When I pull up outside Joe's house, it looks like every light in the place is switched on, each window bright. I walk round the back – almost tripping on some unseen object as I go – and peer through the kitchen window. It's messy again, but not as bad as it was last time I was here. I knock, but there's no sign from inside. I rap hard on the door glass, and then for good measure hammer the wood with my fist. Still nothing. I try the handle and it opens. I'll have to tell him about
that.

I check everywhere and see that I was right: every light in every room is on, even the lamps. But Joe isn't here. I sit down at the bottom of the staircase, on the second-to-last step. The coat hooks are on the wall in front of me and Joe's big, dirty duffel doesn't hang from any of them. I could stay here until he gets back, but when will that
be?

I go out to the car and turn in the lane. It's narrow and I have to inch the car round, lock to lock several times, but eventually I face the right way. I can only hope that he hasn't taken the footpaths and bridleways – that even he wouldn't go out there in the pitch black. He must be in the village somewhere. I set off. In the rearview mirror the lights of Joe's house still blaze away. Fuck it. That's the least of my worries.

Back in the village, I make a pass up and down the main road, but I don't see him plodding along, just some kids hanging out in the bus shelter. One of them almost runs out in front of the car. I brake hard and blow the horn, which invites muffled jeers and a thump on the rear wing as I go past. They're good kids, really. No, they're twats. Abortion should be compulsory.

I pass the pub, but he won't be in there. I crawl by the churchyard, but he's not among the gravestones or sitting on the bench. In truth, he's probably nowhere in particular: he doesn't like to stop, he likes to keep walking. I can't drive along every street in the village. The estates alone would take ages. Then there are all the terraces, and you can't even get a vehicle down the back lanes. Maybe I should just return to the house and wait for him to come home, but he doesn't have anything to come home
to.

The park comes up on my right. Joe always thought the equipment was ‘magnificent', but it was impressed upon him that it's unseemly for a man of his age to hang around a kiddies' playground, sitting on the swings and striking up conversations with five-year-olds. Still, under current circumstances it might be understandable if he were there now, trying to fit his fat arse down the slide. Simple pleasures and all that. He really liked the old park too, before it was ripped up and eventually replaced with one that met modern safety standards. I remember him pushing me on the roundabout once. He was stronger then, hadn't yet run to fat, and he pushed so hard and fast I thought I was going to fly off. Each time he gripped the bars and gave another heave I felt the surge deep in my insides. At first I liked it and the sensation gave me an erection. Then I started to feel sick, dizzy, and scared, but Joe had a big grin on his face and I didn't want to hurt his feelings by shouting to stop, so I just clung on. He kept going for ages. Eventually, someone's mum came over and told him to bugger off and let the other kids have a
go.

I pull over and get
out.

I can't see it from here, but the playground is in the middle of the park on a square of that special bouncy tarmac that will scuff your knees but won't break your skull. The night is moonless, and I'm in the glow of a streetlamp, so the open space behind the road is just a big black blank. I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk in what should be roughly the direction of the climbing frames.

After a minute or so, I hear voices to my left and slightly behind. I turn towards the sound and see the silhouette of the slide. I realize that I somehow veered away from and walked past the playground. I can't see the people, or hear exactly what they're saying, but ten to one it's a group of teenagers and no doubt they'll give me some cheek or other. There is a small flash and a bubble of light floats in the air for a couple of seconds, then disappears. I squint and can just detect the glow of the cigarette tip wavering at the edge of perception like the very faint stars you can see only when you don't look directly at
them.

This is a waste of time. Even if Joe was here earlier, he won't be now; he finds groups of adolescents threatening, for obvious reasons. For my own part, I don't want them to realize that I'm out here, stalking around. That kind of attention is the last thing I need, so I turn
back.

‘Hold
him!'

I stop. They're shouting now, excited. Then a huge bellow erupts.

‘Joe!' I turn on my heel and run in the direction of the sound. My feet slip and slide under me and I almost fall, but the shapes of the playground loom up and then there are figures. ‘Joe!'

I burst among them – three, four, maybe five, I'm not sure – and they scatter. Almost too late, I see Joe below me on his hands and knees, and I skid to a halt just before I crash into him. ‘Joe. Fuck. What's going
on?'

His face is a pool of shadows, and his voice is desperate. ‘I'm the horse. Moo! Moo! I'm the horsey!'

‘Joe, what are you doing?'

‘They made
me.'

Then someone's behind me, shouting into the back of my head. ‘Don't fucking barge into
me!'

I turn on them and we're face to face. ‘What have you done to my friend?'

‘Nothing. He's a mentalist.'

‘What have you done to
him?'

‘He's a right fucking spastic; he was just swinging on the fucking swing talking to himself.'

‘That's his business. Leave him alone.'

‘Is he your bum-chum or what?'

I bring my face right into his; our foreheads touch. ‘You might think you're Jack the Lad, but I'm Jack the Man and I'll rip your fucking bollocks off,
son.'

He takes a step backwards and I shove him the rest of the way. I turn to Joe – ‘Get up' – and offer him my hand. He pulls himself to his feet, snivelling and mumbling under his breath.

‘He's a fucking paedo.' Another voice from the darkness. ‘He hangs out in the village hall with all the little kiddies.'

‘I'm the horse!' shouts out
Joe.

‘Shut up, Joe,' I say. Then to the voice, ‘I hear anything like that again, I'll take your fucking head
off.'

‘Fuck off, you fucking homo.' But they don't come any closer.

I grip Joe by the upper arm and steer him towards the road. I feel them follow us, but I don't
stop.

‘Is he your gay lover? Do you do fisting?'

I ignore them; I just want to get Joe away from here. Eventually, they give up and slink away. I put Joe in the passenger seat of the car, and when I get in myself, I turn the interior light on and look at him. There's a livid red spot just above his left
eye.

‘They stuck a cigarette on me,' he
says.

‘Aye, I can see that. Let's get you home.'

—

Joe sits at the kitchen table and forks beans on toast into his mouth. He isn't crying anymore, but his hand shakes, and droplets of tomato sauce spatter onto the tabletop and down his sweater. I let him get on with it. I can't sit there and feed him like a
baby.

‘They won't come here,' he sloshes.

‘No, they won't. You shouldn't draw attention to yourself.'

Slosh. Chomp. He wouldn't eat like that if his mother was at the table.

‘You can't go around acting like a nutter.'

He lowers his head over his plate and keeps eating.

‘Is there any cream for that burn?'

‘Dunno. It hurts.'

He fumbles with his fork and it hits the edge of the table, rebounds in a somersault that launches beans into his face, and then falls to the floor. He ducks down after it and almost slides off his chair as he goes. I get up and take a clean fork from the cutlery drawer and swap it for his. He grunts a ‘thank you' and goes back to his dinner. He concentrates very hard on eating – wolfing it, hunched like a soldier whose mess tin contains hot food for the first time in
days.

He finishes and looks up at me. ‘Any more?'

‘That was the whole can. If you have any more beans, you won't sleep for your farts.'

‘Pudding?'

‘I don't know, mate. There's naff all food in here. When did you last do the shopping?'

‘Last Tuesday.'

I look in the cupboards and find a canned sponge pudding, from Heinz. ‘I've never made one of these before.' I read the label. ‘It microwaves.'

‘They're magnificent, them. Can I have custard?'

‘With last Tuesday's milk? You'll be lucky.'

‘Don't want it, then.'

‘Good.' I put the can away. ‘Did they do anything else to
you?'

‘They kicked me leg. It didn't hurt, though. And they were making fun of
me.'

‘I'm sure they were. How did you get on to the subject of the fucking pantomime horse, though?'

He looks around the kitchen, as if the answer to the question might be hiding behind the fridge, then shrugs. ‘I can't remember. They were all around me. They had nasty faces. I tried to talk to them, but it just made them worse. They told me to moo like the horse.'

‘Horses don't even
moo.'

‘That's what I said! Then he kicked
me.'

‘Why were you out there?'

‘Wanted to go on a walk.' He folds his
arms.

I can see I'm not going to get far tonight. He hasn't even mentioned his mother. Even if he did, there's nothing I could say or do to make it better. The pure fuckery of it all settles on my shoulders like great coils of heavy chain. ‘You should get some sleep. You're all jumbled
up.'

‘They won't come here,' he says again.

‘No, they won't. And if they do, they'll find me waiting for them. I'll sleep on the couch, all right?'