Magnificent Joe (19 page)

‘I'm tired.'

‘Then go to
bed.'

It's still dark when I wake, but I check my watch and I'm glad I did; it's almost six. If I'm to get to this job anything like on time, I need to leave now. I wonder if I should go and tell Joe that I'm away, but he's better off asleep, so I pull on my trainers and slip out without waking him. I drive home, feeling queasy. I make some sandwiches and get my stuff together, and I'm on the road by six thirty. I stop at the Spar for a large box of ibuprofen and then drive out of the village.

Years of the three of us getting lost in that van – stewing in our farts and bad tempers – has left me with a deep distrust of other people's directions, but Lee's turn out to be accurate. Each turning is exactly in the place he said it would be and is signposted in exactly the way he said it was. When I miss one, it's my own fault for going too fast. I arrive at my destination with hardly a swearword uttered.

I park on the verge of a private lane with a hardcore surface that looks like it was only recently put down. No one else seems to have arrived yet; apart from a mini-excavator bearing hire-company stickers, mine is the only vehicle here. I'm too early. The sky is still a night blue, but the horizon glows red and against it stands a group of agricultural buildings. I switch off the radio and the latest atrocities drop away in the silence of the morning. For something to do, I strap up my bad wrist with the bandage they gave me in hospital and swallow double the recommended dose of painkillers. Then I sit and watch as the light in the east infuses the furls of cloud. I begin to hope that nobody comes and that I could just wait here until I didn't want to anymore and then turn round and drive
home.

Fat chance. A car crunches up the track behind me, sweeps past, and parks up near the buildings. A man in a woolly hat gets out, stands and looks at me for a few moments, and then disappears into the shadows pooled around a stone barn. After a while, I hear the reluctant
chut-chut-chut
of a cold diesel engine being cranked before it coughs and spins into life. Shortly after this, a rectangle of light appears on the darkest wall of the barn – the one facing me – and I see the man cross the doorway, then cross back. I decide to stay where I am until Lee turns
up.

When Lee said ‘bright and early', it seems the emphasis was on the ‘bright' rather than the ‘early' because by the time he gets here it's broad daylight and getting on for nine o'clock. I am still in the car, half asleep, when he knocks on the window. I wind it
down.

‘You're sleeping on the job,' he says in mock horror.

‘I've been waiting for over an hour.'

‘Sorry, mate – bit of a hangover situation.'

‘It'll get you nowhere, the boozing game.'

‘Yeah, yeah…Let's have a cup of tea and I'll show you the ropes.'

‘Sounds good to me.' I get out of the car and follow him down the lane to the buildings. Woolly Hat Man's car is still there, but I don't see any sign of
him.

‘We've only been here a couple of days,' Lee says as we
walk.

‘Who's “we”?' I
ask.

‘Me and Rupert.'

‘You and
who?'

‘Rupert.'

‘Who the fuck is Rupert?'

‘You know – short bloke, black hair, face like a Rottweiler.'

I vaguely remember a man fitting that description who worked in Mac's gang. I never spoke to him, and he never made any attempt to speak to me. ‘And his name's fucking
Rupert
?'

‘Aye,' says Lee with a smile.

‘Fucking hell, no wonder he kept himself to himself.'

Lee goes into the barn I saw Woolly Hat Man enter earlier and I go in after him. The inside is bright, lit by fluorescent tubes fixed to the beams. Judging by the noise, the generator must be just on the other side of the back wall. Otherwise the barn is empty, except for a battered old sideboard where the tea-making paraphernalia sits. Lee goes over to it and sloshes the kettle.

‘So where is Rupert, anyway?' I
ask.

‘He's here. He came in with me, but he ran straight off to answer a call of nature. You look fucking horrible, by the
way.'

‘Thanks. No one's mentioned that yet; I thought I'd got away with
it.'

‘What happened?'

‘I fell.'

‘I'll bet you did, but who punched you first?'

‘Are you making that tea or what?'

He grins to himself while he fills the kettle from a bottle of water.

‘Here, I saw a bloke in a woolly hat poking around earlier.'

‘That'll be the owner, Jethro.'

‘
Jethro?
'

‘Yip.'

‘Fuck me. That's even worse than Rupert.'

‘Careful, mate. He can't be far away.'

Involuntarily, I look around, but we're still the only people in
here.

Lee shrugs. ‘He's all right really.'

‘Tea ready?' Rupert appears in the doorway.

‘Just a minute,' says Lee without turning round to him. ‘You two've met, right?'

Rupert gives me a nod and a grunt and seems to be satisfied with that, so I just nod back. The three of us stand around in awkward silence for a few moments until I ask, ‘So what are we on with, then?'

‘Fucking loads, mate,' and as Lee prepares the tea, he reels out a long list of jobs that include gutting the buildings, demolishing one entirely, digging out the floors, taking roofs off, cutting trenches. My eyes glaze over; all I wanted to know was what we're doing today. ‘In other words, we've got our fucking work cut out,' he concludes – with a wide grin that reminds me a little of Mac – and then hands round the
tea.

I hold my mug up to my face and let the steam condense on my chin. For now, Lee seems to have exhausted his repertoire of motivational banter, so we settle back into silence as we drink. I'm aware of the hands on my wristwatch ticking past nine o'clock and I begin to feel anxious to get to work. There's a flap of wings from above and I look up into the rafters but don't see the
bird.

‘Are you going to get anything done today?' A different voice.

Lee speaks up. ‘Aye, we're just giving the new man his, uh…orientation, Jethro.'

I don't turn round to see him; I'm afraid I'll laugh.

‘Well, you've got the list.'

‘Yes, we do. It's all in hand.'

Lee waits until Jethro has gone and then turns to Rupert and me. ‘Right. I suppose we'd better get to it, then.'

—

I think I expected more ceremony, or some sense of occasion. This is the first time in my adult life I've ever worked without Barry and Geoff. As it happens, we just troop over to the other barn, climb into its loft, and begin ripping up the floorboards in preparation for removing the timbers that support it. We start at the wall and work back towards the ladder, discarding the boards by dropping them through the gap we've created and wearing masks so we don't inhale the dust thrown up by years of crusty dirt and bird shit. Soon I'm filthy, but it makes me feel cleaner.

Rupert is shorter than me, but strong, and working side by side, we fall into a rhythm disrupted only when one of us has to stop to tease out a tricky nail. My wrist seems to hold up pretty well, and I just ignore the stiffness in the rest of my body. Rupert and I make good progress, and it becomes apparent that Lee can't keep up with
us.

‘Fucking hell, lads,' he says at last. ‘Don't get too keen. You're just making a rod for your own backs.'

‘You could have done without them last few pints, mate,' says Rupert, without stopping
work.

Eventually, Lee gives up and climbs down the ladder to concentrate on dragging the old timber out to the
skip.

Rupert looks at me. ‘He was still pissed when he picked us up this morning. I was shitting meself. All over the road, we were.' I'm relieved to hear that Rupert's voice is nowhere as posh as his
name.

‘He looked mostly all right to
me.'

Rupert shrugs and carries on working. Either he's exaggerating or I'm far too used to spending time with heavy drinkers. I jam my crowbar in the gap between two planks and lever one up, and we fall back into the rhythm of
work.

Even at our speed, it's going to take us all day and probably some of tomorrow to entirely remove this floor. We break for lunch and go back into the other barn, and I eat my sandwiches while sitting on a fold-out deckchair. We don't talk much, just chew in satisfied silence, and I'm happy with that. The morning's labour has improved my state of mind, and for the first time in years I feel relaxed at work. It's a novelty; I hadn't realized until now just how tense Barry's constant whingeing made me. Once I've finished my food, I make my excuses and go outside to find somewhere to have a slash.

I go into a neighbouring field, and once relieved, I walk back along the line of the hedge to where I climbed over. Although it's only just after noon, the sun is weak and low among the hazy cloud. I can look right into it without hurting my eyes; it appears as a perfect disc, stamped out of some impossibly smooth material. I stop and watch it. Without seeming to grow bigger, it floats up until it's all I can see. Then it doubles and the two discs move round each other like the effect of a coin on a tabletop set to spin off kilter.

‘Now then.'

I turn round, suddenly dizzy, and a human figure shimmers on the other side of the fence. Jethro. I blink. Black spots dance over
him.

‘All right,' I
say.

‘Where've you come from, then?'

It takes me a moment to work out the intent of this question and then I explain where I live while trying to look at him sideways so I can at least see the shape of
him.

He makes a gravelly, descending hum from the back of his throat and pauses. If he was smoking a pipe, he would be thoughtfully chewing on the stem right now. ‘Aye, I know that area.'

‘Oh. Then I'm sorry for
you.'

He grunts. ‘My brother-in-law lives around there. Do you know
him?'

‘Uh…' I squeeze my eyes hard shut and then throw them wide open, but it just makes the black spots move faster. ‘What's his name?'

‘John Smith.'

‘Um. No. I don't know
him.'

‘Ah well, nice talking to you, then.'

As my vision returns, I see him ambling away, woolly hat still pulled down firmly over his head. ‘Fucking hell,' I mutter to myself, then climb the fence and walk back towards the barns and the rest of the day's
work.

On the way home, my stomach rumbles. I'm looking forward to dinner. A couple of rounds of fish-finger sandwiches and a four-pack will sort me right out – now I'm working again, I can afford to treat myself – and I stop at the shop to buy the necessary ingredients. I'm just leaving with my purchases when I almost bump into Barry.

It's an underwater moment, slow and without thought. He sees me, twists his body away, drops his head, and slips past. I step out into the cold air and just keep walking. It's not until I sit in the car that the world spins back up to speed. He didn't say a thing. He didn't even try to gloat. Fear? God knows, and anyway, there is nothing I could or should do about it now. I turn on the radio and drive
home.

There is something on my doorstep. At first, I think it's a black refuse sack, but when I get out of the car, I see that it's a person huddled up, back against the door. I walk
over.

His chin is buried in his chest, and his hood is pulled right up so only the peak of his cap sticks out, but I know it's him; I recognize his coat and his ropey old Hi-Tec trainers. Why does the world keep chucking shit at me when all I want to do is have some scran and go to sleep?

‘Joe, what are you doing?'

No response. I squat down next to him and shove him in the shoulder with the heel of my hand. He looks at
me.

‘All right, mate?'

‘Where've you been?' he
asks.

‘At work.'

‘With big, fat Geoff?'

‘No. I've got a new job now. Why are you here?'

‘Dunno. Can I come
in?'

‘Aye.' I stand and put the key in the lock. ‘Get up, then.'

He does as he's told and I let us in and turn on the light. He walks past me and flops down in my armchair. ‘I'm hungry,' he
says.

‘Did you just come over so I'd cook your
tea?'

He shrugs.

‘Fuck's sake,
Joe.'

‘What's on telly?'

I toss him the remote control. ‘Help yourself. Fish fingers all right?'

‘Yuck. They're just the scrapings off the floor of the boat.'

‘Did your mother tell you that?'

No answer.

I take the box out of the carrier bag and hold it up to him. ‘It's Captain fucking Birdseye. Prime minced cod in golden breadcrumbs.'

‘Don't care. It's kids' food.'

‘Is it now? Jesus.' There is a packet of bacon in the fridge. I was saving it for the hangover I intend to have in the morning. ‘Bacon butties, then?'

‘Aye. That's magnificent, that.'

I go into the kitchen, put away the beer and fish fingers, and start making our tea. As I heat the oil in the frying pan, I hear Joe turn on the telly; it's one of those bloody quiz shows. He turns it up far too loud, but I can't be bothered to complain. Once the bacon is sizzling, I look in on him. He is hunched over with his chin in his hands and he stares in the general direction of the screen, but gives no sign of being involved in the programme. If I didn't know he had switched it on himself, I'd wonder if he was even aware of
it.

I carry through the sandwiches. He accepts his wordlessly and takes a huge bite, tearing the bacon with a twist of his head. I pick up the remote and turn down the volume. He ignores
me.

‘Are you lonely at home?' I finally ask
him.

‘I don't like it there.' Flecks of semi-chewed bread spray off his
lips.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's all…empty. And I don't like the noises.'

‘Every house makes noises,
Joe.'

‘Ours didn't used
to.'

‘Yes, it did – you just never noticed.'

‘Well, they're different
now.'

‘A lot's different now; it's going to take a bit of getting used to, mate.' As I say this, I realize that I've assumed he will stay where he is and live alone in that house. Looking at him now – in the same clothes he's worn for days and clearly starving again – I can see just how unlikely that
is.

‘I hear her say things to us. She's not even there,
man.'

I feel cold. He doesn't look at me, but gazes into the space above the TV. Then he blinks and bites his sandwich again. I get up, open the vent on the night storage heater, and turn my hands in the hot air. The wall in front of me is looking tired. I need to repaint in here. In fact, I need to repaint the whole house, but I just can't see myself getting down to it. Not that it matters – there's nobody else I need to please.

Joe must have finished his sandwich, because he asks, ‘Is there any ice cream?'

‘Ice cream? Do you think I'm made of money? I don't even have a freezer.'

‘Then why have you got fish fingers? They're frozen.'

‘Because I was going to eat them
now!'

‘You should get a freezer. It's nice to have ice cream.'

‘You need to overcome your fucking pudding obsession, mate. It's bad for your teeth.'

‘You're supposed to brush them.'

‘Look, shut up a minute, would you?' I study my knuckles; a couple of them are split open. I sigh and turn to face him. ‘There's only the one bed, so you'll have to sleep on the couch.'

‘That's magnificent, that.'

‘And I'm getting up early.'

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘So am
I.'

‘Fine.'

I stuff the last of my sandwich into my mouth, take the plates into the kitchen, and return with a beer. Joe looks at me hopefully, but I don't acknowledge it. If he wants anything else, he can fetch it himself. I drink and watch some fat idiot get all the answers wrong and go home with nothing.

Eventually, Joe says to me, ‘Are you going to rehearsals tomorrow?'

‘What? Oh…for the pantomime. No. Why would I do that? I'm not even in
it.'

‘You're helping, though.'

‘I'm just screwing stuff together and painting things, mate. Anyway, if you're going to be mixing with people, you need to have a wash and change your clothes.'

He grunts.

‘I mean it. Go home tomorrow morning and sort yourself out, all right? They won't want you around smelling like that.'

‘I don't smell.'

‘You do, and you've still got food stains on your jumper from last night. There's mud on your knees…Have you even changed your underpants this week?'

‘Shh! I'm trying to watch telly.' He leans forward and squeezes his arms round his chest. I want to throw something at his head, but it won't help, so I down the rest of the beer and go to get another
one.

From the kitchen, as I slurp the foam from the top of the can, I can just see the back of Joe's head bobbing up and down as he rocks in the chair. If he carries on like this, he'll turn into one of those maddos who sleeps rough and finally ends up getting their brains smashed out when they cross paths with some drunk on a Saturday night.

—

The following morning, I get up and swallow four painkillers, two glasses of water, and a mug of Nescafé. Then I wake
Joe.

‘Cup of tea?' he mumbles.

‘No, we've got to get going.'

‘I don't want to get up.' He rolls away from me, but I grab his wrist and start to haul him to his feet. He growls, but eventually co-operates and stands there rubbing his eyes. ‘Can I stay here?'

‘No. Come on, you'll make me late.'

I manage to get him into the car before he becomes fully alert, and then he says, ‘I don't want to come to work with
you.'

‘I'm not taking you to work, you dozy bugger. I'm taking you home.'

‘I don't want to go there either.'

It's too late for him to do anything about it, though: I'm already driving. We go out of the estate, onto the main road, then down the lane, where I drive faster than I normally would and we bounce up and down in our seats. Joe reaches up and grabs the handle over his
door.

‘When you go in, I want you to have a wash and put on clean clothes. First thing you do, right?'

‘Why can't I do it at yours?'

‘Where's your toothbrush?'

‘My house.'

‘Where are your clothes?'

‘My house.'

‘Well, then.'

This exchange distracts me from the fact that we've reached our destination, and I brake sharply. The front wheels lock up and we slide for a few feet before a crunching halt. Joe tuts at
me.

‘Never mind that,' I tell him. ‘Just go and do as you're told.' I almost add ‘please', but I suck it back; I don't want to sound desperate.

‘Keep your hair
on.'

‘Yeah, yeah, and the rest. Get
out.'

‘Rude.'

‘You start taking care of yourself like a civilized human being and I'll start treating you like one. Deal?'

He emits a heavy sigh, then opens the door and swings himself out of the car. I watch him in the wing mirror for a couple of seconds, then wind down the window and call him back. I rummage in my pocket; there's some change and a battered fiver. I stuff the note into his hand. ‘When you get hungry, don't try to make anything. Just go to the Spar and get yourself a couple of pasties and a bottle of Coke.'

‘Thank
you.'

‘Don't blow it on cider.'

‘I don't like cider.'

‘I was joking. See you later, alligator.'

He just shuffles away. I see that his neighbours' lights are on. I wait until I'm sure he's gone inside, then I get out of the car, knock on their door, and ask them to keep an eye on
him.