by David Haynes
The final article she found sounded more like an obituary than a newspaper report. ‘The Decay of Joseph George, whereabouts unknown.’ May took a deep breath and considered that she had in fact found a story last night; a story which would put her little newspaper firmly on the map. She hunched over the keyboard and began typing a carefully worded email to the agent Gwen Hulland.
It was just after midday before Joe accessed the internet again. He only used it for occasional research and even more occasional emails. The only name in his address book was Gwen, so he wasn’t surprised when he clicked the inbox button and saw a new email from her; it was the only message. He clicked it and found himself cringing in expectation of the agent’s critique. The message was not at all what he had expected.
Joe, just had the following message, not sure it’s genuine? Thought you might want to read just in case you’d started entertaining young ladies again? The part about drinking out of plastic beakers is textbook Joe George! Still plodding through the new chapters – gothic horror or Victorian detective, hmmmm not sure which it is yet but gorgeous all the same.”
Dear Ms Hulland, I am sending you this email in the hope you may be able to persuade one of your clients to provide me with an exclusive interview. Perhaps something more akin to a ‘set the record straight’ article. I’m an editor with a small west Cornwall publication, The Penwith Guardian. If I’m being honest it’s nothing more than an advertising medium for local businesses. I only have a small readership, which again is only on a local level. This may appeal to your client, whose whereabouts, I can assure you will never be revealed. The client (I’m sure you’re aware by me mentioning the location!) is Joseph George and I’m well aware of his tight-lipped stance with the media in general. However, after Joe saved my life we shared a snifter of whisky from plastic beakers inside his cottage and we got on like a house on fire. I can conduct the interview at his place and it’ll only be about what he wants to say, nothing more.”
He sat back in his chair, picked up the old Zippo lighter and turned it over in his fingers; the re-assuring weight relaxed his mind. This wasn’t the tactic he’d been expecting and under any other circumstance he would discount the idea instantly. But there was something in the idea of setting the records straight, not to one of the large tabloids or even national broadsheets, but to a tiny local rag which no-one would read. He also knew that if he got her onside, he could ensure she wouldn’t give his location away to anyone else.
He flicked open the lid and struck the flint, it ignited first time. Situations like this were made for cigarettes. He stared at the flame and then to the email address at the bottom of the message. [email protected].
May picked up the file David had left and opened it. The first document didn’t make a lot of sense. It contained schematics and what looked like financial calculations. ‘Really interesting, David. Exactly what our readers want.’ She sighed and stood up; a cup of strong sweet tea would be the only way to get her through the long read ahead.
The computer pinged to indicate she had new email. Ordinarily it would be from an advertiser, enquiring about rates and she would ignore it. She had been waiting impatiently all morning for a return email from the agent and it had given her a headache. At the top of the list of unopened mail was an address she didn’t recognise, but it wasn’t a reply from the agent. She clicked on the message. It read: “Be here at 3pm and I’ll talk, Joe.” May felt her eyes widen involuntarily, “My God.” she whispered.
She spent the next couple of hours in the local library reading an almost virginal copy of ‘Desire and Decay.’ After a few pages she realised why it was almost brand new; the subject matter was just a bit too dark for a little village like St Just. She knew she wouldn’t get anywhere near to completing the book and it didn’t really matter; the interview was with the man and not the novel. Still, it didn’t harm being aware of what he’d written.
The book wasn’t what she’d call ‘a good holiday read’ and after a while she could feel her attention slipping. It wasn’t the fault of the book but rather her nerves which started to distract her. The only people she’d interviewed for the paper were members of the public and, on several occasions, David. Her interviewing skills were probably not what they should be and she started to think she’d made a huge mistake in contacting the agent. Joseph George had never given an interview, as far as she knew, so why on earth would he want to be interviewed by me? What was in it for him and what were his motives?
6
She parked the car in the same place as she had the previous evening and started the walk across the field to the little cottage. It was a blustery afternoon but thankfully the dark rain clouds had given way to a less threatening but bleak carpet of solid grey cloud.
She reached the cottage and took a moment before she knocked on the heavy wooden door. The view, which she’d missed the previous night, was incredible. Even under a grey sky, she could see for miles along the coast in either direction. She walked past the door to the back of the cottage and stared straight out towards The Brisons and the horizon beyond. Within a few metres there was nothing but a sheer drop onto jagged, black rocks below. The tide was out and last night’s storm had long gone yet the noise the waves made as they beat the rocks below was almost deafening.
“Careful how close to the edge you get. It’s a long way down and I’m not carrying you back up from there.”
May turned quickly. “Sorry, I was just admiring the view. It’s incredible.”
Joe smiled and tilted his head towards the inside of the cottage. “Yep it is. Are you coming in?” He disappeared inside. May took one last look at the white water rumbling on the sides of The Brisons and followed him.
The interior of the cottage was as she remembered it; dimly lit and sparsely furnished. There were only two windows in the room; one was nothing more than a square recess on the side which overlooked the cove. The other window filled almost the entire back wall of the cottage; it framed the horizon and The Brisons perfectly. The smell of wood smoke filled her nostrils as she deeply inhaled its intoxicating aroma again.
Joe appeared from the opposite end of the room holding two mugs and a cafetiere. “Coffee?” Above his head May could see what looked like a mezzanine floor. In the absence of a table, he put them down on the polished floorboards and started pouring the treacle coloured liquid into the mugs. He handed one to May.
“It might be a bit on the strong side, sorry, but...” He paused and seemed to consider. “Anyway, that was a subtle email to my agent. Have a seat.” He indicated for May to sit on the sofa and he sat at his writing desk.
May took a sip from the mug and winced. “Well I make no excuse for the email. Although if I’m honest I’m shocked you went for it.” She looked at the contents of the mug. “What’s this? It tastes like liquorice.”
Joe took a sip and without so much as a cringe put his mug down next to the Zippo. He saw her eyes pause on it momentarily. “Good isn’t it? It’s like tobacco, not as noble but there you go.” He tilted his palms upwards, trying to display openness.
Even though he was clearly trying, May could see he wasn’t relaxed. His posture was crouched and tense. He was expecting to be given the third degree and that wasn’t going to be conducive to a good interview.
“I’ve got to tell you, Joe.” She paused, hoping the introduction last night still stood. “Before this morning I didn’t have a clue who you were. Believe it or not, I didn’t come here last night with anything other than the dead swimmer on my mind. But the way you acted was just, really….” She stopped herself saying weird. “Interesting.”
Joe frowned. “Was that in a good way or in a weird way?”
“Weird can be good, but if you hadn’t been like that, I wouldn’t have looked you up.” She smiled.
“Hmmmm, not sure how to take that. Anyway, you clearly found out who I am and what your colleagues believe I am. So what is it you feel is missing from public perception about me?
What can The Penwith Guardian uncover that the tabloids haven’t been able to?”
May gambled. “Probably nothing. But I’m guessing you wouldn’t have invited me here unless you wanted to say something. Unless my research is crap, which it isn’t, you’ve never spoken to the media before today.”
Joe took another drink and clasped his hands around the mug. He stared at May intensely. “I have one request from you in return.”
“Go on?” His intensity was disarming.
“I’ll answer all your questions and I’ll answer them honestly but…” He turned and looked out the little window along the coast. “I don’t want to leave this cottage. You can see how beautiful it is and if your colleagues find out I’m here, it’ll be a circus within days.” Joe’s faith in humanity was negligible and he realised he was at the mercy of a human being he barely knew. He also knew that mercy was all he had.
The tone of his voice wasn’t pleading. It was very matter of fact, but May recognised the resignation carried within it. He was asking very little in return for the interview but it was clear he expected less from someone in her position.
“They won’t find out from me, I can assure you. Look, I’m sure you’ve done your homework too. My paper isn’t much more than a glorified advertising pamphlet, read by a few locals with nothing better to do. This interview will probably never be read by anyone with the slightest idea of who you are. Which has got me wondering, why agree to it?”
Joe drank the remainder of his coffee and offered more to May who shook her head. The previous sip was still writhing through her system like an angry snake.
“That’s your first question?”
May took the digital voice recorder out of her pocket and placed it on the arm of the sofa. “It wasn’t going to be, but why not?”
Joe looked upwards and inhaled deeply before starting. “Perhaps the reason it won’t be read by thousands is reason enough. No one will think ‘He’s only trying to get some more free publicity by stirring up more controversy,’ but to be quite honest I’m not interested in what they think anymore. What I want to do is tell the truth, no motive other than just the truth. I don’t care if no one reads it, just as long as it’s out there somewhere. Does that make sense? I suppose it’s cathartic and deep down inside somewhere I suppose I must care what people think or I wouldn’t do it.” He shook his head. “Shit, now I’m talking myself out of it.”
“I’m not sure I fully understand what you mean Joe and I’m not sure I really need to. I do understand one thing though; nothing you say will be sensationalised to sell more papers. I’m simply, not that good, or bad, whichever way you want to look at it.” She paused before adding. “Nothing can sell more of my paper. Nothing except a naked photo of David Polglaze plastered all over the front cover that is."
Joe frowned. “Is he the new David Beckham?”
“Not quite. So what is it you want our little community to know about Joseph George? Tell me why I’m here?”
“I’m going to need more coffee for this” Joe picked up the cafetiere and walked back to the kitchen. “Can I get you something?”
May looked at the barely touched cold coffee in her mug. It looked like she might be able to waterproof the shed roof with it. “No thanks, the coffee’s fine.”
May listened for the sound of the kettle boiling and stood up from the sofa. She took a step towards the only other piece of furniture in the room, the writing desk. It was nothing more than a wooden table with a laptop on it; the screen saver showed the simple factory setting image. She didn’t know what she expected to find, maybe a photo or two? Perhaps a girlfriend or a Labrador, but there was nothing. She cast her eyes about the room, unless there were photos upstairs in the bedroom, the house showed no indications of human relationships at all.
“There’s not much to see on there, not much to give away any of my dirty little secrets.” Joe called from the kitchen, fully aware that May was looking around.
“I’m guessing you read the stories about me and what they thought I’d done? But did you bother to read the book itself?”
May knew this question was coming and had prepared her answer. She called back. “I never had the opportunity to finish it.”
Joe walked back into the room and May hurried back to the sofa. “Good answer. It’s not everyone’s idea of a fun read.” He sat back at the computer desk, took a deep breath and released it through his teeth. “Okay so here goes. I’m just going to blurt everything out so try and keep up. It’s not as mysterious or interesting as people think. Up until about two and a half years ago I was a copper, a detective on CID to be specific. Not a job I particularly enjoyed, but a job where I felt I was making a difference. It’s something which in its purest form is actually quite noble. Problem is, nothing can be pure with humans because we pollute everything we touch.” Joe paused and took another deep breath.
“Anyway, most of the folk I arrested or interviewed were scrotes.” Joe recognised a look of confusion on Mays face. “Scrotes are what we lovingly called heroin users. Now the only scrotes I’ve ever met are the ones who do nothing but drain the life out of society; the thieves, the burglars and the street robbers. It’s hard for someone who hasn’t been around these people to fully appreciate what they’re like. Heroin is everything to them. It’s the reason to get out of bed, it’s the reason to breathe and it’s the reason they do what they do. Choking on their own vomit is just another risk.”
Joe paused, he realised there was no way he could make May understand how destructive a world it was.
“After a few years of being around these guys, I started to think. This stuff has got to be good, I mean really good. I wanted more than just locking them up, I wanted to comprehend it. You’ve got to understand, most of them are career criminals just to fund their addiction. Being locked up is no deterrent to breaking into someone’s house. What’s the alternative? Not having your fix? That’s not an option so they’ve got to carry on. So, yes, I started thinking, how good is this stuff?
He took a sip of coffee and shuffled in his seat; he realised without thinking he’d leant forward on his chair. “One day I was interviewing this lad, and half way through it dawned on me, I’d interviewed him before for a really violent robbery. He’d been a big lad then, a real handful. But now he just looked pathetic. He was about eight stone wet through with cuts and bruises all over his face. He’d tried to rob the wrong person and got what he deserved.”
May looked at him. The intensity of his mind was crystallised in his green eyes. She had no idea where this was going but she was damned if she was going to interrupt.
“He was pathetic and I mean almost totally devoid of whatever he had been when he started down that road. His name was Scott Hayward and when I walked him out the custody block I started talking to him. I wasn’t trying to get Intel out of him about who was supplying him or who he was selling to, but actually talking to him. That didn’t come easy. I told him a pile of shit about writing a book with heroin users as the main characters. I told him I would pay him if he let me see what he did day to day.” Joe rubbed both hands down his face.
“A bit dodgy for a copper that though. Basically I was giving him money for drugs. I knew he’d buy them and I knew he’d commit crime because enough is never enough. Even as a time served copper I was still naive though, still like a child in their world. I thought I’d be doing everyone a service by understanding what made them tick and what made heroin so consuming. Maybe I was stressed, maybe I’d just had enough or maybe I was just curious. I don’t really know, but I went for it anyway, and so did Scott, in lots of ways.”
“I’m moving this along quickly because the background isn’t very interesting, at least not to me. So, pretty soon I was spending a lot of my off duty time with him and his mates and if I’m totally honest it was really boring. Watching them shoot up and sit around doing nothing for a few hours was mind numbing but then a really strange thing happened. I started to feel sorry for him, n
ot just because he was clearly on a self-destruct sequence which he didn’t know how to stop, but because he didn’t care.”
“He wanted to die you mean, kill himself?” May interrupted.
Joe shrugged. “No, he didn’t want to die; he didn’t actually care. The only thing he was interested in was heroin. Like I said, there’s no deterrent, not even death. I never committed any crime and I never saw him commit any. I’m not stupid enough to think the few quid I gave him was enough but none of my work colleagues had any idea who I was hanging about with. Why would they? Then one day he got himself locked up for something and he asked for me at the custody desk. That’s not too unusual. Scrotes have their favourite coppers they like to give info to. Then Scott told me something I never thought I’d hear. He told me he wanted to quit heroin; he wanted to get cleaned up but he didn’t know how to. He knew if he stayed at the dump he was living in with the other scrotes, he’d be back on it inside a week. He told me if I didn’t help him, he’d tell everyone I’d been supplying him.”
