Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  ‌15

  I knew Geoff would take this badly, but I never suspected this much bitterness. He bawls me out and pronounces each word with such a sharp, gleaming anger that I feel as if I’m under a hail of razor blades. And then he is begging me not to sell him out to Barry, but I have no choice, so I wait until he is finished and say, ‘Geoff, there’s something else. Just trust me, please,’ but how can Geoff trust me now? I hesitate. ‘It’s Barry. He’s going to do something bad. I know this sounds weak, mate, but I just need you to do what he says until I can sort it out.’

  I can’t sort this out. What have I ever sorted out? Barry will always have that strange, hurtful secret hidden away and ready for use. Maybe it would be better if Geoff knew. I don’t even decide to say it. It just starts coming out.

  ‘Look, it’s about your Laura,’ and then I realize that I’m talking to dead air.

  My ears rush like jet engines. It must be all the solvents in here. I push open the door of the shed and get a faceful of night. I feel a lot of different kinds of guilt, and then relief that he didn’t hear me say it. I need to call him back, but I hear a horrible noise behind me. Joe. I’d forgotten he was there.

  ‘Oh shit.’ The stench is immediate and vile. Joe is on his hands and knees. His mouth hangs open.

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘Jesus, Joe! You’re not a fucking kid. You can’t just get down and puke on the floor. Why didn’t you go outside?’

  He doesn’t say anything; his body is wracked in spasmodic jerks like a cat with a fur ball. He dry-heaves as the pool of vomit spreads out and envelops his hands. He looks awful and my anger seeps away. I find a rag and hold it out to him. ‘Here, wipe yourself off.’

  He takes it from me and dabs at his hands and face gingerly. I wait for him to finish. ‘I want to go home,’ he says.

  My phone goes off. I check the display and it’s Barry. ‘Shit!’

  I look at Joe. I can’t leave him like this. I take a deep breath, switch off my phone, and say, ‘All right, mate, I’ll take you home. Can you stand up?’

  Before we leave, I kick sawdust over the puke.

  Joe walks slowly, and I want to stick to the shadows because in my mind Barry is out prowling the streets ready to confront me, so it takes us too long to get to Joe’s house. At least the fresh air seems to do him some good; by the time we walk through the gate into the back yard, he’s no longer green. He turns to me as we reach the door.

  ‘Shhh! Mam’s asleep.’

  I make a show of nodding conspiratorially, but we’re not even inside yet and I can already hear the television. Joe opens the door and creeps in. I follow. It’s dark in the kitchen – the only light comes from the living room – but I immediately realize that something is wrong. Mrs Joe’s kitchen only ever smells of one of two things: fresh cooking or kitchen cleaner. Tonight, it smells of old food.

  ‘Turn on the light, mate. I can’t see a thing.’

  When he switches it on, I can see the source of the smell. There are dirty dishes in the sink. The swing bin is jammed full and overflowing. Empty cans – soup, beans, corned beef – litter the worktops, which are covered in crumbs and splattered with various colours of gunge. Joe’s been cooking for himself; that’s probably why he’s sick.

  ‘Where’s your mam?’

  ‘Living room.’ He can tell I’m worried. He watches me with the nearest thing to suspicion that he has. ‘She’s asleep.’

  ‘She was asleep when you left?’

  ‘Aye.’ Then he frowns. ‘She doesn’t know I went out. Don’t tell her.’

  ‘I won’t tell her, Joe.’ I inch towards the living room. ‘I’m just going to turn down the TV.’

  ‘She’s tired. She’ll be angry.’

  ‘Look, just sit down, OK?’

  I go into the living room, and as I move, I can hear that rushing again. I look at the carpet and I don’t raise my head until I’ve rounded her armchair and stand in front of her. She is very still.

  I can no longer hear the television, and the rest of the room drops out of sight. There is only this chair, and the body in it. I have to squeeze shut my eyes to provoke thought, and when I open them, I slowly reach out with my index and middle fingers. Then she stirs and I snatch my hand back. She is breathing and she can’t be allowed to know that I’ve seen her, or the house, in this state. I back off very slowly. She doesn’t move again.

  ‘You didn’t turn it down.’ Joe sits at the kitchen table, wary but without guile.

  ‘I know. I’ve had a better idea.’ I close the door to the living room and remove the dirty dishes from the sink.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘A spot of washing-up, then some tidying.’

  Joe’s eyes widen and he whispers, ‘She’ll go bonkers!’

  ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘I’ve come in.’

  ‘Joe, listen to me. If she asks, tell her that you did it.’

  ‘That’s fibbing.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a good fib.’ I try to smile at him, but my lips feel as if they’re made of lead.

  ‘She might wake up.’

  ‘I’ll be quiet, and the TV’s on – she’ll not hear any noise.’

  ‘And it’s still a good fib?’

  ‘Yes. I just want to help her out.’

  He thinks about this for a moment, then nods his head. ‘OK. You’ve got a deal, partner.’

  ‘Good man.’ I turn the tap on and fill the sink with water, but I keep an ear out for movement from the front room. I need more information, but I don’t want to upset him. There’s a window over the sink and in it I can see his reflection. He has his chin in his hand and he stares into space. Somewhere in his idiot’s brain he knows something is wrong, but I’ll never get him to admit it. Not directly, anyway. I start to wash up.

  ‘Had any visitors recently?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did your mam get sick too?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh, not catching, then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Good job. It’d be a right pain in the arse if you were both ill, eh?’

  Joe ignores me. He zips himself out of his coat and puts it over the back of his chair. Then he catches me watching him in the window and starts to pick his nose.

  I attack a plate with more vigour than is necessary. Clearly, I won’t get far with Joe tonight. The pair of them have been forced to close ranks so many times over the years that now it just comes naturally at the first hint of prying eyes. Even, it appears, if those eyes occupy the skull of the closest thing to a friend either of them have. Still, I’m going to keep a better lookout from now on.

  The kitchen clock says that it is almost ten and that I should be off somewhere else, worrying, arguing, and perhaps getting my head kicked in. I’d rather clean Mrs Joe’s kitchen. Here is a task I can identify and complete, despite my interloper’s guilt. I wash, dry, and put away all the dishes, handling them carefully to avoid any telltale clinks and clatters. I pick up the junk, take out the rubbish, and change the bin bag. I clean the surfaces and scrub the hob. Finally, I wring out the dishcloth and hang it over the tap. By the time I am finished, Joe is asleep at the table.

  —

  I took the number for Mrs Joe’s doctor. It was stuck to the front of the refrigerator under some coupons and the council-tax bill. Now, it’s scribbled on a piece of notepaper in my pocket and I finger it as I turn onto my street. It’s a bad idea: Mrs Joe would despatch the doctor with brittle fury and excommunicate me. If she can still walk and talk, however badly, she will never accept interference. Some hapless GP doesn’t stand a chance. I’ll hang on to it for emergencies, but I’ve got a feeling that if I do come to use it, the emergency will be over.

  Once I’m indoors, I remember that my phone’s still off. I just want to go to bed; everything else seems futile. All I can do is buy time with Barry, so I turn on my phone and it pings into life. There are three missed calls. I don’t even check t
hem. Then it tells me I have a text message from Barry: Well?

  At least it’s to the point. It was sent hours ago and I know, as I key in my response, that I’m just prolonging the bullshit, but that’s all I have the energy to do: Sorting things out. I’ll get back to you.

  I turn the phone off again and unplug my landline. Barry won’t come to the house – it’s beneath what he presumably regards as his dignity – so for the time being, I’m safe and the knowledge of it brings a yawn and the slow, downward creep of my eyelids. I climb the stairs, undress, and get into bed. I don’t have to fight to rid my mind of the day; thought just slows and stops. I fall asleep.

  There is a noise. I think I dreamed it, because I’m full of the strangeness of sleep. It happens again: a dull sound, somewhere. The memory of it stays and I compare it to the silence. The noise had substance; there is someone knocking at my door. I hit consciousness as if it were the pavement at the end of a long fall, and turn on the lamp. The room blinds me. My jeans. I see them on the floor, grab them, and scramble them onto my legs – half on, half off the bed – and then somehow find myself standing.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! A long burst of knocks. They really want me to answer the door. I blink at the clock, it’s almost 1 a.m. More knocking.

  ‘Fuck.’

  I slither down the stairs on jelly legs and get to the door. Keys. Shit. But they’re there, hanging from the lock and swaying gently under a renewed bout of knocking. I’m about to open the door, but then I remember: I should be worried. I should have a baseball bat. Geoff and Barry have lost their fucking minds, and who knows what they’ll do next.

  ‘I can see you in the glass. Open up!’

  Not Barry or Geoff. It sounds like a woman. I turn the key and open the door. She flies at me and shoves me so hard that I stumble back.

  She’s screaming, ‘Where’s Geoff? Where’s Geoff?’

  ‌16

  ‘I’ve got a ticket to ride. I’ve got a ticket to ra-ha-hide.’ Geoff can’t help himself. He’s full of singing as he marches down the street.

  ‘C’mon, Elvis!’ someone yells, and over the road Geoff sees three lads in the bus stop punching their Super Strength in the air. He sneers and whirls his arm round, and one of the lads shouts, ‘You’re a wanker!’

  Geoff blows him an extravagant kiss. The lad stands up, but Geoff walks on and hears behind him, ‘Leave it, Wayne. He’s not worth it, man.’

  ‘I’m worth a bit more than you think, you charver fuckwits,’ says Geoff, but not very loudly.

  Geoff intended to head home, now that he knows what he’s going to do, but when he reaches the turn-off, he decides to carry on. He’ll have a little celebration of his own, while the secret is still all his. He likes holding it unsaid in his mouth. He’ll go to the other pub, nobody will bother him there: it’s twenty pence a pint more expensive than their local, and Barry thinks it’s full of posh bastards. Geoff looks forward to being a posh bastard himself.

  That’s the best part, the getting one over on Barry. Not that Barry will ever know, but Geoff takes great pleasure in the idea that while he’s sipping a pina fucking colada on the beach, Barry will still be slogging his guts out, ignorant and miserable. As for Jim, well, what would Jim do with a full share? Drink himself to death, probably. Anyway, isn’t Geoff the one who bothered to put the numbers on, week in, week out, rain or shine, even if they hadn’t coughed up their subs? But Geoff isn’t the mug anymore; he’s a lottery winner, and they’re just unlucky.

  By the time Geoff reaches the Top House, his mind steams with thoughts, possibilities, and questions. What if they find out our numbers came up? They won’t: they never bothered to check before and they wouldn’t start now. How do we get away without anyone twigging on? Laura will have an idea: she’s a clever lass. Will she really want to leave? Of course she will: there’s nothing to stay for.

  He goes straight to the bar – he needs a beer just to slow him down before he goes home and tells Laura about the win – and pays with a tenner to get change for the cigarette machine. It’s in the corner and he wanders over to it, pleased with the swagger in his stride, but when he comes to put the coins in the slot, he finds that his hands are shaking as if he was rattling from some drug. He has to concentrate to avoid spilling pound coins all over the floor. Finally, he feeds the machine the correct change and selects the most upmarket brand it offers.

  ‘Classy fags, now, son.’

  A couple of girls at a nearby table hear him and giggle. Geoff turns and looks at them for too long and they shuffle their chairs away from him pointedly. He shrugs, picks up his cigarettes, retrieves his pint, and takes a seat at an empty table by the window.

  Geoff is about half-way through his first beer when he gets a prickling sensation. It’s the feeling of being watched. He looks around the pub more carefully than he did before. There, at a table tucked away in the shadow of the fruit machine, is the source of his discomfort. Sinister Steve tips a glass of something with Coke in Geoff’s direction and nods like an off-duty undertaker passing an old client in the street. Geoff tries to smile, but it feels very unnatural.

  Sinister Steve gets up and walks over, but Geoff doesn’t want him to. Steve gives him the shudders, with his little rat face always looking like he knows something you don’t. There’s nothing Geoff can do to stop it as Steve sits down with him.

  ‘All right, Geoff lad?’

  ‘Aye, Steve, I’m well. You?’

  ‘Ah, nothing a good shag wouldn’t cure.’ Steve gives Geoff a weird, slippery sideways look. Geoff forces a little laugh, but over Steve’s shoulder he can see those two girls looking at them in open disgust.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Geoff lies.

  ‘You looked a bit agitated when you came in, like you were muttering to yourself or something.’

  ‘Oh, aye. It’s the stress, Steve, because I’m so high-powered and that.’

  Steve laughs for longer than he should. Geoff watches the tabletop.

  ‘I saw your mate Barry the other day. He’s a good customer, him.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No, Steve. No. There’s nothing you can do for me.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Steve drains his glass. ‘Well, I’d better be going. See you later, Geoff.’

  ‘Aye. See you.’

  Steve slinks out and Geoff sees him pass the window with his mobile to his ear. Geoff shakes his head – ‘Creepy bastard’ – then sinks the rest of his pint and buys another.

  He drinks quickly and has time to buy a third pint just as last orders are called. He takes his seat again as the landlady crosses the room to close the outside door. She disappears into the vestibule, but the inside door is open and Geoff can hear her talking to someone: ‘I’ve called time.’

  ‘I just need to have a word with someone inside.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll be kicking out soon.’

  ‘Won’t take long.’

  Geoff looks around for the gents’, to hide himself, but it’s too late. Barry enters the pub and sees Geoff immediately.

  ‘Hello, Geoff.’ Barry looks much calmer than he did earlier, but this does not comfort Geoff.

  ‘I’ve said everything.’

  Barry ignores this, sits down, and lights a cigarette. When Barry is angry or upset, he smokes in hard little puffs, as if the filter were a teat. Tonight, he smokes like he does when he’s pleased with himself: wide-mouthed, deep drags that he holds and blows out slowly. Geoff is worried for a few moments, but then he remembers that Barry has no power now.

  ‘Whatever it is, I don’t give a fuck, all right? Leave us alone.’

  Barry smiles, leans over the table, and stubs out his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Have you spoken to Jim yet?’

  ‘Aye, and I told him to fuck off and all.’

  ‘Well, that explains why he’s not answering his phone, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nowt.’ Barry waves
away the question.

  ‘Barry, have you just come to sit there to be a cunt?’

  ‘No, Geoff. I thought since you’re moving on and all that, I’d try to give you a proper fresh start.’

  ‘I don’t need your help for nowt.’

  ‘There’s just something I think you should know.’

  ‘Fuck off, Barry.’

  ‘Your wife’s a whore.’

  Geoff freezes. Even when they’ve been really pissed off with each other, no one has ever brought family into it. Barry just looks at him, steady as anything. Geoff stares back. Barry smiles at the corner of his mouth and it dawns on Geoff that this is more than just an insult.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘She fucks for money,’ says Barry brightly. ‘Or she used to, anyroad.’ The numbness of shock stops and suddenly Geoff fizzes with anger, but Barry sees it before Geoff even moves and holds up his hand. ‘Settle down. It’s all true. Ask Jim – he knows all about it. They’re very close, your wife and Jim.’

  ‘Barry, I’m going to fucking kill you.’

  ‘No, you’re not, because I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t believe me, ask them. G’night, mate.’

  Barry gets up and swans out. He even gives a cheery wave to the landlady and the regulars at the bar. Geoff just sits there.

  By the time Geoff can move again, it’s nearly 1 a.m. Calling time had been a ploy: the landlady locked the barflies in and continued serving. They tolerated Geoff because he didn’t do, or say, anything. They looked at him, though, sly, over their shoulders, with a wink and a nudge. Eventually, Geoff stands up.

  ‘What? What the fuck are you looking at?’

  ‘Get out.’ The landlady points at the door.

  ‘Fuck the lot of you!’ Geoff storms out and makes for home.

  The car isn’t in the drive, and as he walks through the front door, Geoff feels as if his guts have gone through a blender. He is ready to start shouting now, but the house is quiet. He goes upstairs and finds the bed empty and not slept in. Laura is nowhere to be found. Geoff sits on the bed and tries to breathe himself into some sort of calm.