Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  When I first get in the bath, the hot water stings my cuts, but after a few minutes, the pain drifts away and my eyelids flutter and finally close. I don’t try to open them again, but slip deeper into the water until only my nose and lips break the surface. There’s peace down here, with all the sounds of the world – cars going past, voices in the street, the phone ringing downstairs – muffled and changed into slow, low music.

  When I look around again, orange light ripples on the tiles. It is dark, but the streetlamp outside makes a cool, watery sun in the window’s obscure glass. The bath is cold. I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and go to the bedroom to find some clothes, but the phone rings again. I manage to get downstairs in time to answer it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Ronald.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Green.’

  ‘Oh, hello, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day. It’s Mrs Joe, she’s been taken ill.’

  ‌

  ‌Part Three

  ‌‌24

  November 2004

  As we pull into the car park, I can’t believe that I’m back at the same hospital I was discharged from only this morning. I’d feel sheepish if I weren’t so worried. When we stop, I go round to the boot to pull out Mr Green’s wheelchair, but he calls to me, ‘Never mind that – let’s just get in there.’

  I consider this for a moment and decide that I’ll have to put my foot down. I walked through this building just a few hours ago, and some of those corridors feel like they’re half a mile long. ‘It’ll be quicker in the end,’ I tell him, and just carry on with it.

  I’ve already got the wheelchair on the tarmac and mostly unfolded when the passenger-side door swings open, propelled by Mr Green’s stiff, outstretched arm. It hits the car parked next to mine with a heavy thump. I hold my tongue. When he finally gets himself upright, he sees me standing behind the chair and grunts, but sits in it anyway. I lock the car and we set off towards the hospital building.

  When we get inside and ask for directions, it turns out that I was right about the chair: Mrs Joe is deep in the guts of the hospital. I push Mr Green through the corridors and try to ignore my own soreness. He is silent the whole time, gripping his walking stick in his lap. He hasn’t said much since I picked him up; our longest conversation was when he asked what happened to my face, and I told him only the bare minimum about that.

  We find the ward and approach the nurse at the main desk. I tell her who we’re here for. She looks dubious. ‘It’s a bit late. Are you family?’

  ‘Friends.’

  She flicks through some papers on a clipboard. ‘I shouldn’t really let you. She’s sedated anyway.’

  Mr Green taps his walking stick against the frame of his wheelchair.

  ‘Is her son here?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘About five feet ten, in his fifties, probably wearing a big duffel coat.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Can we at least talk to him?’

  ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  She disappears along the corridor and round a corner. About thirty seconds later, Joe appears from the same direction. He sees us and stops.

  ‘All right, mate?’ I ask him.

  He stands still, watches me.

  ‘Joe?’

  He takes a step, then another, then another. His steps pick up speed and soon he moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move before. He lumbers towards me, his arms pump. He gets to within a couple of metres and I think, ‘He must stop now,’ but instead of stopping, he lowers his head and screams out, ‘Yeearghhhh!’

  He butts me in the middle of the chest and I fall on my arse.

  The successive impacts of skull on ribcage and floor on backside amplify the pain of my injuries from dull ache to blinding agony. I scream. Joe belly-flops onto me like a professional wrestler. I scream again.

  ‘You called the doctor!’ he bawls into my ear. ‘You called the doctor and put her in the hospital! You made her poorly!’

  ‘Joe, I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You’re lying. You called the doctor!’

  ‘I didn’t call any doctors.’

  ‘You did! You took his number to call him. I saw you with my beady eye. You thought I was asleep, but I was watching you!’

  There’s a sharp crack from somewhere above. ‘Joseph! Stop that at once!’

  Joe’s lips stretch back across his face in the ugly grin of someone about to burst into tears, and he rolls off me clutching and scrabbling at the back of his thighs.

  Mr Green stands over us, walking stick aloft. ‘Any more of that and I’ll knock you on the head too. It was me who called the doctor.’

  —

  In all the rush to pick up Mr Green and drive over here, I didn’t think to ask him what actually happened, or how he knew where Mrs Joe was. If I had, I might have learned the truth and been prepared for a hostile reception from Joe. As it is, I have more bruises for my collection.

  ‘I was worried about what you’d said. I tried to call you first – I thought you were going to give me a lift over there, like we talked about – but there was no answer,’ said Mr Green.

  ‘I was in hospital.’

  ‘Well, I know that now, don’t I? So I telephoned there, but he answered.’ Mr Green looks over at Joe, who feeds coins into the vending machine on the other side of the hospital cafeteria. ‘He kept telling me she was asleep. Now, I’ve known that woman for over forty years and she does not sleep in the middle of the day.’ He slaps his hand on the tabletop, as if sleeping in the middle of the day were a clear sign of immorality. ‘So I called the surgery.’

  ‘And they sent someone to see her?’

  ‘Aye, but not till this bloody morning! Some emergency call-out, eh?’

  ‘I’m surprised they bothered at all.’

  ‘Well, I was insistent. It’s about time somebody made a fuss on her behalf.’

  I pick up a salt shaker and turn it over in my hand. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They telephoned me at lunchtime, said that Mrs Joe had a collapse when the doctor arrived and she was on her way to hospital.’

  ‘A collapse?’

  ‘She was none too pleased to see him. I think we can both imagine how it happened.’

  ‘Aye.’

  At the vending machine, Joe watches the tea dribble in to the last of three flimsy plastic cups. When it’s ready, he lifts it out of the hatch, places it on an adjacent table with the other two, and struggles to gather them all up between both hands. I’d better help him or there’ll be third-degree burns to add to the growing list of devastation. I go over and take a cup from him. He doesn’t say anything, but he follows me back to the table and sits down with us.

  There’s a moment of silence and then Joe pushes the change across the table. ‘Thanks for the money, Mr Green.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Joe. Do you have anything else to say?’

  Joe stares into his lap. ‘I’m sorry I went mental.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have called the doctor. It was meddling.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Joe. Don’t you see that someone had to meddle?’

  ‘She doesn’t like it!’

  ‘Look, Joe,’ I break in, ‘I know she doesn’t like it when people stick their noses in her business. And normally when that happens, she tells them where to go, right?’

  ‘She bloody does!’

  ‘Exactly. But this time she couldn’t do it, could she?’

  ‘She was really angry, but she couldn’t talk.’

  ‘That’s not normal, is it, Joe?’

  ‘No.’ He shrugs and looks back at his lap.

  ‘So mebbes she does need some looking after, eh?’

  ‘Mebbes.’

  ‘Then drink your tea and stop being a daft bastard, right.’

  Joe takes a slurp of the grey tea and curls his lip. ‘It
’s not as good as me mam’s.’

  ‘Nothing ever is, son,’ Mr Green tells him.

  ‌25

  By the time we’ve finished our tea, Joe looks better. He fidgets, but is otherwise back to his default, out-of-phase rationality.

  ‘Missed Coronation Street,’ he says glumly.

  I look at my watch. ‘You missed your bedtime too, mate.’

  ‘I don’t have a bedtime. I’m an adult.’

  ‘Too right. You’re bloody ancient, you.’

  ‘My mam says I’m in my prime.’

  ‘She would. Do you want a sandwich?’

  ‘Not hungry.’ He folds his arms.

  Unfortunately, I am, but I don’t want to be the only one sat here eating. I look at Mr Green, who flares his nostrils impatiently. ‘Let’s get back up there and find out how she is,’ he says. ‘If Joe can refrain from brawling this time.’

  I squeeze Joe’s shoulder. ‘He’s all right. We’ve got it sorted, haven’t we, mate?’

  Joe shrugs my hand away, but nods. ‘All sorted. It’s magnificent.’

  ‘Howay, then.’

  I get up and manoeuvre Mr Green past the tables and chairs to the exit of the cafeteria and out into the corridor. The smell of grease and stale mash subsides, and with it any feeling of ease: I’m in a hospital, again, and the news is bound to be bad. Joe shambles beside me, just a step behind.

  ‘Did the doctor say anything to you?’ I ask him.

  ‘He said hello. He said his name was Dr Ahmed. He said—’

  ‘Joe, did he say anything about your mother?’

  ‘He said she was on strike.’

  I give up and we walk the rest of the way back to the unit in silence.

  When we get there, there is nobody at the desk. I almost wait like a good little boy, but Joe keeps going, so we follow him. He stops at a room and looks through the doorway.

  ‘Is she in there?’

  He nods.

  The curtains are drawn around the bed, but I can see at least three pairs of feet moving in the gap at the bottom. There are voices too, low and urgent. All I catch are numbers, and medical words I don’t understand.

  Joe makes for the curtains, but I grab his coat and haul him back. ‘Just let them do their job, mate.’

  ‘Who is it in there?’

  ‘It’s the doctors, you nugget.’

  ‘Bollocks to that – she hates the bastards.’

  Joe swears approximately never, so I don’t notice him unbutton his coat and walk out of it until it’s limp in my hand and I’m standing there like a dickhead.

  ‘Joe, don’t go in there.’

  But it’s too late. He barges into the curtain and pushes it up and over his head. Before it falls behind him, I see the nurse from earlier turn in shock from her work at Mrs Joe’s bedside.

  ‘What are you doing to her?’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Leave her alone!’

  ‘We’re trying to treat her.’

  ‘You perverts!’

  ‘For God’s sake’ – another voice, a man – ‘I’ve been through this with you already. Wait outside.’

  I step out from behind the wheelchair, but Mr Green blocks my path with his walking stick. ‘Don’t make it worse, son. We’re in enough trouble as it is.’

  Suddenly, the curtain bulges and Joe is steered out by a young Asian doctor with both hands clamped firmly on Joe’s shoulders. Joe struggles a little, but the doctor spins him round so they’re face to face. ‘Go and sit outside and stop playing silly buggers.’

  Joe doesn’t have his mother’s balls; if a figure in authority looks him in the eye and tells him what to do, he does it. He slopes out and brushes past me without an acknowledgement.

  The doctor pushes his hair out of his face and sees Mr Green and me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re…uh…friends,’ I say.

  ‘Of him, or her?’

  ‘Both,’ says Mr Green.

  The doctor keeps looking at me. ‘Are you mentalists too?’

  ‘Not usually.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’

  He goes back behind the curtain.

  We find Joe reading a magazine in the unit’s common area. He flicks through the pages and mutters to himself. On the other side of the room, a woman and a man huddle with their backs to us. She sobs into his shirt. I resist the urge to smack Joe round the head; instead, I wheel Mr Green to one side of him and sit down on the other.

  ‘What’s this season’s colours, then?’

  ‘You what?’

  I lean in to see what he’s reading. FHM. ‘That shit’ll rot your brain.’

  He holds it closer to his face. ‘It’s all right,’ I hear him mutter from behind the cover.

  I snatch the magazine away from him and chuck it onto a nearby end table.

  ‘How! Give it back!’

  ‘Shut up,’ I hiss. ‘You’re not the only person in here with problems.’

  He butts his forehead up against mine and stares into my eyes from under knotted brows. ‘You’re rude.’ His spittle splatters on my chin and lips.

  I want to shake him hard. I glance at the other people. The woman’s face is still buried in the man’s chest, but he has noticed us. He watches nervously over the top of her head.

  I slide down the chair so that the man can’t see, grab Joe by the collar, and drag him down with me. ‘Get off!’ he squeals.

  ‘Shut up – you’re disturbing people.’

  ‘You’re disturbing me!’

  ‘Why are you pretending that you don’t understand what’s happening?’

  ‘You’re a nutter, you.’

  ‘Joe, I know you’re not this stupid.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Your mother’s seriously ill, man. She might die.’

  He twists out of my grasp, stands up, stomps across the room, and lets himself drop onto a soft chair in the corner. He is very still for a moment, but he can’t hold it in. His lip twitches and his eyes shine, and then he covers his face.

  ‘Oh brilliant,’ says Mr Green.

  ‘I got through to him, didn’t I? It’s better than a fucking spaz attack every five minutes.’

  Mr Green shrugs and looks away.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  I watch Joe cry. I’m just too tired to walk over there and do anything about it, but a growing fear buzzes in my fingers and toes. The doctor appears.

  ‘There you are. I need a word.’ He stands in the doorway.

  I get up and take the handles of Mr Green’s wheelchair. The doctor holds up his hand.

  ‘Just you will be fine. We don’t need to hold a conference.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  Mr Green stops me. ‘Just go and find out what’s happening. I’ll stay with him.’

  I follow the doctor to a small room. He closes the door behind us. Although there are chairs, he does not sit down. I ache, but I don’t want to have a conversation with his crotch, so I remain standing too.

  ‘You’re a friend of the family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her son…’ He gestures with his right hand – half a question, half an alternative to stating the obvious.

  ‘…is a bit soft in the head,’ I finish for him.

  ‘Quite. He can’t continue to behave that way or he’ll get himself thrown out of the hospital.’

  ‘He’ll be all right now, I think. It’s dawned on him that things are serious. Look, how is she?’

  ‘Yes, I was coming to that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, she’s very ill. It seems she had a small stroke recently, maybe more than one.’

  ‘On strike,’ I mutter. ‘I get it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The doctor furrows his brow. ‘She was in a bad way when she arrived: very weak, very dehydrated, obviously hadn’t eaten for several days.’

  The fear bursts. I feel sick. I could have done more
, should have done more, but I was too wrapped up in all my other problems. Even when I did pay attention, I was more concerned with protecting her dignity – and now that dignity could cost her her life. ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘Now, we’ve put her on a drip and we’ve made her comfortable, but frankly it’s too late. I think you’d better prepare for the worst.’

  ‘Neglect. She’s dying of neglect.’

  ‘You could say that. It’s quite common, actually.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Difficult to say, but not long. Hours, perhaps. He can sit with her, but you shouldn’t expect her to be responsive.’

  There’s nothing to say. I want to go outside; the fluorescent lights make my eyes ache.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Just ask at the desk if you need anything.’ He leaves and I stand in the room and watch the carpet. I don’t know how to explain this to Joe, but then, what’s to explain? He’s going to see for himself soon enough.

  ‌26

  By morning it was all over. She was so thin and white against the white of her pillow that we could see the faint pulse of life under her skin. And then we couldn’t. I drove Joe and Mr Green home; there was nothing else to do. We were monosyllabic with tiredness and defeat, and as I finally slumped through the door of my house, it felt like a place I had lived in a long time ago.

  I try not to think of Joe. I don’t want to remember the slope of his shoulders as he walked from my car to his home or the dazed rattle of his key until he realized the door had been left unlocked. Of course I didn’t go in with him; I could barely lift my own head. There’s a limit.

  I’m about to climb the stairs to go to bed, when a piece of paper catches my eye. It’s just inside the door, on its edge up against the skirting board. It could be a flyer, but then I see that one side is ragged, as if it was torn away from something. I pick it up. It’s a note: