Making his way over to a chair that was as far away from them as possible and as near as he could to one of the stations of the cross, Barry sat down and wept, the anger dissipating, the grief taking over, the Shockwaves still coursing through him. To cover up his public display, although there was no one near enough to see him, he knelt down and prayed and cried all the harder.
“Make him die, God. Make Joe die. And if you won’t make him die, let Roz see what kind of bastard he is.”
Barry stood up as the organist began to practise, the notes swelling out into the nave, triumphant battle music as he strode down the aisle, praying all the time for the bloodiest possible death for Joe.
As he walked back to the door of Christ the King, Barry knew how badly he’d blasphemed, how much of a mockery he had made of the God he hadn’t taken the trouble to know.
From her vantage point in the aisle, the Virgin Mary fixed him with a look of reproach that made Barry afraid, and he paused and knelt down again, noticing that a number of pieces of paper had been stuck to the Virgin’s feet. He remembered they were Intentions, appeals for help.
Please heal my baby.
Holy Mother, please welcome my dad into heaven.
I am so lonely. Mother please help me.
Holy Mother, please stop my husband drinking.
Barry paused, wanting to make some kind of amends. God works in a mysterious way his wonders to behold. The text flashed back into his memory.
Suddenly he knew God wasn’t his childhood image of the old man in a white robe. Instead, Barry wondered if he was an invisible force inside everybody. He gave people choice. He had been given his choice and he knew what it should be, but all he wanted to do was find Joe and beat the hell out of him. Barry knew that this was not the kind of thought he should be having at the feet of the Virgin Mary, but it was hard to resist.
Afterwards, Barry went for a long walk, eventually returning home, the hard knot of rage a painful ache in his stomach, the loss of Roz an even more powerful pain in his heart.
Sitting around the tea table he was so silent that his father asked, “Penny for them?”
“Eh?”
“What’s up? Something gone wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you.”
“Started mind-reading, have you?”
The rest of the family were laughing about something at the other end of the table. “Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
There was a pause. Then his father asked, “Have you made up your mind about Youth Action Day?”
“I’ll be there,” he replied, drinking his tea which tasted of bitter bile.
Barry shivered in the sultry heat. Even the whisky hadn’t been able to mask his despair.
He had felt too humiliated to confide in Paul or Jake about what Joe had done to him, although he knew they were bound to find out from the grapevine. He hadn’t told any of his other friends either, and especially not his parents. They would have to find out for themselves.
Paul’s torch flashed twice as the deadline was reached, and the beam swept the marshy ground as Barry broke cover. He reckoned he could out-run Paul through the wood and then, providing he didn’t lose his way, double-back through the trees and reach the camp-fire which he could see flickering over to his right.
Suddenly exultation filled him. Barry hadn’t run like this since he was a kid – not with the same sense of excitement and rage. Physicality had taken over, balm to his painful thoughts. Of course, God was a force in him – a force that could make him run faster than he had ever done before, faster than he ever thought he could.
Barry kept on running, weaving about, hoping he hadn’t been picked up in the erratic path of Paul’s torch beam. He was advancing more cautiously now, sometimes crouching down, standing still and then moving forward noiselessly.
The torch was relentlessly getting closer and cutting him off as Paul began to suss out his strategy, but Barry was now within striking distance of getting out of the wood and then doubling back towards base. He was sure Paul hadn’t seen him. If he had sprung a trap, however, Barry knew he was ready for him. His rage was penned up, a ravening animal ready to break out, given the right kind of provocation.
Suddenly the beam went out and Barry heard Jake calling in alarm, “Where are you, Paul? Are you OK?”
Barry was immediately contemptuous. Was Jake afraid of the dark? Afraid of being alone?
He moved on as quietly as he could, listening for footsteps or any other kind of noise. Then Barry came to a sudden halt. What was that he’d just heard? An animal? Or was it a human being moving softly through the undergrowth?
For seconds Barry remained absolutely still and a deep silence seemed to stretch around him.
Then he jumped as a torch was suddenly switched on and the beam swept him.
“You’re had,” whispered Paul.
It was hot and clammy as Paul and Barry listened to each other’s laboured breathing.
“You’re had,” repeated Paul, hesitant now.
“I’m not.”
“Now it’s my turn to hide.”
“You sound like a stupid kid,” Barry sneered. “You know what Joe used to say.” He pronounced the name like a curse.
“No,” replied Paul doubtfully.
But Barry knew that he did. “Joe said we weren’t to give ourselves up.”
“What’s that meant to mean?” Paul’s voice shook slightly.
“Jake told you.”
“Did he?”
“He told you just now.” Barry knew that he was going to do something wrong, but the rage was there and had to find an outlet. He couldn’t go on bottling it up any longer. “You can’t stop me. I’m getting back to base, so get out of my way.”
“I remember what Joe said now.” Paul suddenly dropped all pretence.
“You tell me,” hissed Barry.
“He told us to fight with our bare hands.”
Barry still knew that what he was about to do was wrong, but his rage was too great. He didn’t care. He wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. Paul would do – and he certainly couldn’t give a damn if he got hurt himself.
“Come on then.”
Paul hesitated.
“OK. Try this.” Barry hurled himself at Paul and took him by surprise. They fell and rolled into the foliage, punching and struggling. What had half begun as a play-fight was suddenly for real, with Barry hitting as hard as he could and Paul punching back.
Dimly they could both hear shouting and knew it was Jake, but now they didn’t want to even consider the idea of stopping. Soon they were swearing at each other, the mingling sweat pouring off them. The torch, dropped by Paul, had fallen into a bush, but its beam was still on, occasionally capturing their grappling.
Suddenly Barry was on top of Paul, hitting even harder.
“What are you doing?” yelled Jake, suddenly emerging from the darkness, dragging at Barry’s arm, forcing it back until Paul was able to pull himself clear. There was a panting and gasping and swearing, while Jake still had Barry’s arm in a half nelson. He had surprising strength.
“You’re a nutter,” gasped Paul, wiping away the blood from his nose. “A real nutter.”
“Let go, Jake,” yelled Barry.
“You won’t start again?” Jake pleaded.
“Let me bloody go!”
“You’ve got to promise.”
“OK, I promise.”
Jake let him go and Barry staggered to his feet. He stood there silently, without moving.
“Why?” asked Paul.
Barry shook his head.
“You got something to tell me?” demanded Paul.
He shook his head again.
“You got something against me?”
“No.”
“Why then?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know.”
“We’re meant to be mates. It was a game, right?” Paul sounded more hurt than indignant.
“Joe’s game,” muttered Jake.
“And what’s that meant to mean?” Barry rounded on Jake angrily.
“It means you play it for all it’s worth.”
“Did Jake tell you to attack me?” asked Paul.
“No.”
“So what do you really know about Joe?” asked Jake suddenly.
“What do you mean?” Barry was surprised. “I just know him, that’s all. But Paul knows him the best.”
“Do I?”
“You’ve been to his house. Met his parents. You even know Debbie better than we do.” Barry wanted to shift the blame, somehow make Paul culpable for something. But what?
“So?” Paul was suspicious and hostile.
“Don’t you know where he is?” asked Jake innocently. Too innocently.
“Of course I bloody don’t. Why should I? Why the hell do you think I’m sleeping rough and being beaten up in the woods, if I know where he is? This isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
“I’m sorry,” said Barry, apologizing for the first time.
“You can say that again.”
“I’m sorry. How many more times do I have to say it?”
“Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK.” Paul decided to accept the apology. “Let’s go and sit by the fire and –”
“Talk about Joe?” asked Jake woodenly.
“And finish the whisky.”
“All of it?” Jake sounded disapproving.
“Why not?” said Barry.
Barry fanned the flickering flames and they roared up into the night, fingers of fire lighting up the trees, making them all sweat in the fuggy night.
“Want some?” he asked Jake, and he nodded.
“Going to loosen up a bit?” laughed Paul, but not maliciously.
“I feel I need a bit of – a bit of a lift.”
“You had one earlier,” said Paul.
“You’ll lift off all right,” pronounced Barry as he grabbed the bottle back from Jake. “If you take big swigs like that, you’ll get pissed too fast and there won’t be enough for the rest of us.”
Barry took a more modest swig and then passed the bottle on to Paul who did the same.
“So where is Joe?” asked Jake.
“How the hell should we know?” snapped Barry. “Why do you keep asking? Do you think there’s something we haven’t told?”
“He’s just holding out on us all. Wants to make a drama.” Paul spoke uncertainly.
“It’s a drama all right,” said Barry.
“Was his dad always going off?” asked Jake curiously.
“Yes. But he’d never left home before,” said Paul.
“He took it bad?” asked Jake.
“Wouldn’t you?” said Barry impatiently.
“I don’t have a dad,” said Paul suddenly. “Never ever had one.” He spoke evenly, without betraying emotion. “So I don’t know what it’s like. Wouldn’t have minded having one, though,” he added reflectively.
“They were close – Joe and his father?” asked Jake, probing again, hoping Paul might give another inch or two.
“You know they were.”
“Do stuff together?”
“Football training. That kind of thing. Nothing special.”
“That is special,’ said Barry. “I wish my old man would do that with me.”
Jake felt the same.
“Sorry. All right then, it was special.” Paul was slightly bitter.
There was a long silence.
“Let’s have some more Scotch then,” said Paul with an edge to his voice.
“You’ve got it.” Jake sounded uneasy.
“That’s right.” He took a long swing and Barry didn’t tell him he was taking too much.
Jake wondered if the drinking session was going to get out of hand and guessed Barry was thinking along the same lines. “Better turn in soon,” he said and hurriedly rose to his feet. Hadn’t there been enough violence for one night?
“Sit down.” Paul was slightly slurred. “Just sit down.”
He passed the Scotch to Barry who took a small swig and handed it to Jake who didn’t take any at all, simply nursing the bottle between his knees.
Paul looked impatient. Then he said, “Let’s play a game.”
“Not the game,” said Barry hurriedly.
“Another game,” Paul muttered. “Another game altogether.”
“What is it?” asked Jake fearfully.
“It’s called ‘My Friend Joe’.”
“What sort of game is that?” said Barry warily.
“You’ve got to say what you think of Joe. What you honestly think of him.”
Jake and Barry looked at Paul uncertainly. He was swinging from one extreme to the other. First he wouldn’t talk about Joe. Now he was promoting a contest to find out more.
“That’s not a game.”
“What you really think of Joe. Who’s going to start?”
“Me,” said Jake unexpectedly.
“You know it’s the truth game.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to tell the truth, Jake.”
“OK.”
“And pass me the bottle,” said Paul. “Don’t keep it all to yourself. Want some more, Barry?”
“Not right now.”
“Give it to me then.”
Jake passed the bottle to Barry and they exchanged a glance. Barry shrugged and passed it on to Paul who took his longest swig yet.
“Steady on,” said Barry unhappily.
Paul took the bottle from his lips and put it between his knees, just as Jake had done before. He grinned mockingly at Barry. “Steady on? That’s what my mum says to me all the time. Steady on –”
“Do you want me to play the truth game or not?” Jake demanded.
“Go for it,” said Barry with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.
“OK,” began Jake. “I’ve always liked Joe. He’s been a good mate and he’s a decent guy.” He paused reflectively. “What I really like about him is the way he goes for it, gets everything he can out of life. I’ve always admired him for that. I don’t think he was all that happy at home, so he had to fight that too. Believe me, I know what that feels like.” Jake paused again. “Anyway, he’s an outstanding athlete, a real all-rounder. Joe came round my place and helped me to train for the Marsh Marathon and he helped train Sam and Tom too. They did well, but I didn’t, so in the end I let him down. That’s all I’ve got to say,” Jake finished in a rush.
“Is that all?” slurred Paul.
“I think so.”
“Is that really the truth – the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you know any secrets about him?” Paul insisted.
“Why should I?” Jake’s voice shook slightly and Barry and Paul glanced at him curiously. “I don’t know anything like that. I wouldn’t want to. I’m sorry he’s so unhappy. But he’s been happy too, when he’s had a challenge.” Jake sounded slightly defensive now as he noticed Barry wince. “Now it’s your turn, Paul.”
“Me?” Paul seemed to sober up slightly, or had he been playing drunk? wondered Jake.
“You,” snapped Barry.
“OK. Well, he’s always been my best mate ever since we were at primary. I play league football with him. He’s a striker and he’s good. When I go round his house we play chess and snooker.” Paul sounded as if he was reciting lines he had carefully learnt. “You’re wrong when you say he’s unhappy. His family were –”
“Great?” asked Barry sarcastically, but Paul didn’t seem to mind.
“I really like his mum and dad and Debs. OK, so his dad’s left home, but maybe that won’t last.” Paul came to a hesitant halt, looking away from them, the blandness of his statement seeming to depress even him.
“I thought you were going to tell us a bit more than that,” complained Barry. “After all, you knew him best.”
“Not in the end I didn’t.”
“What’s that meant to mean?” asked Jake.
“Nothing. I just don’t have any more to say, that’s all.” Paul sounded just as defensive as Jake had. “Why should I?”
“Joe’s changed,” said Barry. “We all know that.”
There was a short silence. Then Paul said, “It’s like – like part of him died when his dad left.”
Barry and Jake stared at Paul in amazement. He didn’t usually make statements like that – emotional statements. It’s weird, thought Jake. It’s not like him, thought Barry. Paul’s a tough nut. Was it the booze talking?
“So Joe – what did he do –” Paul became slightly incoherent again. “He started passing it on, didn’t he?”
“Passing what on?” demanded Jake.
“Well – he wiped the shit all over us, didn’t he?” He paused and turned to Jake, a vacant grin on his face as if he wanted to wind him up. “What did he really do to you?”
“Nothing. What did he do to you, Paul?” said Jake defensively.
Deadlock had been reached.
“There was something that drove him,” began Barry.
“What?” asked Paul and Jake in unlikely unison.
“You’re right, Jake, he wasn’t unhappy just because his dad went. He was unhappy before. But he tried to be happy. He liked his challenges. That’s what drove him on, what kept Joe going.”
“Challenges – or kicks?” demanded Paul.
“He didn’t do drugs,” said Barry firmly.
“Didn’t he?”
“He liked sports and all that,” Barry said feebly.
“Did he?” Paul was being deliberately, drunkenly provocative.
“He was OK,” Barry insisted. Jake was silent, determined to be an observer, to keep out of the discussion at all costs.
“So he got to you too, did he?” laughed Paul, but his laugh held no humour.
“He didn’t get to me.” Barry sounded flustered and Jake noticed his face was red, although it could just have been the firelight. “Joe never had a go at me.”
“Didn’t I see him going round with Roz?” Paul asked too casually.
Finding Joe Page 6
