Finding Joe

by Anthony Masters

  Paul found this more and more worrying. As a young child he had been an avid reader, but this had dropped away as he grew older. Surely the magical stories he had once absorbed so eagerly couldn’t have come back to haunt him? But that was only a surface excuse, for Paul was trying to evade the link – just as he had been doing for all these hours on the marsh.

  Paul had never had a girlfriend but Joe had had dozens. They all seemed the same, pretty, smart, mindless. At least that’s how Paul saw them. Of course he was bothered that he didn’t have a girlfriend, but in fact he didn’t really want one. His life seemed too busy, with football training on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and matches in the afternoons. Sometimes he yearned for someone cheering him from the sideline, but Joe’s dolls rarely braved the weather. Paul didn’t enjoy clubbing and if that was what girlfriends were meant to be for, he reckoned he could do without one, although sometimes he worried that if he didn’t have a girlfriend people might think him odd.

  Joe never commented, however, and seemed to see his own girlfriends as mere appendages. Paul knew he had sex with them and worried that he didn’t personally feel the need. Should he? And, if so, when was the feeling going to come?

  At the moment Laura was enough for him, and Paul cherished their evenings together when they would sit companionably watching TV when the light faded.

  But the reason why Paul wanted a real family, the mother and father he often dreamt about, was because he wanted to experience something beyond Laura. He wanted to feel more balanced somehow, and being so casually accepted in Joe’s family still made him feel good. And his relationship with Joe was more than just being friends. They had become like brothers, reliant on each other with a trust and tolerance that few real brothers could possibly share.

  But although Paul felt that Joe knew him inside out, there was a holding back in Joe himself – an inner core that he knew he would never reach. And neither would Debbie. She loved Joe. Paul knew that. She wanted to look after him, to make him happy, but wasn’t her elder brother already beyond her reach?

  Thinking back, Paul knew that his dependence on Joe had been at its height after some rock-climbing lessons they had taken at an outdoor-pursuits centre last spring holiday. The course had been Joe’s idea and he had told Paul, “Team games are OK, but they don’t do much for you as an individual. You’re always relying on someone else. I want to rely on myself or, at least, just one other person.”

  The idea had at first made Paul agitated, although he couldn’t exactly think why. Yet when they had finished the climbing lessons he had never felt so exhilarated in his life. Joe was right. Pushing yourself and relying just on each other had been a fantastic experience.

  Once the lessons were over, Joe and Paul went off on a series of long cycle rides down to some natural sandstone rock outcrops near Tunbridge Wells. Gradually they moved from easy to more difficult climbs, using the equipment they had saved up for. They understood the varying grades of rock face and respected them, not attempting climbs that were currently beyond their powers.

  But what they both enjoyed the most was not using the equipment and, instead, climbing the easier rocks using hand- and toe-holds only, risking a fall, relishing the lack of protection. Here, they were no longer relying on each other. They had only their own skills to rely on now.

  As they grew more experienced they attempted more difficult climbs and the danger increased, but so did the glorious sense of increasing self-reliance.

  Then one day the exhilaration stopped and climbing was never the same again. It was half-term and there was no one else on the rocks. Paul was just above Joe and had got one hand in a crevice and his feet on a tiny ledge. He was about to pull himself up, placing his foot into the crevice and his right hand into a recess above, when he slipped and almost fell, left hanging by his right hand.

  Fortunately, he found another crevice for his foot and re-balanced his weight, but Paul’s confidence had gone. How had he ever balanced like this in the first place? he wondered. How had he ever managed to stay on the rock face, let alone climb it? He looked down. It was over five metres to the ground below. If he fell he could break a limb or fracture his skull or worse. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t move up or down.

  “You OK?” asked Joe from below.

  “No.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I slipped.”

  “Carry on.” Joe sounded amazingly, heartlessly casual. “You’re almost at the top.”

  “I can’t carry on,” yelled Paul, his whole body beginning to shake. “I’m going to fall.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am!”

  “You’ll be OK if you relax.”

  “You’ve got to help me.” Paul gave a hard dry sob.

  “OK.” Joe looked up and tried to assess the situation. He still seemed, at least to Paul, to be under-reacting. “Move your right hand up and grip that overhang. When you’ve done that move your right foot up and jam it into the crevice.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ve got to. If you can do that, you can reach up again and there’s a bloody great ledge you can pull yourself on to.” Joe gazed up again. “It’s just below that bush and then there’s only a short scramble to the top.”

  “I tell you – I can’t move.” There was no more exhilaration now, no more self-reliance, only raw and unyielding fear.

  “You can do it,” said Joe more firmly, as if he was finally realizing the gravity of the situation.

  “I can’t.”

  “If you don’t,” Joe’s voice hardened, “you could have a very nasty fall.”

  Paul whimpered.

  “Like, you could break a leg.”

  Paul whimpered again.

  “Fucking move!” commanded Joe.

  Paul shook his head hopelessly.

  “I said, fucking move!” repeated Joe.

  “I can’t.” He was trembling all over now and felt giddy. It was as if the rock face was shifting, moving out of shape.

  “Do it now.”

  “No.”

  “Now!”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Paul was a frightened child.

  “I’ve told you.” Joe began to repeat the instructions all over again, but this time his voice was much more brisk and authoritative. “Now do what I say,” he yelled when he had finished.

  Still Paul clung to the rock face.

  “Move!”

  With a sudden effort that surprised him, Paul pushed down with his right leg and reached up until he could grab the knobbly edge of the overhang above him.

  “Now pull yourself up.”

  With a cry of pure terror, Paul managed to drag himself on to the ledge where he lay with his feet dangling. Then he pulled them in with another sob, his body shaking as if he had a terrible fever. Slowly the glorious relief came, but humiliation rapidly replaced it. He had never shown any fear with Joe before. Now the friendship, previously so equal, could never be equal again.

  Joe began to climb, swiftly and methodically and confidently, until he reached the ledge, hauled himself over Paul’s prone body and got to his feet.

  “I lost my nerve,” whispered Paul. “I’m sorry.”

  “We all do that one time or another,” said Joe comfortingly.

  “You haven’t.”

  “Doesn’t mean that I won’t. It can happen any time.”

  “How?”

  “It’s all to do with confidence. You can do something without thinking for ages. Then you come to a bit of a blip and you suddenly realize what it’s all about – that it’s just, like, between you and the rock face. Once you start thinking too much, you’ve had it.” He paused. “And that doesn’t just apply to climbing rocks.”

  But Paul still felt bitterly ashamed. Now that the danger was over he couldn’t remember how afraid he had been or understand why he had felt the way he had. He sat up, looked down at the ground and saw the path and the hard, dusty slabs of rock. Now, howeve
r, he couldn’t even imagine falling.

  “I was a wimp,” he told Joe.

  “Crap!”

  “You say you’ve never felt like that?”

  “Not yet. But I will.” Joe seemed surprisingly sure that he would. “Life closes in,” he said. “It can get out of hand.”

  A few days later, Joe rang him saying he’d “got a surprise. It’s going to be a bit of a challenge”. He then gave Paul instructions about meeting him.

  “You sound weird,” Paul said.

  “Weird?”

  “Not yourself.”

  “Who wants to be?”

  Joe slammed down the phone, leaving Paul certain that he shouldn’t go. But, as always, he went.

  The car was a Vauxhall Nova, gleaming new.

  “It’s my cousin’s,” said Joe as he sat behind the wheel with an uneasy Paul beside him. His eyes seemed glazed. “He’s asked me to look after it while he’s on holiday.”

  They had agreed to meet outside the station and Joe had driven the Vauxhall into the car park at just after eight.

  His father had been gone for almost two months now. Debbie had told Paul, but Joe had never mentioned the matter and Paul hadn’t dared to bring it up. Now, however, he asked immediately, as if he could stop something happening, “Heard from your dad?”

  “No.”

  “You shouldn’t be driving.” At last Paul had made the protest he should have made before getting into the car.

  “Why not?”

  “You haven’t got a licence,” Paul reminded him. “You haven’t got any insurance. You haven’t passed your test – and you’re under age. Isn’t that enough?”

  Joe shook his head. “You’re not chicken, are you?” He grinned. “Not chicken like you were when we were climbing?”

  The insult was a betrayal and Paul was stung.

  In fact, they hadn’t been climbing since Paul had lost his nerve. He knew they should have gone, but he still felt bad about what had happened. Paul couldn’t work out whether it was fear or shame that was holding him back and Joe hadn’t pushed him either. Was that deliberate? Or just an oversight? Why didn’t they ever speak to each other about anything? Now he was under attack and maybe that was the greatest shock of all.

  “I wasn’t chicken then. And I’m not chicken now.”

  “We’ll go for a drive and then I’ll take it back.”

  “Take what back?”

  “The car, you prat.”

  “You’ve been boozing.”

  “I found this.” He produced a slim flask from under the dashboard.

  “Your cousin’s?”

  “My dad’s. He used to take it to matches. Even gave me a nip sometimes.”

  “You’ve had more than a nip.”

  “Want some?”

  “Later.”

  Joe crashed the gears and swung out into the road before Paul could change his mind. Why wasn’t he stopping all this? he wondered. Because Joe would call him chicken? A feeling of frozen fear overcame Paul, just like it had overcome him on the rocks.

  “You’re sure you haven’t had too much booze to drive?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Joe drove more smoothly and Paul forced himself to relax. Maybe it was going to be all right. But in his heart he knew it wasn’t. Joe was drunk and might have taken drugs. His eyes looked even more glazed than before. He was a stranger.

  Joe drove the Vauxhall out into the country at a moderate speed and Paul’s false optimism increased. He even began to urge Joe on, just to prove he wasn’t chicken, although another part of Paul knew he was being incredibly stupid. “Step on it a bit. We’re not going to a funeral.”

  “There’s a speed limit.”

  “Want me to take over?” Paul tried to sneer, but only succeeded in sounding stupid.

  “No way.”

  “I can give you a safe, fast ride.”

  “Not in my cousin’s car you won’t.” Suddenly Joe seemed back to the old Joe. Reassuringly careful. But how could he be careful when he was driving without a licence or insurance? If they got stopped they’d be for the high jump. Nevertheless, on the surface, Paul remained reckless and slightly belligerent.

  “Pass the flask.” When Joe told him to get it out from under the dashboard Paul took a large swig. He liked drink. Joe normally didn’t drink as much as he did, for although he liked the odd beer and maybe a quick pull of Scotch, he normally drank only a little and had never smoked.

  Once they got out into Surrey Joe accelerated, although Paul saw he was still checking the speed limits as night fell and a steep hillside rose up in front of them.

  “Where are we?” asked Paul.

  “Box Hill. We came here on our bikes.”

  “Isn’t there a cafe at the top?”

  “It’ll be closed now.”

  “You driven here before?”

  “With my cousin.”

  Paul had never heard of Joe’s cousin before and then a painful thought hit him. Suppose there wasn’t a cousin? Suppose Joe had stolen the car?

  Hurriedly, before he could stop himself or think of the consequences, Paul blurted out, “You haven’t got a cousin, have you?”

  “Eh?” Joe was pretending to concentrate on his driving.

  “You heard.”

  He laughed softly as if in relief. “You’re dead right I haven’t.”

  “You stole this?”

  “It was unlocked. Down Newport Road.”

  “That’s near your place.”

  “Right again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I told you. Have a drive round.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll dump it.”

  “What about fingerprints?” asked Paul, knowing he sounded stupid, as if he lived in a dumbed-down TV world.

  Joe shrugged. “Maybe I’ll burn it. That could be a bit of fun.” He was heading off up Box Hill now, his foot down, the engine roaring.

  “Why?” asked Paul flatly, not wanting to believe what Joe had told him.

  “I needed some fun.”

  “You must be crazy. What happens if you get nicked?”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “Thanks. What about me?”

  “You can always get out.” Joe speeded up again, taking a blind corner with the brakes screaming.

  “Slow down.”

  “You told me to speed up back there.”

  “I was a fool. Like you.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “What will your mum do if you get nicked?”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Don’t fucking ever mention him!”

  Paul could see that Joe was gritting his teeth and staring ahead.

  “It’s really changed you.”

  “Changed me?”

  “He meant a lot –”

  “Of course he did.”

  “He’ll ring you,” persisted Paul stubbornly, knowing he was taking an enormous risk. “You’ll see each other.”

  “We won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told him.”

  “Told him –”

  “What I thought of him for leaving Mum. For fucking someone behind her back.”

  “You just lost your temper.”

  “I told him I never wanted to see him again – and I hit him too.” Joe’s voice rose. “I hit him hard. Now he’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

  “So why are you doing this? Taking and driving away?”

  “I want to show him.”

  “Show him what?”

  “That I can have fun too.”

  “Don’t be so stupid.”

  Joe suddenly braked and the car spun in a half circle, coming to rest with its nose nudging some bushes.

  “For Christ’s sake –”

  “Scared?”

  “Shitless.”

  “Great.”

  “You’re a bastard, Joe. Do
you know that? Someone could smack us up the arse.”

  Slowly Joe reversed and began to drive erratically up the hill.

  “Slow down. Do you want to kill me too?”

  Joe decreased speed until they reached the brow, steering into a car park. He was driving more carefully now, the Vauxhall bumping over ruts.

  Joe drew up near a small spinney of trees. “I’m sorry,” said Joe, but he didn’t sound contrite, only irritable. He pulled out the flask and took a long gulp.

  “I’m getting out.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I’ll hitch a lift home.”

  “Get on with it then.” Joe was truculent.

  “Only one thing. I’ve got to look after you,” said Paul. “Make sure you get home in one piece.” He paused. “Why don’t you dump the car here? Then we can both hitch a lift.”

  For a moment Paul thought Joe might agree, for there was a sudden listlessness about him as he slowly tapped one finger on the steering wheel. “It would take us too long.”

  “So what? We’d be safe.” Paul found himself fighting a desperate battle, not knowing whether he would win or lose. He decided to try and push his luck. “Look, Joe – leave the car here.”

  “It’ll be covered in prints.” He laughed emptily, his eyes half closing. “That’s what you were scared of, wasn’t it? The filth.”

  “Can’t we wipe them off? Anyway, they’re not going to exactly do a house-to-house fingerprint check on a stolen car. So leave it here and we can walk down to the main road. Maybe have a drink on the way – and we can take the flask. Please, Joe.” Paul was pleading desperately now. “Let’s just dump the car and hitch. Directly we get into central London we can take the tube. I’ve got some money.”

  Joe sighed, slumping in his seat, his eyes almost closed now. “All right then.”

  “Great!”

  But still he didn’t move.

  “Come on, Joe,” Paul said, trying not to show his fear. He was reminded of the rocks. Joe had saved him. Now he had to save Joe – and himself. “We haven’t got time to piss about.”

  “I’m not –”

  “Anything could happen.”

  “OK.” Joe opened his door and Paul was just getting out the passenger side when he saw the flashing blue light.

  The police car came slowly into view, light suddenly switched off, the vehicle crawling over the loose gravel.