Magnificent Joe (12 page)

At the moment when Geoff's mind rejoins the flow of time, the world and all its night air rushes past his head like a breaking wave. He also registers the fact that his arse is extremely cold. That numbness is his only marker of time, the marker of how long he's been sat here, for how long he hasn't moved, and for how long he's heard nothing but the creak of this swing and the blink and buzz of that broken streetlight. The marker says, ‘Too fucking long.' Geoff can see the dark shadows of his feet and decides to test if he can still move his body. The sole of his right shoe scuffs across the pad of safety material under the swing. He can't tell if he is surprised or if he doesn't
care.

This isn't how he imagined it, and then his phone rings. It rings and rings, then it stops. Then it rings again. Laura would never call twice, so it must be
Jim.

‘Hello?'

‘All right, mate.'

‘Hello.' Geoff repeats it for the lack of anything else to
say.

‘I've just had Barry on the phone. I'd assumed we were going to do it together.'

‘I couldn't reach you. He cornered
me.'

‘Shit. Sorry. I've been out and about, like.'

‘Well, it's settled, isn't
it?'

There is a long pause.

‘What?'

‘Geoff, I think we've made a mistake.'

Geoff looks up and stares across the dark playground to the road beyond. Silent headlights flitter through the climbing frame. The corner of his mouth twitches in a stillborn smile.

‘Geoff?'

‘He got to
you.'

‘No.'

‘Aye, you always give in to him in the
end.'

‘It's not like that—'

‘Shut up. I don't care.' Geoff spits the words almost as a reflex, but when they explode from his lips, he realizes how true they are. ‘I don't have to care.'

‘Geoff, what's going
on?'

‘Nothing I want to share with
you.'

‘Geoff, look—'

Geoff's ears disengage. The words become sounds that mean nothing at all. Inside himself he can feel everything fall away. It's as if he suddenly remembered a long-lost girlfriend only to realize that none of it matters anymore. It has all passed and he is new again. He cuts Jim off, ‘No, no, no. No. I've done enough of listening to you. I'm going to do you a favour right now, Jim lad, and you'd better hear it. You might be cleverer than me, but I've been watching you for thirty fucking years and that makes me an expert. I've got a fucking PhD in Jim studies, and my thesis says you're a cunt. You're spineless. Ever since you got out of prison you've acted as if that was the be all and end all of your whole fucking life. You're just using prison as an excuse for having done fuck all of any worth, and it's 'cos you're shit-scared. You're too scared to do anything. All you ever do is read your fucking books and spend your time looking after that nutter Joe, pretending it makes up for things, pretending you're doing something noble. Well, it fucking isn't. It's time to stand up for yourself. You don't have to crawl back to Barry this time. He just keeps you for a pet murderer because it makes him feel tough. But we can do without him. This is your last chance. Tell me you're on my side. Tell me
now.'

‘Geoff, there's something else…'

Geoff takes the phone away from his ear and holds it at arm's length in front of his face. All he can hear is a tinny little gabble. ‘G'bye, Jim,' he says loudly, then turns off the phone.

All of the joy that Geoff knew should have been his from the very first moment floods through his body. Every other alternative is sealed, and now there is just one bright path to follow. His fingertips ring with anticipation, and he stands upright. Barry is not going to get any of this money. As for Jim, he'll see about getting a handout to him later. All Geoff needs to do now is claim his prize and then he and Laura can disappear. He slips the phone back into his jacket and grins as he brushes against the reassuring bulge of his wallet. In there, just behind his driving licence, is his ticket to freedom. Nothing I want to share with you, he thinks, then giggles. The giggles get harder and harder until he bends double and feels as if he is going to laugh his lungs right out of his mouth.

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 them. 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?'