Magnificent Joe (14 page)

Sinister Steve deals in many things – cash, illegal fags, car stereos – but he has a particular penchant for acquiring and distributing general knowledge. I know this because whenever I've made the mistake of being in the Admiral when the Sunday-night quiz takes place, Steve has always been there, paying rapt attention and eagerly scribbling his answers. It's for this reason that I settle myself in a corner of the pub with a pint and a newspaper.

I'm early, but I wanted to come in unnoticed, and in any case I needed a change of scenery. Sadly, there isn't much to look at except the blinking lights of the fruit machine and some sort of variety show playing on the TV over the bar. I have spent a fair proportion of my life in here, and looking around, I'm unable to see a good reason why. Still, I feel better now, although I'm apprehensive. I'm about to do something bad, but at least I'm doing something.

The TV programme ends and another, equally worthless, programme starts. I open the newspaper and half read a feature on celebrity addiction, while trying to stay aware of what happens around me. As the evening proceeds, the bar starts to fill and soon paper and pens are handed round. People form teams and sit around tables, chatting and drinking. Frank, the landlord, tests a microphone with a flick of his finger and the percussive thud of it pops from a speaker above my head. I should have sat somewhere
else.

Steve isn't here yet and I become annoyed with myself for arriving here like this and expecting everything to fall into place. Perhaps he is somewhere else tonight; perhaps he's busy. Frank is going to start soon. He walks around the barroom with a clipboard and a pint pot, taking team names and entry fees. Then Steve slips in through the
door.

I feel relief, and then a strange kind of excitement, even though I have no idea how I'm going to get him alone. I watch him cross the room; he scuttles through the spaces between people and slides to the bar, where he waits for service but keeps his head flicking from side to side like an animal tasting the air. I view him as an animal now, as prey, or simply a pest to be dealt with. He wears a black bomber jacket, black jeans, and white trainers. He is slight of build, and not as tall as
me.

Steve buys a drink and asks for pen and paper, and then he sits alone at the other end of the room. There is nobody who would form a team with him. I have finished my pint, and an idea occurs to me. I go to the
bar.

‘Smith's, please, and a shot of JD. Neat.'

With the drinks in hand, I make my way over to Steve and sit down with
him.

‘All right, Steve?'

‘All right.'

‘Here, make it a double.' I pass him the glass of bourbon. I'm pretty sure it's what he takes with his
Coke.

‘It already
is.'

‘Well, then make it a triple.'

‘Thanks.' He pours the shot into his own glass.

‘You doing the quiz?'

‘Aye.'

‘Fancy teaming
up?'

He tips his head to one side and looks at me cautiously. Then he shrugs. ‘All right. Didn't know you did the quiz.'

‘I never have. Just needed a diversion. It's been a funny few days.'

‘Right.' He takes a drink, and then Frank appears.

‘Three pounds, please, gentlemen.'

We split the fee, and while Steve digs in his pocket for change, Frank gives me a questioning look. I just smile and spread my hands. We name ourselves the Cupid Stunts and Frank sighs as if this signifies the end of civilization.

‘I saw your mate Geoff last night,' says Steve once Frank has buggered
off.

‘You what?'

‘Aye, up at the Top House.'

‘That's funny. Did he say anything?'

‘Not really. He was just having a quiet pint.' Steve seems to be watching a point just over my left shoulder.

‘OK.' Frank's voice bursts from the speakers in a welter of feedback, followed by a bout of swearing as he adjusts the volume. ‘OK. Welcome to the quiz! Round one is general knowledge.'

It takes over an hour, during which I manage to buy Steve a further three very strong Jack and Cokes, and, miraculously, keep smiling. We manage eighteen out of twenty on general knowledge, sixteen out of twenty on sport, but perform so miserably at guess the song that we finish fifth.

‘I always fuck up on that.' Steve is drunk. ‘It's always bloody 1960s stuff. Never heard of any of
it.'

‘You got Smokey, and Martha,' I observe.

‘That's soul, it's a different kettle of fish. I'm talking about all the jingle-jangle shite.'

I nod enthusiastically, but I'm bored and ready to make my move. ‘Steve, I've got something to discuss with you, but I can't talk here.'

‘Eh?' He tries hard to focus on my face, then gives up and flings his glass to his lips, almost spilling drink on himself.

‘I've got a proposition for you. You could make a bit out of it, like.'

‘How much?'

‘Let's just say I'm after a certain high-margin item.'

‘How high?'

‘I don't want to talk here. I'll meet you round the back in a couple of minutes, right?'

‘Fair enough. I'll see you there.' He raises his glass to
me.

‘Good
man.'

In the alley, I lean against
‌
the wall. It's almost pitch black out here and it takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the point that I can see objects. The mouth of the alley opens onto the pub car park and provides a rectangle of light through which I'll be able to see anyone approach. It's cold. I zip up my jacket and put my hands in my pockets.

I don't know if this is a good idea. I don't even know if I'm still capable of this kind of thing, but I'm about to find
out.

A slim figure appears at the entrance. He stumbles and puts his arm out to steady himself against the
wall.

‘Steve.'

‘Where are
you?'

‘Up here.'

I step out into the middle of the path and he must see my shadow because he says, ‘Oh right,' and weaves towards me. ‘What's this proposition, then?'

‘Steve, before I begin, I want you to know something: there's nothing going on between me and Geoff's wife.'

‘What?'

I clench my fists at my sides, step forward, and barge Steve into the wall. ‘What did you tell Barry?'

‘What are you talking about?' He pushes me, but I'm too big for him to move and I bear down harder.

‘You know what I'm talking about. What did you tell Barry?'

‘Fuck. Off.' He tries to wriggle away. I grab him by his jacket and slam him back into the
wall.

‘I'm serious, Steve. You'd better tell me what's going on.' Even as this comes out of my mouth, I know it sounds weak. I feel weak. I have no fury on my side and this is not going to work. Steve stops resisting and just looks into my face, and I already know what he's going to
say.

‘Or what?'

I have no good answer to that. Steve has called my bluff.

‘Let me go,' he
says.

But I cannot let him go. If I don't make him talk, I go home with nothing and Barry wins. My body is heavy, my limbs reluctant to do what they need to do next. I breathe in, close my eyes, and drive my knee into his bollocks. He jolts so hard that I let go of him and he bends double, gasping for
air.

‘What did you tell Barry?'

‘Just that I saw you together and…I'm sorry. I got it wrong.'

‘You're damn right you got it wrong!' I smash the point of my elbow between his shoulder blades. His arms flail up and behind him and for a moment, before he screams, he looks like a puppet on muddled strings.

I clamp my hand over his mouth and force him to the ground, smothering him with my weight. He struggles and squirms, and I put my other hand on the back of his head and twist it round until I can almost look him straight in the eye. He goes dead still. He believes me now, but I don't know if I believe myself. ‘I reckon I could snap your fucking neck, Steve,' I say. ‘Shall I
try?'

He makes a high, yelling sound in his throat. It might be ‘No!' I take my hand away from his mouth. ‘I'm sorry,' he pants. ‘He shouldn't have. I told him not to do anything stupid.'

‘You told him not to do anything stupid?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Why the fuck is Barry talking to you about our business? What's going
on?'

He doesn't say anything. I get up and he tries to crawl, but I put my foot on his back and press down. ‘Stay where you are.' He stops moving, but he still doesn't talk. I have that feeling of a blow to the head, like I'm standing in a ghost body that only just overlaps my own. I kick
him.

‘Stop!' he shouts.

‘Then tell me why this happened. Tell me what you and that bastard are up
to.'

Steve rolls over and holds his side, breathing hard. ‘It's small-time shite. It wasn't worth none of this.'

‘Just tell
me.'

‘All right, all right.' He shuffles himself into a seated position, with his back against the wall, and looks up at me. ‘You were working on that big job, right? And because it's a big job, they have all kinds of gear on hire. Sometimes it's there for days, and it's nice stuff: generators, Stihl saws, chase cutters, high-speed drills; even the fucking safety equipment's worth something.'

‘You were going to rob them? They keep it in a shipping container, with fuck-off big locks on it. You'd have to cut your way in. It's in the middle of a fucking city!'

‘I know, but Barry said he could sort it out. He said he could make impressions of the keys.'

‘He'd have to pilfer them from the office first. He doesn't have the balls.'

‘Well, apparently he thinks he does, because he's gone this far, hasn't
he?'

‘Fuck.'

‘Anyway, I'd give the copies to some good lads I know, and Barry would keep an eye on what was coming in and out of the site. When there was enough tasty stuff inside to make it worth our while…zip. They're in and out. I fence the gear; Barry gets his cut. But then the accident happened and you and Geoff refused to go back and fucked up the plan.'

‘How much?'

‘What?'

‘How much would he make?'

‘Depends on what we got. Mebbes a grand or
so.'

‘A grand? He did this for a grand? For fuck's sake, if he needed money, he could have pulled this sort of stunt on any
job.'

Steve shifts his weight uncomfortably and feels his ribs. ‘You know Barry – he's got no imagination. He thought he was a criminal fucking genius just for coming up with this shitty little plan. He couldn't go back to square one. He hasn't got the brainpower.'

‘Jesus Christ.'

‘And it's not just that. He likes to talk big. He likes to be the leader. He thinks he fucking owns you and Geoff, and he wanted to make you go back to the site to prove it. He needs the control. “I'll show those two fuckers who's in charge.”
That's what he said to
me.'

‘I don't fucking believe this.'

But I believe it all too well. I'm tired and there is nothing more to say here. My leg shakes and the change in my pocket rattles. I put my hand on it to stop the sound; the movement stirs an acid feeling in my stomach that could be hunger, but isn't. I look down at the dark, huddled shape of Steve and think that I should help him up. Instead, I walk
away.

Geoff is neither hungry nor thirsty, but to sit here he must order. The waitress taps the top of her pen against her pad. The pad is held in a stiff wallet coated with black vinyl that peels away at the spine, and there is a huge spot on the end of the waitress's nose. Geoff stares at it, unable to form any idea of what he should say. The spot is red and swollen, and looks like it will burst
soon.

‘Bacon butty and a pot of tea,' he mumbles, and feels relieved that she will now go away. ‘Please.'

‘Brown or white?'

‘What?'

‘Bread. Brown or white?'

‘Brown. No, white.' Geoff doesn't know why he said that; he doesn't like brown bread.

‘You can have a slice of each for all I care.'

It's painful to listen to other people talk, and he is sure that she is just bullying him
now.

The waitress's face remains just as grey and solid as a cold dumpling. ‘Do you want any tomato or mushroom?' A long pause. ‘In your sandwich.'

‘No. Plain. Just plain. Plain. Please.'

The waitress writes down the order and finally leaves Geoff alone, but not in peace. He checks his watch. Late. And why do they have to meet
here?

The tables are in two columns along the length of the café, with a gangway down the middle to the kitchen door. Geoff is at the last one, with his back against the wall. Apart from an elderly couple near the entrance, the place is empty.

Geoff looks down and sees the way the Formica has come away in large chips at the edge of his table. They look like bite marks. Chipped Formica and peeling vinyl; he knows his tea will come in a stainless-steel pot that dribbles everywhere.

The order arrives and proves him right. Some things never change, but at least there is plenty of bacon in the sandwich. He nibbles at it, to get used to having food in his mouth again. A hot surge of saliva under his tongue surprises him and soon he eats properly in full bites. He is almost finished when he hears the door
open.

This must be the man. After two days of near-paralysis in a grotty hotel room in Middlesbrough, Geoff picked him pretty much at random from the Yellow Pages, and it shows. His suit sags around him and reminds Geoff of a schoolteacher or someone who works at the dole office. His hair is thin, and his spectacles are steamed up. He doesn't look like Geoff's idea of a private investigator.

The man takes off his glasses to wipe them clean, but drops the file folder held under his right arm. Geoff looks around in panic. Look at this shithole. Look at this idiot. He pushes the last piece of his bacon sandwich away from him and focuses on his twisted reflection in the teapot, trying not to look up as the dozy cunt walks over to
him.

‘Hello, Geoff?'

The truth arrives in Geoff's head. He doesn't need proof, because he knows Barry wasn't lying. He doesn't need proof, because all that matters is, he's finally getting away. ‘No, mate. Not me, sorry.'

‘Oh,' says the private investigator. ‘Well, excuse me.' He goes and sits at another table.

Geoff pays and leaves.