Magnificent Joe (15 page)

A couple of days after my run-in with Steve, there's a loud knock at my front door. I check that the cricket bat is within easy reach, put the chain on, open the door, and peer through the crack. Whoever is there is standing just out of the light. I pick up the
bat.

‘Hello?'

‘Howdy, partner.'

‘Bloody hell, Joe. I thought you were the fucking Gestapo. Why'd you knock so hard?'

‘You're late.'

‘What the fuck
for?'

‘To pick up Mr Green.'

Fuck. I'd forgotten about this. We're supposed to be going to the church hall tonight to measure up for the pantomime set. ‘Bollocks. Hold on. I'll just get my stuff.'

—

When we arrive, we find ourselves in the middle of a rehearsal. Someone plays the piano, trying to teach songs to a teenage girl who may or may not be playing Cinderella but is certainly tone-deaf. Two middle-aged men, possibly the Ugly Sisters, clatter about at the other end of the hall in an attempt to learn a dance routine. There are several children running around and knocking things over. I recognize nobody, which is probably a good job. Even now, I occasionally get a frosty reception from some long-term locals, depending on which version of the story they believe.

‘I'm sorry, Ronald.' A flustered woman approaches us. She stands over Mr Green's wheelchair and looks down at him. ‘We could only get the hall once a week, so we sort of have to do everything at once, you
see.'

Mr Green cranes to look up at her. ‘Are you going to tell us what you want doing with the scenery and that?'

‘Oh, yes. I've just got a few things to do first.' She notices me. ‘Who's this?'

‘This is my assistant.'

‘Oh. Very well. Hello. Right, back shortly.' She scuttles off and begins a discussion with the pianist that involves a lot of pointing.

I crouch beside Mr Green's chair. ‘What's going
on?'

‘Shit-shower. It's usual. Why don't you go and measure the stage?'

‘Right.' I get up and am about to go across to the stage when I notice a small boy walk towards us. He stands in front of Joe, tips his head, and stares brazenly in that way kids
do.

‘Are you a mentalist?' the boy asks
Joe.

Joe looks the boy up and down, and then answers solemnly, ‘Aye.'

They stay there, looking at one another, until the boy's mother comes over and yanks him away by the arm. ‘Come on,' she scolds, then looks over her shoulder and flashes Joe an accusatory glare.

I nudge Joe with my fist. ‘Howay, mate, I need some help.'

‘Aye, aye, Cap'n.'

He follows me to the stage, and after I've explained to him for the third time that it's imperative not to let go of the end of the tape, we manage to establish its dimensions.

‘Four metres wide and three metres deep.'

Joe watches me write it down and then nods. ‘That's right.'

‘What?'

‘Four metres wide and three metres deep; it's the same every year.'

‘You knew?'

‘Aye.' He smiles proudly. ‘My memory is magnificent.'

‘Why didn't you tell
me?'

He shrugs. ‘You never asked.'

I want to throw the tape measure at his head, but if he has the energy for mischief, at least it means he's no longer ill. ‘You daft bastard.'

‘You're foul-mouthed,
you.'

‘And proud of it.' I stuff my notepad into my back pocket and clip the tape measure to my belt. ‘Look, Joe, is your mam all right? I thought she looked a bit ill the other
day.'

‘Aye, she's all right.'

‘Oh good. Shall I come over tonight? We can have a cup of tea, play a game of cards.'

‘No.'

‘You like a game of Fish.'

‘We're not receiving visitors.'

‘What?'

‘We're not receiving visitors.' He does not look at
me.

‘Did your mam say that?'

‘Aye.' He folds his
arms.

‘Joe, did you tell her I was there the other night?'

‘No.' He steps off the stage and walks across the hall. I hurry after him and put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me away. ‘I didn't tell!'

I stop. If I push any further, he'll go off, and I don't want to do that to him in front of these people. He sits down on a plastic chair against the back wall and assumes a deep interest in the activities of the Ugly Sisters. I give him a couple of minutes and then go and sit next to
him.

‘I'm sorry, mate. I'm just concerned for you both. You're my friends.'

‘Don't meddle.'

‘Did she say that
too?'

‘It's none of your business what she said.'

‘All right,
Joe.'

The flustered woman is speaking to Mr Green, and he waves me over impatiently.

She talks for a long time and I take notes. I learn that her name is Lydia, she's just moved up from somewhere down South, and this is her first year as director of the pantomime. She seems unsure as to precisely how she was roped into it, so we have something in common. I also learn that in addition to the headwear we've already produced she wants three sets of scenery made up and a set of castle battlements created. Once she has run through her list of requirements, she nods towards
Joe.

‘Who is that chap?'

‘That's Joe,' I say. ‘He's in your panto.'

‘I don't remember casting
him.'

‘You don't need to cast him,' Mr Green informs her. ‘He's in it every year.'

There's a short silence, so I add, ‘He plays the back end of the horse.'

‘Oh dear. I hadn't planned on a horse.'

‘There's always a horse.'

‘That's all very well, but who's going to play the front end?' For some reason they both look at
me.

‘No. Don't even think about it.' I turn my back on them and look at Joe. He watches everything around him intently, but I don't believe he really knows anyone here. I don't know anyone here; none of them are old faces. Nobody speaks to him. Although he is surrounded by people, he looks more isolated than
ever.

—

I narrowly escaped being made the front end of the horse, at least for the time being, and now I help Mr Green home. The rubber wheels of his chair fizz along the wet paving slabs, and over his hunched shoulders I can see his hands twine and fidget in his lap. I know he wants to get out and walk, but for such an excursion his wife mandated the chair. Anyway, he knows that he's not up to it, so we trundle along in strained silence. Then he breaks
it.

‘Why didn't Joe come back with
us?'

‘I don't know. He wanted to go home.'

‘I was told that he usually hangs around you like a little puppy
dog.'

‘I think I've upset his
mam.'

‘Not a good idea – she has a formidable right fist.'

Then he tells the story I've heard before, that when Joe was a kid, they tried him at the secondary school and he was bullied. One day, a teacher just stood by and watched while three lads beat Joe up, and in response Mrs Joe stormed right into the staffroom and punched that teacher out. Joe stayed at home after
that.

‘She did it with a fistful of loose change.'

‘You what? I've never heard that
bit.'

‘She bloody did. It happened right in front of me. I was most impressed. I thought, there's a woman I should make a friend of, because I certainly don't want her as my enemy.'

‘You've known her for years, then.'

‘Aye.' He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Now I wish I hadn't said anything, because he's going to ask and then I'll have to burden him with what I know. He's fragile, and it's not fair. Then again, he knows her well and it's not right to keep him in the
dark.

‘So what did you do to upset
her?'

‘I went over and I cleaned her kitchen.'

He sucks a breath between his teeth. ‘Bloody hell.
Why?'

‘She's
ill.'

‘How serious is
it?'

‘I think she's ailing. Badly. Can't cope with the house anymore. Joe was sick because he was cooking for himself.'

Mr Green goes quiet for the distance between two streetlights and then says, ‘She won't take interference.'

He falls silent, and now his fingers don't drum on the arm of the chair, but scratch at its rubber coating. I keep pushing his chair and hope I've done the right thing.

When we get to his house, Mr Green pushes himself out of his chair without waiting for me to help him and fishes unsteadily for his keys. He opens the door and then stands, haloed by the light from inside. His clothes are very slack on his
body.

‘Do you want me to fold this?' I motion towards the chair.

‘Aye,
son.'

I kick up the clips and the chair sags in on itself. Mr Green watches me as I place it in the hallway.

‘We should go and see her together,' he says. ‘Put on a united front, talk some sense into
her.'

‘How are we going to talk sense into Mrs
Joe?'

‘Any way we can. I'll call you in the morning.' Then he closes the door on
me.

I walk towards home. I'm on my street when a grinding of gears ahead dispels my muttering anxiety; there is a car attempting a turn in the road. It wants to come back this way, so it must have driven past without me noticing it. I walk on. The driver makes the final manoeuvre too quickly and runs out of space. The car mounts the kerb, but instead of slowing, accelerates and hops back onto the road with an audible scrape as the sump guard hits the concrete. It roars up the street, then swerves onto the wrong side of the road under heavy braking and comes to a halt alongside the pavement about twenty feet in front of me. I stop. Nobody gets out. There are footsteps behind me and pain in my eyes as the car's headlights switch to full beam. I turn away, but something heavy slams into my body and I
fall.

I've been watching the same splatter of dried blood on the wall of this room in A&E for the past God knows how long. Hours. The blood looks like a map of a cluster of islands in a sea of semi-gloss emulsion. I've studied their geography, all their bays and inlets and peninsulas. It's my only entertainment. There is no choice but to stare at them; every time I look around or move I feel sick and dizzy and the blood is right in front of
me.

Some bloke goes past. I sense the blur of his body and the swish of his walk. I yell out after him, ‘How, daft cunt!'

He ignores
me.

I let my eyes close.

I wake up retching. Someone comes along and a bowl appears on my lap. I hang my head over it, but not much really comes
out.

‘You've a concussion. It's normal to feel disoriented and sick.'

I look for her face, but she doesn't stick around. She's already swishing away. Every bugger here swishes. I lean back and fall asleep again.

A clang wakes me up. The bowl is now on the floor.

‘Look, don't start any trouble,
OK?'

‘It fell. My head really hurts.'

‘That's no reason to throw things around.'

‘It fell.'

‘I'll get you some painkillers.'

She doesn't come back for forty-five minutes. I know because my watch is on my wrist tick-tick-tocking away. It's almost 5 a.m. I am up with the larks, but maybe it's almost 5 p.m. Two little plastic cups arrive. One with two pills in it, one with water.

‘These should help with the throbbing.'

‘It's more like my skull is trying to give birth to my brain through my eye sockets.'

‘Just take the pills.'

Swish.

I'm in the half-place where you're not quite sure if what you hear is real or a dream.

‘Get him out of my treatment room and put him in observation.'

‘Yes, sister.'

Tremors in the bed and then the ceiling flows over
me.

New room. No blood. Less noise. The weird seasick, drunken feeling subsides a little. I was walking home and somebody hit me. I'm not sure if I know that because I remember it or because somebody here told me. I haven't seen a mirror yet, but my face feels stiff so I know it won't be pretty. My wrist looks swollen. Maybe I landed on it when I fell. I must have fallen because they said someone found me lying on the pavement.

It is strange to realize that after all these years of keeping myself to myself, I suddenly have enemies again. The question is, which one of them would do this? And then, as if the world was moving with the drift of my thoughts, the pigs turn
up.

‘Good morning, sir,' says the older
one.

I just stare at them. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? At least now I know it's morning, not afternoon. Seconds pass. The younger one glances at the older one. The older one coughs, as if – despite the fact I'm looking right at him – he thinks I haven't noticed his presence.

‘What do you want?' I finally
ask.

‘You were assaulted.'

‘I know.'

His eyes narrow. I shrug and find the movement painful. He calls out through the open doors of the room to a nurse sat at a big curved desk, ‘Is he lucid?'

‘I don't know,' she says. ‘This isn't my ward.' She returns to whatever it was she was doing.

The copper looks back to me. I can see the broken lattice of drink in his face, like a red frost under his skin. It's far too early in the morning for him, and he hates me for
it.

‘I'm lucid. Ish. I think. I keep throwing
up.'

‘Concussion.'

‘Aye, they said that.'

‘Could you tell us what happened?'

‘No.'

‘Can you remember anything at
all?'

‘Just being hit from behind, falling over and…that's it.' I remember a car, but I won't give them that: they might start to think they have a lead. I don't want them to get involved, not that they appear to give a fuck. The copper squeezes his jaws together. The tip of his biro rests on his notepad, but he's not looking at that; he's staring me down. I'm a thug in a hospital
bed.

‘What time did this happen?'

‘About eight thirty, mebbes.'

‘Anything taken?'

I have to pause to think about this. ‘I don't know.' I feel the impulse to pat my pockets, but I'm not wearing my clothes. ‘I'm not even wearing my clothes.'

‘We can check what you came in with. What were you carrying last night?'

‘Just my wallet, my phone, a tape measure, and a notepad.'

They go off and leave me lying here. About fifteen minutes later, they return.

‘Your wallet's gone.'

‘Fuck.'

‘It looks like you were mugged, then.'

‘Yeah. I suppose
so.'

I give him the details of what was in my wallet, and he takes my address, telling me they'll be in touch. Of course, it won't really be them who get in touch – I'm not sufficiently middle class for the police to care about – I'll receive a vague letter from Victim Support and that'll be it. All of which suits
me.

They're walking out when I think of something else. ‘What about my phone?'

They stop and the older one says, ‘It looked buggered to me. Must've been when you fell.' Then they leave.

Brilliant. No cash, no means of getting any cash, and now no phone. I don't even know which hospital I'm in. I swing my legs off the bed and shuffle my body until I sit on the edge. Movement hurts, but I think that once I get warmed up, I'll be OK. I place my toes on the floor. It's cold. I wait a few seconds. Now I shift my whole weight to my feet and feel the sticky spread of skin on
lino.

Standing, the draught reminds me that I am wearing a backless gown. If I go walkabout, I will expose my arse to everyone I pass. Maybe that's what these gowns are for: to keep you where you're put. I can't remember them getting me into it – that could have happened at any time during the blur and hum in A&E – and I certainly can't remember them taking away my clothes, but maybe that happened in the ambulance. I'll be pissed off if I find out that they cut through my jacket. I can't afford a new jacket.

I pull the blanket off the bed and drape it round my body. It comes down to just above my knees and thus saves my modesty. There are two other beds in this room. One is empty; the other has the curtains pulled around it. I've heard nothing from behind those curtains since I was brought in here. I feel the briefest of urges to peek, then tell myself to stop being silly and take my first
step.

It quickly becomes clear that in my current condition the idea of walking is a bit optimistic. I settle for a shuffle and make my way out of the room. It opens out onto a corridor, along which other rooms are arranged. I stop and check the nurses' station. The one from earlier is gone and has been replaced by a male nurse engrossed in the contents of an overstuffed lever-arch file. It crosses my mind that I could just talk to him, but since my arrival here nobody has shown much interest in doing anything for me beyond the basics of preventing me from actually bleeding to death, so I decide to leave him to
it.

I look the other way down the corridor. It ends at a wall, in which there is a window. Chances are I'm in Hartlepool or Stockton, and I'd recognize either of those shitholes at a glance. Therefore, if I look out of this window, I will know where I am. Having worked this out, I feel quite pleased with myself. That in turn makes the dizziness easier to deal with, so I manage to move along the corridor with only my palm against the wall for support.

There are people in the other rooms, three or four in each. They don't do anything; they're just there, on beds. One man has acquired a newspaper from somewhere, but the others simply stare into space or sleep. Some of them look worse than I feel, a few of them are attached to tubes, and all of them ignore me as I go past. I get closer to the window and I realize I've made a mistake.

I don't know why I thought I would be high up, but I'm not. It's a ground-floor window and all I can see is the backside of another hospital building and a patch of concrete littered with fag ends. There's not even a sign anywhere. The sound of a seashell gathers behind me. I'm tired. I rest the top of my head against the glass, and as the corridor starts to move, I see it stamped on the blanket that I'm wearing, ‘University Hospital of Hartlepool'. Well, that answers that, but I'm sinking up to my knees in something thick and tipping over, and I just can't move in time to miss hitting the floor.