Magnificent Joe (16 page)

Geoff has stayed up North for long enough. He wants to get away. Besides, this town is too familiar; he's scared to leave the hotel in case he bumps into someone he knows. He doesn't want to answer anybody's questions. About anything. Even the ‘Hello. How are you?' of the maid who came to turn down the bed this morning was physically painful to
bear.

So he's leaving. He folds each article of clothing and stacks them neatly inside his bag. He leaves out only a change of underwear, his toothbrush, and his shaving kit. The train leaves at 8.51 a.m. tomorrow. Change at Darlington and then nothing to do but watch England slide past all the way to King's Cross.

It's ages since Geoff was last in London, but he knows he can lose himself there for as long as it takes to get the money safely in his hands. He remembers the filthy B&B he and Barry dossed in when they were jobbing down there, and smiles grimly at the memory of the dirty sheets and rat shit. That was ten years ago, when Jim was still in prison and before Barry turned himself into a miserable fucker, years before his time. ‘Premature middle age,' Laura used to call it. Another one of her clever little jokes, the ones Geoff used to love. He kicks the minibar; the bottles inside rattle.

There's one more job to do before he leaves. It struck him today as he skulked back from McDonald's with a bagful of hamburgers, and almost shat himself at the sight of a copper. Geoff hasn't really done anything illegal, yet, but it made him think. He doesn't care what Laura thinks – let her worry, not that she probably cares – but if he just disappears and leaves her to wonder if he's waded into the sea, the next copper he sees might be one who really is looking for him. That would fuck everything
up.

He sits on the end of the bed and turns his new mobile phone over and over in his hand. It would be easy enough to dial the number, but Geoff knows that if he hears her voice, he'll vomit Big Mac all over the carpet.

‘Fucking hell.' He drops the phone onto the quilt and kneads his face between his hands. ‘Fuck her, just think about the money.'

Anyway, he wants her to have it in writing. She can't argue with that, especially if he delivers it by hand. He'll wait until it's late, then he'll call a
cab.

Just think about the money. Just think about the money.

A full day later and the world has righted itself. A doctor told me to take it easy, but I'm fit enough to go. Even better, there is some spare change in the pockets of my jeans. I feed a twenty-pence piece into the payphone next to the WRVS shop and stab out Geoff's home phone number; it's the only one I can remember by heart.

‘Oh. It's you,' Laura
says.

‘Aye. Is he back?'

‘No.'

‘Right.' I don't know what else to say to that. To be honest, the fact that Geoff's still out of the picture will probably make it easier to get a lift home. ‘Look, I hate to ask, but I need some help.'

‘You need help?'

‘I'm in hospital. I've been beaten
up.'

‘Oh Jesus.'

‘They took my wallet, and my mobile's smashed. I'm stuck.'

There's a pause and then, ‘Do you want me to pick you
up?'

‘Yeah.' I feel guilty, but I let her know where I am and she tells me that she'll get here
soon.

—

In the event, it takes her over two hours. I see her first. She walks through the automatic doors and starts looking on the wrong side of the atrium. After sitting for so long, it's hard for me to get up again, so when she turns, she catches me half crouched like an old man with my hands on my thighs. She purses her lips. I straighten up and creak towards
her.

‘Well,' she says, ‘it could be worse.'

‘I think I was lucky, under the circumstances.'

She looks unconvinced by this, but doesn't argue with me. ‘What happened?'

‘I don't really know. I remember someone coming up behind me, but that's about it. I got knocked out. I've been here two nights.'

‘Christ.'

‘It wasn't Geoff, if that's what you're thinking.'

‘Of course it wasn't Geoff. Come on, let's get you home.'

‘Thanks for coming for
me.'

‘That's all right.' She links her arm with mine, and although I don't really need any help to walk, I let her do it and she leads me outside to her car. It's parked miles away from the door, but the cold, fresh air feels good after so long inside a hospital.

Once we get into the car, I feel a bit sheepish. ‘I'm sorry for the bother.'

‘Forget that.' She rummages in the docket under the steering column and produces a piece of paper. ‘Here, read this.'

It's a sheet torn from a reporter's notebook, folded once. I open
it.

Laura Im alive and well so dont bother calling the police or anything daft like that. I know evreything so Im fucking off dont try to find me. Geoff.

I fold it over again. ‘Fuck. I mean, at least you know he's all right.'

She takes it back from me and returns it to the docket. ‘It was hand-delivered in the middle of the night. I heard the letterbox go, but when I went downstairs, there was nobody there. I even walked outside, but the street was empty. It scared
me.'

‘He must have been out there somewhere.'

‘Well, I wish he had the sense to come and talk to me. I just want to tell him the truth.'

‘By the sound of that letter, he's too angry to listen to it. For the moment, like.'

‘Yeah, well…' She trails off and sighs. ‘Let's get out of here.'

‘Good idea.'

We drive away and she doesn't talk again for a while. I flip down the visor and inspect myself in the mirror. My left eye is well blackened, and that side of my face is swollen and hatched with grazes. A neat row of stitches runs in a shallow crescent just below my hairline. My wrist is strapped up, and under my clothes bruises splatter my
ribs.

If I hadn't been knocked out immediately, they might have stuck the boot in with even more relish. Maybe I should be grateful for the head wound. Clearly, though, the attack itself was undertaken seriously. They followed me and waited for a good opportunity to kick the shit out of me. Taking my wallet was just a ruse. It must have been Steve who arranged it; he's got those kind of contacts. Barry might have known about it, but in the end he's just a dickhead and nobody would do this kind of thing on his say-so.

‘You're not going to do anything stupid, are
you?'

I look over at her, but she has her eyes on the road. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I'm talking about what happened to you the other night. It was to do with all this mess, wasn't it? Barry and his vengeful fucking God complex.'

‘His what?'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘I told you, I didn't see who it
was.'

‘Well, don't get dragged into anything, right. Just walk away.'

‘I think that's the idea they were trying to impress on
us.'

‘Then take the hint. Please.'

I have to agree with her. I have nothing to gain by getting into a feud now, especially one I'm bound to lose. They've got back-up and I'm completely alone. Still, if I could, I'd smash out their teeth with a hammer.

‘I know what's good for me – don't worry about that.'

‘I hope you know what's good for you, because at the moment you're all I've
got.'

I look at her again. She indicates right and checks her mirror, then pulls out to overtake a slow-moving car. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, you're the only other person who knows what's really going on. There's nobody else I can talk
to.'

‘Fat lot of good I've been so
far.'

‘Well, you're better than nothing.'

‘Thanks.'

—

When I get home, I go straight upstairs and run a bath. I need to get the filth and infection of the hospital off my skin and out of my hair. I lean over to turn on the taps and pain pulses in my body like an electric shock. The pills they gave me are wearing off. I have a prescription for some more, but no money to pay for it. I wanted to ask Laura to sub me twenty quid, but I couldn't bring myself to do
it.

I shrug off my jacket and the pieces of my knackered mobile clatter in the pocket as they hit the floor. I unwind the bandage from my wrist, roll it up, and put it in the bathroom cabinet. Then I stand there and watch myself disappear as the mirror steams up. Geoff's letter bothers me. I've known him for years and would never have believed that he might act this way. Most of those years were years of routine, though, and this is no longer routine.

I reach out and wipe a patch of steam from the mirror. I'm a six-foot-two skinhead who has obviously been in a fight. Undoubtedly, I look like a thug. And here I am, framed in the same square of glass I stand at almost every morning, while Geoff has fucked right off. ‘Are you jealous of him?' I ask my beaten-up face. He's escaped and gone to do something new. It's what I should have done, except I went to prison and missed all my chances – exams, college, a proper job. So yes, if you want the truth, I am jealous. I kick away my shoes, let my jeans drop, and – with some difficulty – tease, tug, and peel the rest of my clothes from my
body.

When I first get in the bath, the hot water stings my cuts, but after a few minutes, the pain drifts away and my eyelids flutter and finally close. I don't try to open them again, but slip deeper into the water until only my nose and lips break the surface. There's peace down here, with all the sounds of the world – cars going past, voices in the street, the phone ringing downstairs – muffled and changed into slow, low music.

When I look around again, orange light ripples on the tiles. It is dark, but the streetlamp outside makes a cool, watery sun in the window's obscure glass. The bath is cold. I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and go to the bedroom to find some clothes, but the phone rings again. I manage to get downstairs in time to answer
it.

‘Hello.'

‘It's Ronald.'

‘Who?'

‘Mr Green.'

‘Oh, hello,
sir.'

‘I've been trying to get in touch with you all day. It's Mrs Joe, she's been taken
ill.'

As we pull into the car park, I can't believe that I'm back at the same hospital I was discharged from only this morning. I'd feel sheepish if I weren't so worried. When we stop, I go round to the boot to pull out Mr Green's wheelchair, but he calls to me, ‘Never mind that – let's just get in there.'

I consider this for a moment and decide that I'll have to put my foot down. I walked through this building just a few hours ago, and some of those corridors feel like they're half a mile long. ‘It'll be quicker in the end,' I tell him, and just carry on with
it.

I've already got the wheelchair on the tarmac and mostly unfolded when the passenger-side door swings open, propelled by Mr Green's stiff, outstretched arm. It hits the car parked next to mine with a heavy thump. I hold my tongue. When he finally gets himself upright, he sees me standing behind the chair and grunts, but sits in it anyway. I lock the car and we set off towards the hospital building.

When we get inside and ask for directions, it turns out that I was right about the chair: Mrs Joe is deep in the guts of the hospital. I push Mr Green through the corridors and try to ignore my own soreness. He is silent the whole time, gripping his walking stick in his lap. He hasn't said much since I picked him up; our longest conversation was when he asked what happened to my face, and I told him only the bare minimum about
that.

We find the ward and approach the nurse at the main desk. I tell her who we're here for. She looks dubious. ‘It's a bit late. Are you family?'

‘Friends.'

She flicks through some papers on a clipboard. ‘I shouldn't really let you. She's sedated anyway.'

Mr Green taps his walking stick against the frame of his wheelchair.

‘Is her son here?' I
ask.

‘I'm not sure.'

‘About five feet ten, in his fifties, probably wearing a big duffel coat.'

‘Oh,
yes.'

‘Can we at least talk to
him?'

‘I'll let him know you're here.'

She disappears along the corridor and round a corner. About thirty seconds later, Joe appears from the same direction. He sees us and stops.

‘All right, mate?' I ask
him.

He stands still, watches
me.

‘Joe?'

He takes a step, then another, then another. His steps pick up speed and soon he moves faster than I've ever seen him move before. He lumbers towards me, his arms pump. He gets to within a couple of metres and I think, ‘He must stop now,'
but instead of stopping, he lowers his head and screams out, ‘Yeearghhhh!'

He butts me in the middle of the chest and I fall on my
arse.

The successive impacts of skull on ribcage and floor on backside amplify the pain of my injuries from dull ache to blinding agony. I scream. Joe belly-flops onto me like a professional wrestler. I scream again.

‘You called the doctor!' he bawls into my ear. ‘You called the doctor and put her in the hospital! You made her poorly!'

‘Joe, I didn't do anything.'

‘You're lying. You called the doctor!'

‘I didn't call any doctors.'

‘You did! You took his number to call him. I saw you with my beady eye. You thought I was asleep, but I was watching
you!'

There's a sharp crack from somewhere above. ‘Joseph! Stop that at once!'

Joe's lips stretch back across his face in the ugly grin of someone about to burst into tears, and he rolls off me clutching and scrabbling at the back of his thighs.

Mr Green stands over us, walking stick aloft. ‘Any more of that and I'll knock you on the head too. It was me who called the doctor.'

—

In all the rush to pick up Mr Green and drive over here, I didn't think to ask him what actually happened, or how he knew where Mrs Joe was. If I had, I might have learned the truth and been prepared for a hostile reception from Joe. As it is, I have more bruises for my collection.

‘I was worried about what you'd said. I tried to call you first – I thought you were going to give me a lift over there, like we talked about – but there was no answer,' said Mr Green.

‘I was in hospital.'

‘Well, I know that now, don't I? So I telephoned there, but
he
answered.' Mr Green looks over at Joe, who feeds coins into the vending machine on the other side of the hospital cafeteria. ‘He kept telling me she was asleep. Now, I've known that woman for over forty years and she does not sleep in the middle of the day.' He slaps his hand on the tabletop, as if sleeping in the middle of the day were a clear sign of immorality. ‘So I called the surgery.'

‘And they sent someone to see
her?'

‘Aye, but not till this bloody morning! Some emergency call-out,
eh?'

‘I'm surprised they bothered at
all.'

‘Well, I was insistent. It's about time somebody made a fuss on her behalf.'

I pick up a salt shaker and turn it over in my hand. ‘So what happened?'

‘They telephoned me at lunchtime, said that Mrs Joe had a collapse when the doctor arrived and she was on her way to hospital.'

‘A collapse?'

‘She was none too pleased to see him. I think we can both imagine how it happened.'

‘Aye.'

At the vending machine, Joe watches the tea dribble in to the last of three flimsy plastic cups. When it's ready, he lifts it out of the hatch, places it on an adjacent table with the other two, and struggles to gather them all up between both hands. I'd better help him or there'll be third-degree burns to add to the growing list of devastation. I go over and take a cup from him. He doesn't say anything, but he follows me back to the table and sits down with
us.

There's a moment of silence and then Joe pushes the change across the table. ‘Thanks for the money, Mr Green.'

‘You're welcome, Joe. Do you have anything else to
say?'

Joe stares into his lap. ‘I'm sorry I went mental.'

‘I'm glad to hear
it.'

‘But you shouldn't have called the doctor. It was meddling.'

‘Bloody hell, Joe. Don't you see that someone had to meddle?'

‘She doesn't like
it!'

‘Look, Joe,' I break in, ‘I know she doesn't like it when people stick their noses in her business. And normally when that happens, she tells them where to go, right?'

‘She bloody does!'

‘Exactly. But this time she couldn't do it, could
she?'

‘She was really angry, but she couldn't talk.'

‘That's not normal, is it,
Joe?'

‘No.' He shrugs and looks back at his
lap.

‘So mebbes she does need some looking after,
eh?'

‘Mebbes.'

‘Then drink your tea and stop being a daft bastard, right.'

Joe takes a slurp of the grey tea and curls his lip. ‘It's not as good as me mam's.'

‘Nothing ever is, son,' Mr Green tells
him.