Magnificent Joe (24 page)

She's an Englishwoman. Geoff hadn't expected that. It makes him want to keep quiet. He doesn't want to reveal anything about himself in case – despite the letter and his very good reasons for leaving – Laura might be searching and his name might be known. When they go out to the car, it turns out that she has a driver, so she gets in the back with him and just keeps chatting. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks. Is this dippy bitch going to shut the fuck up or
what?

‘Geoffrey, I really think you're going to like this apartment, yeah? It's only like ten minutes from the beach, so you can go down there whenever you feel like it, but the complex is, like, really quiet, so you'll really feel like you've got your own space, do you know what I mean? And it's gated…'

Geoff's face is going stiff. Will living in this country frazzle his brain like it has hers? She's a bit younger than him, this estate agent – or ‘realtor', as she calls herself – and Geoff usually finds women in business clothes sexy, but he doesn't fancy her. She's still talking. It's not even estate-agent-speak anymore, but some yet more witless brand of total bollocks and Geoff can't follow a word of it. Maybe, thinks Geoff, this is what being an ex-pat does to
you.

He realizes that she has stopped talking and is looking at him expectantly. He has no idea what she just asked, but he starts to speak automatically and the first thing out of his mouth is, ‘Call me Geoff. Everyone else does, like.'

‘Oh. Oh right, yeah, great. Thanks, Geoff. So is the apartment just for you, or is someone coming out to join
you?'

‘Just me, love. I'm here alone.'

‘Me too. I've been here almost two years now. It's just, like, so totally amazing.'

Geoff nods and looks out of the window.

—

Eventually, after showing him the flat, the estate agent shuts up and leaves Geoff alone to look around for himself. He breathes a sigh of relief and stands there for a while, looking out of the window and trying to collect his thoughts. It's nice. He's on the third floor. There's a balcony and below that gardens with palm trees and very green grass and a pool. The flat is just like he thought it would be: two bedrooms, living space, bathroom, kitchen. All very neat and clean and brand
new.

He wanders through the rooms. He turns on the kitchen tap, watches water swill down the plughole, then turns it off again. He opens the bedroom wardrobe, runs his hand along an empty shelf, closes it. He flushes the toilet. It performs as expected. He could live here, maybe use the rest of the money to buy a bar and serve cold beers to hot tourists. That was one idea, anyway. This place has a spare room too, so that when the dust has settled a bit and he thinks he can risk it, he could have his mam and dad to visit.

He goes back out into the living room and feels the need to sit down, but of course there is no furniture. It occurs to him that he will need to fit out the flat himself. Then he realizes that he has absolutely no idea how to do that and immediately thinks of Laura.

This would be her domain: it's her who would have opinions about what kind of sofa they should have and where they should put it and all that other stuff. Without those opinions, this isn't a flat or a place to live; it's just a space. If the flat was already done out, Geoff could just accept it as it was and never give it a second thought, but to start totally from scratch? He doesn't have a clue. In his wallet, behind the loyalty cards, is a photograph of her. He'd forgotten it was there, but now he remembers it and has to beat down the urge to take it
out.

‘Shit,' he mutters.

‘Excuse me?' The estate agent, from the other
room.

‘Nothing.'

She appears anyway and smiles at him. ‘Are you starting to feel at home?'

Geoff feels too helpless to move or speak. Maybe he should go back to the hotel. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here alone.

I drive slowly past Barry's house. For some reason, I'd imagined him sitting in his front room right now plotting my destruction, but the van isn't in the driveway. He must be at work, wherever that is these days. I park just down the street and wait. I don't know what kind of sick stories he's been telling about me and Joe, but I'm going to beat it out of
him.

By five thirty, it's dark and other people are arriving home, but no sign of Barry. Six o'clock comes and the van still hasn't appeared. I desperately need a piss. This isn't going well. I want to be here when he arrives, but if I wet myself, it might ruin the effect.

Back at home, having relieved myself, I come up with an idea. I pick up the phone, do 141 to withhold my number, and then dial Barry's. His wife picks up. I lower the pitch of my voice and try to soften my accent.

‘Hello. Can I speak to Barry?'

‘He's not in at the moment. I can take
a—'

‘Any idea when he'll be back?'

‘Not really. He went to the pub after work. Who is this?'

‘Thanks.' I hang
up.

Now I know where Barry is, assuming that ‘the pub' means the Admiral. I leave the house and start walking. The time is just after 7
p.m.

Ten minutes later, I get to the pub and walk round the back to check the car park. Barry's van is there: I've got the bastard. I lean against the wall in a patch of dark. A plan? I don't have one. My stomach boils, but my mind is a dead calm and all I know is that I need to go in there – right now – and bring an end to whatever it is he's doing. My body moves and I'm walking again, round the side of the pub, past the windows, and through the front
door.

He's in the corner, behind the pool table with a group of men. There's a heavy cloud of smoke above them, their ashtray is full, and there are empty glasses everywhere around. I recognize the big bastard and a few other faces, and then Barry sees me. He rises to his feet and points. ‘Speak of the devil.' They all turn to face me; I haven't felt this hated in years.

‘What are you doing, Barry?'

‘
We
are protecting this community.'

‘You lot? You're what this community needs protecting from.'

‘You'd better be careful what you say. There's a lot of angry people here.'

‘You're just doing this to get at me because you can't get to Geoff. You know that Joe's innocent.'

‘Is he fuck,' the big bastard butts in. ‘I've spoken to that little boy's mother.'

‘That little boy is the one that fucking did it, and you know
it.'

‘Bollocks. What was your mate doing in there in the first place? Fucking weirdo, he is. I've seen him around. I don't like the look in his eyes.'

‘No one likes the look in his eyes: he's mental, but he's not a child abuser.'

Barry steps forward. ‘We're not taking any chances with our kids.'

‘Fuck off, Barry. You're an idiot. Frank,' I call over my shoulder to the barman, ‘I think you should call the police – there's a fucking lynch mob forming here.'

No response. I turn. Frank is crossing the floor towards the door, keys in hand. I start to run towards him, but I'm tripped and fall into a stool. As someone hauls me up by my jacket collar, I catch sight of Frank retreating back to the bar, and the door firmly closed. Pairs of hands spin me round, but I don't have time to take in who they belong to because my feet are off the ground and the air rushes past my ears as they slam me down onto a tabletop. The whole world is suddenly light, making no sense.

The ceiling resolves itself above me. I try to move but my arms are pinned. Barry's face appears.

‘Don't get in our way.' His breath stinks of beer and
fags.

‘Whatever you think you're going to do, you won't get away with
it.'

The big bastard looms up next to Barry and shoves something under my chin. I don't know what it is, but it feels pointy. ‘Now, there are no grasses in this room, are there?'

I don't say anything.

‘I did the brick, in case you were wondering.' He winks at me and then turns away. ‘Lock this cunt
up.'

They drag me to my feet, propel me into the back of the pub, shove me through a door, and close it behind
me.

Total darkness.

I turn and reach out, feeling for the doorframe and then the wall around it. Eventually, I land on the light switch and press it. I'm in the cellar. I try the door; it's locked.

‘Just behave yourself in there.' A voice from outside.

‘Fuck off,' I shout back, and heave an empty barrel across the room. It clatters off the wall and bounces back towards
me.

‘No good making noise – they've turned up the music.'

‘Let me
out!'

‘Just relax. There's nothing you can
do.'

Prick. But I don't see what other options I have. I sit down on the barrel and wish I'd got round to buying a new mobile.

Minutes tick by. It's coming up to 8 p.m. I've got to get out of here before it's too late. Then I realize what I have to do to make them open the door. It's simple. I walk over to the gas cylinders and turn them off. Then I unhook all the barrels one by one, sit back down, and
wait.

Shortly afterwards comes a hammering on the door. ‘Stop messing around in there!' Frank's voice. ‘Turn the beer back on – I've got a pub to
run!'

‘Come in and do it yourself.'

‘Don't fuck me about!'

‘I'm not fucking you about; I'm offering you a deal. You've got two minutes to open that door or I'll start breaking things.'

‘You fucking will
not.'

‘What do these big plastic valves do? The ones on the wall with the red balls floating in them? They look important.'

Quiet. I go over to the door and listen at the keyhole.

‘We're not letting him out.' Another voice.

‘We have to. If he starts breaking things, it could take me days to get the parts.'

‘That's right, Frank!' I shout. ‘You'll be the pub with no beer. Have you heard that song? It's a good
one.'

The door swings open and I'm staring down the barrel of a handgun.

It's one of Barry's followers, a skinny kid in a pink shirt. He can't be any older than nineteen. Frank stands behind him, looking like he's going to shit himself. It takes me a few moments to understand what I'm seeing. Then I start to laugh.

‘That's a fucking air pistol.'

‘It'll still kill you if I shoot you in the head.'

‘You're a moron.'

He shoots me in the
arm.

At first, there is no pain. Then it comes. I'd always imagined that being shot would feel sharp, but in fact it feels like someone hit me in the bicep with a hammer. I put my left hand to my right arm and bring away blood. I look up at the kid. Our eyes meet for a second or two. He breathes in and then runs
away.

Just me and Frank.

‘Fuck,' he says. ‘Are you all right?'

I chin him. It's with my left, but he's old and fat and it's enough to knock him down. He grovels on the floor with his hand over his mouth. I step over him and walk out into the pub. I stiffen my back, look ahead, and try to put one foot in front of the other in something like a straight line. No one tries to stop me as I make for the door. Barry and all his mates have
gone.

Outside, I lean up against the wall. I touch the wound again. It hurts. My fingers tingle numbly, and although they move when I tell them to, they don't feel connected to the rest of my
body.

It was only an air gun; it can't be that bad, I say to myself, but I know that it can if he hit an artery. There's definitely more blood than I ever like to see on the outside of my body. Fuck it. I need to warn Joe, and if they've gone straight there, I need to go
now.

I start to move. The fresh air seems to do me some good; things sharpen up and the shock dies away. I can't go down the lane, because that's the way they'll take and I would just walk straight into them. I need to loop across the fields and head them off. I pick up my pace, break into a jog. I can do it. I
run.

I head down the street and then take a left onto the road that leaves the village. I pass the phone box. I could stop and dial 999, but every second counts now, and if they get to him before me, who knows what they'll do in the time it takes the police to arrive. I keep running and eventually the houses stop and the hedgerows begin. Then I'm at the stile. I climb over it, slipping as I step off and falling onto one knee. Automatically, I put my right hand down and scream in pain and anger when I push myself up, but I'm on my feet again and moving forward.

From here, I can run in pretty much a straight line to Joe's house, avoiding the lane. I'll have to climb some fences, but the sky is clear and the moon is bright, so at least I can see where I'm going. I try to keep my pace up, but I'm straining now and my legs just won't move as quickly as I'm willing them to. I hop another fence, lose part of my jacket on the barbed wire, and by the time I see the lights in the houses on Joe's terrace, I'm knackered and stumbling.

Finally, I reach the hedge that runs along the lane and scramble through a thin patch on my hands and knees. I stand up. Joe's house is dark. I go to the door. It's locked. Of course it is; I told him to do it. I knock, but he's obviously not
in.

‘Oh, Joe, you fucking idiot. Don't be out walking.' But I know in my stomach that's exactly where he is. Now I have no choice but to call the police. I'm about to go and ask his neighbours, and then I hear yelling from down the
lane.

I run towards the sound. Pitching forward in exhaustion, my legs and arms flail. It's further away than I thought, the sound carrying in the cold night air. I've got to get there. Then the noise stops and the only sound is my own breathing and the thump of my feet on the frozen ground. I come round a
bend.

There is a body in the lane. They caught him at a break in the high hedgerow and did it by moonlight. He lies crumpled, like casually discarded clothes. The search is over, and all around me the night is suddenly vast and cold. I watch, I breathe, and then I run the last few feet and drop to his
side.

‘Joe.'