Magnificent Joe (11 page)

It is Saturday afternoon and Geoff has wanked himself into a deep state of melancholy. He turns off his PC with a mournful sigh and wanders into the kitchen, where he switches on the kettle and devours three digestive biscuits. The house is empty and dusk pours into the back garden. Geoff glares through the window at the purple sky. He hates this time of year; you've barely got out of bed and then it's dark again.

Geoff knows that he's been useless recently. Since Mac died, he's done nothing but sit around the house or go to the pub. Today, Laura got up and went off to Newcastle while Geoff was still in his underwear, leaving him alone to a day of porn, telly, and more porn. Now he feels sick and helpless. The kettle reaches a rolling boil and clicks
off.

He is stirring in the milk when the phone rings.

‘Hello?'

‘It's Barry.'

Geoff mouths a silent ‘shit' and looks at the ceiling. The Artex spins. ‘Hello, Baz. Y'all right?'

‘Can't complain. Nobody listens.'

Geoff has heard the joke a million times before and Barry gets the timing wrong, sounds false. Geoff can't find the energy for any pretence of laughter. ‘Aye, that's the way,' he mumbles.

‘You coming for a pint?'

‘It's a bit early,
Baz.'

‘Divven be queer. Come for a pint,
man.'

‘Is Jim coming
out?'

‘I think we should have a chat without him. He's been a bit, y'know, funny.'

Geoff feels panic rise from his belly. He pauses to collect himself and wonders what to say next, but all that comes out is, ‘All right, I'll see you down there in a
bit.'

‘Get a move on, then. I'm setting off now.' Barry hangs
up.

Geoff returns the receiver to the cradle and swears viciously. Then he picks up the phone again and calls Jim. No answer. Geoff sighs, looks at his feet, and sees that he isn't wearing socks. He tramps upstairs to find a
pair.

He opens the door to leave just as Laura walks up to it. He notices, with some relief, that she only has two bags. ‘What did you
buy?'

‘Nice to see you too. Just some clothes.' She bundles past him into the house. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Down the Admiral.'

‘Great.'

‘It's Baz, isn't it. Thinks we need a chat. He's just being a bastard as usual.'

Laura stiffens, but puts down her bags and says, ‘What's happening with you three?'

Geoff shrugs. ‘I just don't want to work with him anymore if he's being like this. Don't worry, me and Jim will find something else.' Laura gives Geoff a funny look. He can't work out what it means, so he just says, ‘I've got to
go.'

‘Are you going to tell Barry this tonight?' Laura asks, but Geoff is already walking
away.

‘Mebbes,' he calls back. ‘I'll see you later.'

When Geoff arrives at the pub, Barry is already there. There are two butts in the ashtray, and his pint is half finished. There is one for Geoff; the head has dissipated entirely and left a scummy half-inch at the top of the glass.

‘You took your fucking time.'

‘Couldn't find any clean socks.' Geoff sits down and nods at his pint. ‘Thanks, mate.'

‘You're welcome.'

They sit in silence for a few minutes, smoking. Finally, Geoff shifts in his chair and says, ‘You owe me four quid.'

‘What
for?'

‘For the lottery.'

‘Are you still putting that
on?'

‘Aye.'

‘Fucking hell. You'll have to get it another time. I've only got enough cash for drinks.'

‘Right.' Geoff looks around the pub. It's early and only the hardened regulars are in. They concentrate on their beer. Geoff will have to ride this out alone.

‘I'm a bit worried about our Jim,' says Barry. ‘He was proper off with me the other
day.'

‘Well, it wasn't easy for any of us, like.'

‘He was being a right twat.'

‘We don't want to go back to that job.' Geoff blurts it out, then sits back in his chair, and looks at his hands.

Barry sucks his lip. ‘Look, man, it's the best thing for us. It's steady. We can get the job done.'

‘Who cares? There's other jobs.'

‘There are, but this is the one we said we'd
do.'

‘Why are you so bothered? You've said yourself you fucking hate it there. It's fucking miles away, for a start.'

‘It's the principle, and we've got a reputation.'

Geoff can't believe what he's hearing and looks directly at Barry for the first time since entering the pub. He leans over the table and seems almost like he means it. ‘Principle, Baz? Since when do you give a fuck about principles?'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You're a complete fucking knobhead. That's what it means.'

‘Fucking hell, Geoff. Settle down.'

‘Look, it's not just the job. It's you. In fact, it's all
you.'

‘Shut up, man. You sound like my wife. Don't be so daft.'

‘I'm not shutting up. You've been the fucking boss for so long you don't listen to anyone anymore. I can't believe you think we're going to go back.'

‘Fucking hell. It's only a job of work.'

‘No, it's more than that. You hated Mac, and you hated us for being his mates. You want to rub our faces in the fact that he's dead, for revenge. You're a sick bastard.'

‘Bollocks to that. You sound like Jim. You know why Jim liked Mac so much? Because he's a fucking bum boy. A closet homo. And mebbes you are
too.'

‘Fuck off. You've lost it. You're psycho. I'm never working with you again.' Geoff realizes that he is standing up now and that people are watching him. He feels as if the ground is tipping under his feet and he crashes towards the
door.

‘Geoff, don't be stupid. Come back!'

‘Fuck off!' Geoff escapes into the cold darkness and doesn't stop until he is well down the street. With a sudden rush of frustration he thinks he forgot his jacket, but then sees that he is wearing it and remembers that he didn't take it off. He pats his pockets and realizes that what he did leave behind was his tobacco. ‘Shit.' He needs a cigarette
now.

There is a newsagent's opposite him. Geoff still has several cartons of tobacco in his garage from last summer's trip to France and normally would resent paying for cigarettes, but under his current circumstances, the light from the newsagent's window shines like a beacon of hope in a dangerous world and he crosses the
road.

Inside, there is one young woman behind the counter and a long queue of people. Geoff joins the end of the queue and stands uneasily between the chocolate and the magazines. He watches the woman behind the counter. She saunters between the lottery terminal and the till as if she was deliberately trying to tease him with her slowness. Geoff feels a hot anger with her and with the idiots who always leave it until the last moment on Saturday evening to buy their lottery tickets. All he wants is a packet of fags. She's not even good-looking. He taps his foot and mutters, ‘Hurry the fuck
up.'

The elderly lady in front of him turns and looks him in the eye. ‘That's not going to help anyone, is
it?'

Geoff tries to ignore her, but she continues to stare at him. ‘Sorry,' he mutters. She nods primly and turns
away.

Geoff shakes his head. All this shit is turning him into a miserable bastard like Barry or Jim. Well, maybe not Jim; at least Jim has a sense of humour and is a real friend. Still, he failed Geoff tonight, left him to deal with Barry alone and now look: everything is fucked.

Geoff's mobile phone rings. He fumbles it from his pocket and checks the screen. Barry. ‘Fuck off,' he hisses, and stabs at the button to deny the call. The ringing stops and the screen goes
dark.

The old woman looks at him again.

‘Not you.' Geoff holds up his phone. ‘This cunt.'

‘Men like you should be in prison.'

Geoff thinks about this for a moment: free food and no work doesn't sound too bad. He shrugs. ‘Aye, you're right. We should.'

The woman clucks and turns her back on Geoff again. She pulls up her shoulders and he can tell that she intends to ignore all further evidence of his existence. Geoff feels like an idiot, and as his mood plunges deeper, another nicotine craving rises. There are still four customers in front of him. He glares over their heads towards the cigarette display and is dismayed by how much the price has risen since he last bought fags legally. Then a different set of numbers catches his
eye.

‘Fucking hell.'

‘I remember
Mac.'

‘Aye, you would. He wasn't the kind you'd forget about.'

Mr Green looks at me. His eyes have that elderly look, of not-firm-enough jelly. It's clear to me that this will be his last panto. ‘No,' he says thoughtfully. ‘No, I don't believe he was.' A pause as he fiddles with some wire. ‘So how did it
go?'

‘All right – you know, as well as a funeral ever does.'

‘Well, you've seen a
few.'

‘Aye' – I bite on my annoyance – ‘I have.'

Mr Green manages to bend the wire as he wants it and places it amid the wood shavings on his workbench. ‘Well, what now,
eh?'

‘Are you taking an interest in me,
sir?'

‘No, you daft bugger. I'm talking about the bloody crowns and tiaras.'

‘Oh. They need spraying. I'll do them once you've gone in; there's no point gassing you. I'll lock up the shed and post the keys through your door on my way
out.'

‘Oh, you think I can't handle a few chemicals,
now?'

‘We don't need to take any chances.'

‘Well, don't forget to set the security light. It's the third switch from the left.'

‘No danger of forgetting that; you need a bloody shotgun around here.'

‘Now, that's not the spirit of community we're trying to encourage, is it?' His face is partially paralysed, so I can't work out how serious this question
is.

‘You might be right there, Mr Green.' I would add that we could do with some spirit, but there's only so much of that talk I can take before I want to crush my head in a vice. Mr Green picks up the wire frame of the tiara again and starts to fiddle. Either he didn't take the hint or he's just not inclined to move. I involuntarily scratch the bridge of my
nose.

Mr Green glances at me from over his work. ‘I suppose this isn't normally how you'd spend a Saturday night.'

‘Making tiaras? No, not usually. But it's all right. I'm a bit sick of that lot, anyway.'

‘Your mates?'

‘Aye, with the funeral and that. It's been a bit stressful.'

‘It's no bloody fun, is
it?'

‘You can say that again. Geoff took it badly, like. It proper knocked him off his perch. I think it's made him, y'know, ask questions about life and what have
you.'

‘Oh…life questions, eh? They're trying to get me asking them in rehabilitation – physio-bloody-therapy and all. There's no point. I was half dead before the stroke. Daft buggers. Still, for a younger man, it might be useful, mightn't it? To ask a few questions of yourself after an event like that?' He is looking at me. I avoid his eyes and try to find something to do with my hands, but he won't give up. ‘You, for instance. Maybe this is the time to make something of yourself.'

I could almost laugh. ‘Like what?'

‘Well, you could finish your education for a start. I always thought you'd go all the way to university.'

‘That was the plan, but things changed, didn't they? Instead of sitting my GCSEs, I was sitting on remand at Deerbolt Young Offenders Institution. And how can I afford to study
now?'

Mr Green retired from school over fifteen years ago. Until tonight, he and I had barely exchanged a word since then. And now this. I don't know whether I'm annoyed or flattered or just grimly amused.

‘Well, I can't answer that,' he says, ‘but I taught you and I know you've got potential. I still remember that project you did for me on the rainforest.'

Christ. I'd forgotten about that. I had to go to Newcastle to find the books. I sneaked into the university library and I was terrified that someone would notice me and throw me out. I photocopied what I could and scarpered.

‘All that was
before
,' I say. ‘I came out of prison with absolutely nothing, and I need to provide for myself. No one else is going to do
it.'

‘I understand that, but it strikes me that you've done your time, and there's no need to keep paying for
it.'

That's easy for him to say, but I don't want to argue with the old codger, so I just
nod.

He grunts. ‘Well, I've said my piece, and I am very grateful for your help tonight.'

‘That's all right. I suppose it's something to
do.'

‘Good lad. I'd suspected you might just tell our Joe to bugger
off.'

I smile. When Joe turned up at my house the other day and told me my presence would be required on a Saturday evening, I almost did exactly that. ‘No. You can't be that cruel to Joe; it just bounces
off.'

‘Is he better
yet?'

‘What? I haven't seen him since then. Is he sick?'

‘Stomach bug. Nothing serious.' Mr Green sniffs and puts the tiara aside. ‘Anyway, I'll turn in, I think.'

‘Righto. Well, I'll spray this stuff, then.'

Mr Green fumbles for his walking stick, but he can't lean far enough to reach it; the tips of his fingers just miss as he sweeps his arm through space. I get up and put it in his hands. He nods a curt ‘thank you' and starts to haul himself to his feet. I reach out to help him, but he waves me off – ‘Not dead yet, son. Save your breath' – and throws himself dangerously off his chair and into a half-crouch. I look away and soon hear him shuffling towards the shed
door.

‘G'night,
son.'

‘Aye, goodnight.' I sit still, listening. The tap-tap of the cane on the garden path recedes, and I faintly hear the back door of Mr Green's house open and close.

I'm tired. I toy with the idea of just going home, right now, but the smell of the sawdust is comforting. The paint cans are in a plastic bag, all new and unbroken from the hardware superstore. I reach out with my foot, hook one of the handles on the toe of my shoe, and drag the bag towards me, across the floor. It sweeps a path through the powdery blanket of sawdust and the smell of pine gets stronger. I grab the bag and rummage through the contents. There's a receipt; someone cared enough to spend fifteen
quid.

My phone rings. I push the receipt back into the bag and look at the caller ID. It's Barry. This is the first time either of them has tried to contact me since the funeral yesterday. Geoff said he wanted a day or two to think about it; seeing me lose my temper seemed to deflate his own anger, at least temporarily. As for Barry, well…it looks like I'm about to find out. I answer
it.

‘Hello?'

‘It's Barry.'

‘I know. How are
you?'

‘I've just seen Geoff. He's being a fucking idiot.'

‘He's not a happy
man.'

‘None of us are happy. He's talking about breaking up the gang – pissing off and not working with us anymore.'

‘No, not working with
you
.'

‘You've put him up to
it.'

‘We're fed
up.'

‘Fuck off. Get him back.'

I stare at the wall. There's a large bow saw mounted on two nails. My dad hung his tools in the same way, in the lean-to he constructed against the back wall of the yard. Between that, the coalbunker, and the bins there was barely room for my bicycle. Once my mother was gone, it was in there that he finally did it – maybe so he didn't piss on the carpet, or maybe just to die in the only space that was ever entirely his own. He must have thought he had lost everything, abandoned all over again, just as he was at the beginning of his
life.

Mr Green's saw has a thin band of orange rust along the top of the blade, but the teeth are clean and sharp. ‘I don't think I can do that, Barry.'

‘Fuck's sake. Grow a fucking brain. He's going to ruin everything.'

‘What's he going to ruin? It's time to move
on.'

‘No fucking way. This gang is not breaking up; we work together.'

‘Why do you care so much?'

‘I built this!'

‘And you're in charge? And you like it? And you know you could never have this power over any fucker else?'

‘Don't fuck me about. I've got enough dirt on the pair of you to ruin your lives for ever.'

‘Barry, the time for that's passed. They're married, they're settled. Even
you…'

‘I would. I will.'

‘Barry, if you do it, you'll lose anyway.'

‘Right now, I've got fuck all to lose. But you aren't going to take that chance, are you? Call me when you've fixed it.' He hangs
up.

I sit and stare at my phone. The light behind the LCD screen goes out. I slip it into my jacket pocket, and then without thinking I reach to the floor and scoop up a handful of sawdust. It feels very soft and dry in my palm. I open my fingers slightly and it pours out in three streams, each one like the sand in an egg-timer. At the end, it's all gone except for a thin layer stuck to my skin that makes the lines in my palm stand out. It looks like one of those kiddie's handprints that parents sometimes tape to their fridge
door.

I still don't know what to do about Geoff, and I still have to spray-paint these tiaras. I decide that most of them should be silver; I never liked gold jewellery, even when it was fashionable. If Barry calls again, I can just say, ‘Sorry, I've been a bit busy making Cinderella's headwear.' What does it matter now? We're all in the shit anyway.

I pick up a spray can and shake it. The little ball clacks around inside. I can feel it bounce off the walls of the cylinder. Then there's a banging at the shed door and I drop the can in shock.

‘Who's there?'

‘It's me.' Joe's voice. ‘Let me
in.'

‘It's not locked.'

‘Oh.' He fumbles and the door swings open. Even in the sixty-watt light of the shed he looks ill – pale face and ringed
eyes.

‘You look like shit, man. You should be in
bed.'

‘I'm bored! Bored of television!' He shakes his head vigorously and his jowls slap against his teeth in a wet rattle.

‘All right, don't get agitated. How did you find
me?'

‘I knew you were here. I was the messenger, remember?'

‘Aye, right. What do you want?'

‘Can I help?'

‘No. Go home and chew some Rennies. You look ready to vomit all over
me.'

‘Please.'

‘Joe, are you really going to help, or are you just going to fuck it
up?'

‘I'm going to help, really.' Despite his pallor, he looks relatively certain of the
fact.

‘All right.'

‘Magnificent!'

‘But then you've got to go home: I've a phone call to make.'

‘Righto.'

‘I'm spraying. Here, put this mask
on.'

He slips the elastic over his head and positions the white mask over his nose and mouth. At least if he pukes, it'll catch the mess. It occurs to me that I feel pretty sick myself.