2
June 1990
On the last day of Jim’s almost-life, summer filled the village with a warmth that made men and women want to loll like cats. Old couples dragged dining chairs into their front yards and read the Sunday papers. They turned the pages with languor and exchanged soft commentary on the stories of the day, sometimes shuffling back inside to make tea, fetch a packet of biscuits, or spend a penny. Kids zipped past on bicycles and played football in the streets, and when they swore, the old folk glanced up and clucked. The kids played on. Jim walked past them all, head down, hoping not to be noticed.
At the end of the terrace, Jim turned left and tramped up the main road that led out of the village. He felt more free there, away from the houses, with no busybodies who might call out after him, ‘How, Jim lad! What’s in the bag?’ Jim especially didn’t want to run into his father. Jim’s father thought that Jim was indoors, revising for the exams he desperately wanted Jim to pass because he never got the chance to take them himself. Jim was the only chance, because Jim was an only child.
He walked faster, and with each step his rucksack jogged and made a dull clunk. His T-shirt darkened at the armpits. The rucksack chafed his shoulders. Jim stuffed his thumbs under the straps to take off some of the weight, then leaned forward for a moment of relief. The rucksack slid up and smacked him in the back of the head.
‘Fucking hell,’ Jim hissed, and shook his head. ‘The bastards had better be grateful for this.’ He put his hands on his knees and stayed still, just breathing. Then a movement in the hedgerow entered his periphery and he turned his head to look.
There was a crane fly caught in a fragment of cobweb. Its legs were trapped, pulled together like those of a roped animal. Its wings were free, though, and they beat hard. The insect strained so much that Jim wondered if its legs would tear off. No spider came. The web must be old, Jim thought.
Jim looked between his legs, back down the road, to check that no one was watching him like this: bent double, staring into the hedge. The upside-down street was empty, except for some younger kids on roller skates trying to play street hockey with bamboo canes and an empty can. They weren’t looking at him. Jim raised his head again to watch the crane fly; it struggled on. It would probably keep going until it dropped dead and twisted there in the breeze. Jim briefly considered freeing it, but why should he?
The hedgerow teemed with life: flies of different shapes and sizes, the odd bumblebee, caterpillars, butterflies, and wasps. There were a lot of wasps; perhaps there was a nest nearby. Jim hated wasps, hated the noise they made, their colour, their shape, and their bad-tempered sharpness. To be so close to them made his spine tingle. He chose to stay, though. He felt none of the blind panic that made his world blur and his body burst ahead of his thoughts when one buzzed him at head height or landed on his arm. Jim thought of a B-feature he saw at the pictures in which people dived with sharks. He felt like that.
One of the wasps floated closer to the crane fly and hovered there as if it too was a spectator. Suddenly, the wasp darted at the crane fly and mounted its back. The crane fly kept beating its wings and pulling against the web back and forth and side to side, so that the wasp seemed to be riding it in a desperate rodeo. Then the wasp arched its body into a crescent shape and jabbed its stinger into the crane fly over and over again. Jim held his breath. The crane fly was still fighting, but the wasp curled itself tighter, brought its hard black mandibles over the crane fly’s head and chewed. The crane fly dropped, and for a moment both it and the wasp dangled on the end of the broken web. Then the wasp flew away.
‘Predation,’ Jim whispered to himself. ‘Predation is the word.’ He stood up. A car rattled past. Jim shuddered and walked on.
—
Geoff stood at the edge of the beck, where the water ran slow and green, and formed a long pool bedded with silt and rocks and clotted with pondweed. He turned a flat stone in the fingers of his right hand and looked across the water. Jim said that this pool was manmade, the header of an old millrace. Geoff didn’t know what a millrace was, but he liked the sound of the word and the way the little fact nestled in his brain. He felt good under the sun, and as he wound back his arm, he knew that this would be a great throw.
‘Are you watching?’ he called out.
‘Gerron with it, you fucking pansy,’ Barry answered from behind him.
Geoff narrowed his eyes, breathed in, and whipped his arm forward. The stone flew out, oblique to the surface of the water, and then hit it in a dash of spray, burst up, came down, skipped again, and again, and again until it died out in a series of tiny bounces too rapid to count. Ripples spread over the pool.
‘Five good ones,’ announced Mac.
Geoff turned round and smiled at them.
Barry shook his head. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, you.’
‘Nah, that was pure skill, that,’ Geoff laughed. He felt the glow of an action performed smoothly and correctly. Barry opened his mouth to retort, but Mac broke in.
‘Jim’s here.’
Barry and Geoff turned to look down the path and there was Jim trudging towards them with a cloud of midges around his head. He glowered at them and swatted irritably at the insects with the back of his hand.
‘Y’all right, Professor? You look a bit sweaty,’ Barry said.
‘Get fucked, Baz. Take this pack off us.’ Jim wriggled out of his rucksack and let it thud to the ground, then he walked straight past them and sat under a tree.
‘Temper, temper,’ chided Barry, but he went over and picked up the rucksack anyway. ‘Fucking hell, this is a bit heavy. How many’s in here?’
‘Twenty-four.’ Jim gave a short snort of laughter. ‘Joe had them all in plastic bags. He reckoned his arms were going to fall off.’
‘He’d be a proper flid, then. Fucking loony.’ Barry walked over to the tree with the rucksack.
‘Leave it out – he’s sound.’
‘Oh, aye, sound as a pound,’ said Barry, as he squatted next to Jim and fiddled with the straps of the rucksack. ‘Can’t fucking open it,’ he grumbled.
‘They’ll be pulled tight from the weight. Give it here.’ Mac took over and quickly got the rucksack open. He stuck his hand inside and with a look of religious contemplation withdrew a four-pack of lager, which he held above his head. ‘All hail!’
Geoff giggled. Barry shook his head and chucked a stick at him. ‘Shut up, you big div.’
Geoff caught the stick and dropped it. ‘You’re a proper cunt, you.’
Mac ignored them, twisted out the first can, and handed it to Jim. ‘Nice work, Jim.’
‘Thanks, Mac. There’s fags in there too.’ Jim smiled and opened the beer. He grimaced as he drank. ‘It’s a bit warm. We should put the rest in the water.’
‘Good idea.’ Mac grabbed the rucksack and slung it over one shoulder. Before he walked away, he nudged Barry in the side with his toe and said, ‘Drink your beer and stop being a bastard.’
‘Who elected you fucking president?’
Mac ignored him and took the rucksack to the pool, where he removed each of the five remaining four-packs one by one and carefully lowered them into the water. Barry glared at Mac’s back for a little while and mouthed the word ‘dickhead’, but then did as he was told.
Geoff sat opposite Jim and opened his beer. ‘So. GCSEs next week, Jim. Are you nervous?’
Barry grunted and said, ‘I bet he’s shitting himself, aren’t you, Professor von Einstein?’
Jim turned to face Geoff so that he had his back to Barry. ‘I’m prepared.’ He paused and added, ‘I think.’
‘Aye, that’s the best way.’
‘Yeah.’ Jim didn’t really want to talk about it. Barry and Geoff were supposed to be in the same year as him, but they’d already given up on school and had no intention of turning up for their exams. It made him feel out of place. Still, it was better to have this conversation again than listen to Barry whinge, so Jim asked Geoff, ‘What about
you?’
‘Still haven’t found a fucking job yet. Mac reckons he knows a bloke, though. Building.’ Geoff squeezed his can so that the sides crumpled in.
‘That’s not bad.’
‘Aye. Mebbes.’
Jim drank his first beer quickly and retrieved another from the beck. The water hadn’t made it any colder, but at least it wasn’t any hotter. He opened it and sucked up the foam before it ran down the sides.
‘Bring some over for us, mate,’ said Mac.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Jim made a stiff little bow like a costume-drama butler, but Mac didn’t even notice; he’d turned back to the others. Jim realized that he didn’t have a clue what the three of them were talking about, because he’d spent the whole time thinking about his revision.
‘Fucking hell. I need to get drunk,’ he said to nobody in particular, and downed the whole can in seven big gulps. He tossed the empty into the bushes and helped himself to a new four-pack.
Jim handed the cans round and sat down again, poking at the earth with one end of a stick. Mac gave him a shove in the back. ‘Jesus Christ, Jim lad. Relax.’
‘I told you,’ said Barry. ‘He’s fucking bricking it. I don’t know why you bother, Jim. All this just to go to college and hang out with a bunch of fucking benders.’
Jim gave him a wink. ‘You’re right. I could stay here and hang out with benders, couldn’t I, Baz?’
Geoff and Mac laughed. ‘He’s got you there!’
‘Yer fucker,’ said Barry, but he was laughing a little bit too, and it was good to see the bugger smile for a change.
Jim fell on his back, spread his arms, and let the sunlight pour over his face. ‘It’s all fucking mental, lads.’
‘You’re fucking mental.’
Another beer later and Jim felt drunk in the heat. They were talking about their dream motorcycles. Geoff wanted a Harley Davidson. Mac wanted some Jap superbike. Jim suggested Barry should stick to mopeds. Mac said, ‘A moped? Are you mad? It’s a pushbike he wants. You can’t trust him with something motorized.’
‘He needs stabilizers and all,’ said Geoff.
‘You’re all cunts,’ said Barry, and stumbled off for a piss.
They were listening to him splatter a tree trunk when a deep voice called from up the path, ‘How, Baz! Is that you down there?’
Jim looked, but he couldn’t make out who it was. ‘Who’s that?’
Barry reappeared, fiddling with his belt. ‘Settle down – it’s me brother.’
‘Oh fucking hell.’ Jim stuffed the beer can into the space between the small of his back and the trunk of the tree. Geoff took a huge gulp from his and then lobbed it away. The dregs spun out of the can and glittered in the sun.
Mac ran a few metres up the path for a better look and then scuttled back muttering fucks like a park-bench wino. ‘Aye, it’s Martin all right, and he’s got that dickhead Gary Scruton with him.’
‘He’s all right,’ said Barry.
‘He fucking isn’t. Hide your beer – they’ll nick the lot if they cotton on.’
Barry just shrugged. Mac glared, ripped Barry’s can from his hands, and tossed it into the undergrowth. Barry shook his head and then looked up as his brother drew close. Martin loomed over him and rapped him on the head with his knuckles, as if he were knocking on a door. Barry blinked twice and then stared into the ground.
‘All right, shit for brains,’ Martin said. ‘Are you lot having a party or something?’
Jim looked up. It was difficult to see Martin’s face because the afternoon sun was right behind him, but his size was evident. Martin was a big lad – as tall as Jim, but broader and stronger – and had a reputation as a scrapper. His hands rested, open and still, by his thighs. Jim could see black dirt engrained in the lines on his knuckles. The nail of his left ring finger was badly discoloured. There was a thin blue scar just above his wrist.
‘Nah. We’re just sitting around,’ Mac spoke out.
‘That’s funny – there’s a can of lager right there.’ Mac’s beer, unopened, lay in plain sight. Jim felt a hard knot of fear in his guts.
‘We had some earlier. That one’s left over.’
‘You’re too young to be drinking, you lot.’ Martin squatted down and reached for the can. ‘There’s four of you. How come there was one left?’
‘It’s mine,’ said Mac. ‘I wasn’t thirsty. You can have it if you want.’
Martin was already opening the beer. Mac looked down.
Now that Martin was squatting, Jim could see over his head. Gary skulked in the background with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and occasionally kicked out at the undergrowth. Jim wondered if he was looking for something.
‘What’s in the bag?’ asked Martin quickly, and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed one of the rucksack’s straps and dragged it over. He pulled the top open and looked in. Jim’s leg twitched. ‘Fags. Brilliant. I’ve run out. Do you mind?’ Martin took a cigarette, produced a lighter from his pocket, and lit up. He exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back. ‘Thanks, lads.’
Gary got closer to the water’s edge. Jim closed his eyes.
‘Here, Martin, the fucking beck is full of lager.’
‘Look, just fuck off, will you.’ Mac burst to his feet and began to stride towards Gary, but Martin stuck out his leg. Mac tripped and fell headlong.
‘Watch where you’re walking, mate,’ said Martin casually.
‘Look at this.’ Gary was walking back towards them, with a dripping can of lager clenched in his fist.
Mac pushed himself up onto one knee and looked Gary in the eye. ‘Get off ’em, you cunt.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘You fucking heard,’ hissed Mac, and got to his feet.
‘OK,’ said Gary with a smile. ‘I’ll get off ’em.’ Then he brought up his arm, twisted his body, and threw the full can of lager straight into Mac’s face.
The can exploded in a shower of foam and Mac’s head flicked back on his shoulders. He weaved for a moment, then his legs went and he fell to his hands and knees. Blood poured down his face.
There was silence.
‘Fucking hell, Gary,’ Martin breathed.
Jim glanced at the other two. Barry was looking away; Geoff was plain rigid with fear. Jim stood up.
‘Do you want some?’ said Gary.
Jim cocked his head as if he were considering this and then said to Martin, ‘Is your mate offering me a blowjob? I didn’t realize he was that way inclined.’
‘You little fucker.’ And Gary rushed at him.
Jim ducked and slipped under Gary’s reach. Gary skidded into a turn and Jim danced backwards and away. He felt bright and fast. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘If you catch me, you can bum me.’
Now Gary roared out loud and came on like a bull. Jim dodged him again. Gary just managed to stop himself from running into the beck; his feet skittered dust and stones into the water. Gary turned, but this time Jim didn’t skip away. He was waiting with his best straight right – the one he’d seen in all the western saloon brawls – and he unwound it straight into Gary’s head.
Gary splashed down hard on his back in the shallow water and there was a loud crack from somewhere. Jim was shouting now, ‘Have that! Have that, you fucker!’ He walked into the water and stood over Gary, and saw the smoky cloud of blood gather around Gary’s head. It billowed and ribboned out down the stream. Gary shuddered and twitched, and finally someone was shouting, ‘Get an ambulance! Get an ambulance!’
3
October 2004
I step out of my door. The day is clear but cold. I need a coat. I lay my tool bag on the step and go back inside. In the kitchen, the light is murky, diffused through the blinds I haven’t opened. I can’t see my jacket slung over the back of any chairs or lying on the floor, so I pick my way to the cupboard under the stairs and fumble inside for the light switch. The light comes on, uncomfortably bright, and as my vision returns, I see m
y jacket hanging limply on its hook. I grab it, slap off the light switch with the flat of my hand, and leave the house.
Standing on the step, I pull on the jacket and heft up my battered and over-full tool bag. For the job in hand, I don’t need all this stuff, but it’s better to be prepared in case you discover some problem, or fuck up and have to repair your own mistake. And there’s always plenty to do at Mrs Joe’s house. I didn’t enlist for this responsibility, and I don’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I inherited it from my father. Carrying on the good work is the only thing I can do for him now.
At the kerb, I stop by the car. The wing mirror is askew; probably some drunk walked into it on his way home last night. I consider twisting it back into position, but am overcome by the futility of the gesture. Anyway, I decide to walk.
We call this place a village, but it could just as easily be a small town. The main road cuts right through from west to east and the village follows it, long and thin, as two parallel lines of redbrick houses broken here and there with convenience stores, newsagents, and takeaways. There is no real centre, but the library and the post office are next door to each other, so I suppose that counts as one. If you were driving through on your way to somewhere else, that’s pretty much all you would see, except for the park.
Behind the road, on either side, there are terraced rows of old tied housing, built a century ago for the men who worked the now long-gone mine. Those streets are narrow, and when you walk down them, the houses loom in and you feel almost as if you are underground. We all grew up in these terraces – Geoff and Mac next door to each other, and Barry and me on the two streets either side of theirs – but none of us lives there now. Mac doesn’t even live in the village anymore. We never see him these days.
Then there are the two council estates, one on either side of the village. I live in the one to the south. They were built in the 1960s, when the local factories and engineering firms were still in business. A good one-third of these houses are boarded up now, sheets of metal over the windows and doors. The council estates and the terraces blend into each other at the edges, but the modern developments – of which there are three or four – stand apart by design. They’re turned in on themselves – all closes and cul-de-sacs – as enclaves of relative wealth for people like Barry and Geoff who have trades, and the others who do God knows what desk jobs in Teesside, Sunderland, and Newcastle. Maybe I would live in one of those houses now, if it hadn’t been for the conviction. More likely, though, I would be miles from here.
Magnificent Joe Page 2