‘Stop! Mac! Stay inside!’ He can’t hear me. He’s outside now and ducks under a crossbrace. I run. Mac marches towards the offending vehicle. ‘Get back!’ I’m too late. The first block hurtles inches past his face and slaps into the mud right in front of him. He stops dead, looks at it, looks up, and then they all come. In the split second before he is knocked off his feet I think our eyes meet.
I skid through the mud on my knees and scrabble to pull away blocks, hurling them behind me. Just a sign of life. Just a sign of life. But there’s no way he’s alive, not like that. Arms slip under my shoulders. ‘Come away! It’s not safe.’ They drag me off. My heels furrow the mud. I see Lee’s face above me. ‘It’s not safe.’ He points up. ‘There’s more.’ I look. The remainder of the pack of blocks teeters on the edge; then they fall.
Part Two
11
November 2004
No matter what happens, we always end up in a pub. So it is today, but my ears just absorb the conversation around me as if it were background noise. Right now, I think, Mac’s body lies in a cardboard box, on a trolley, somewhere in the hidden rooms of the crematorium. Soon he’ll be vaporized and the surviving few pounds of bone ground to dust. That’s the industrial process behind the velvet curtain, the sterile truth around which we erect the edifice of ceremony and grief. This is the wake, and it’s busy. Mac had a lot of friends.
I avoided the other two in the aftermath. It was easy to do since we couldn’t go back to work while the accident was investigated, the site inspected and made safe, and whatever other formalities were undertaken. This is the first time I’ve left the house for days and I feel unsafe around other humans. The other humans seem to want each other, though. They talk and talk, and drink and drink. Mainly, I do the latter. There are also sandwiches, slices of pork pie, and some mini Scotch eggs.
‘They told us we could go back to work next week, like.’ Barry says this as if one of us has asked, although we haven’t, then pops a pickled onion into his mouth.
Geoff thumps his pint onto the table and slops some over the side. ‘Bollocks. May as well have been a drug dealer or a fucking pimp.’
‘You what?’ says Barry, still chewing.
‘Working fucking life, that’s what. I must be a right fucking mug.’ Geoff’s voice has a manic edge.
‘Well, it’s like what they say: life’s a bitch and then you die.’
‘And you fucking love it, don’t you?’
‘It’s just the way it is, Geoff. It’s hard work and it’s no fucking fun.’ Barry picks up a sandwich.
‘Well, fuck that. And why do we have to go back there?’
‘Why not?’
‘You tosser.’ Geoff gets up and stomps off. He is upset, but I don’t know what I could do or say to make him feel better. He was right about one thing, though: we don’t have to go back to that site. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but why would we want to? In this market, we’d find another job in minutes.
I look at Barry. He shrugs at me and through a mouthful of white bread and reformed roast beef mumbles, ‘What’s his problem?’
‘Fucking hell, Baz. Mac was one of his best mates, and mine too. You weren’t exactly sensitive to his feelings.’
Barry laughs and a spot of chewed sandwich shoots out of his mouth and hits the side of my glass. ‘Sensitive? Divven give us all that poofter’s shite.’
‘Why are you even here?’
‘I’ve got to pay my respects, haven’t I?’
‘Respect? Is that what you call it?’
‘Bloody hell, not you too.’
‘Enjoy your fucking lunch, Baz.’
I leave him and go to the bar. I can’t see Geoff – he has disappeared among the mourners somewhere – so I just buy another pint and stand there with it. The pub is oppressively crowded and, now I’m crammed shoulder to shoulder with them all, increasingly hot and airless. A group of four men I recognize from Mac’s crew sit round a table together. They all smoke cigars. Big ones. I suppose it is some kind of tribute, but it makes the place stink. In the heat and smoke, with the taste of my own beer sour in my mouth, my stomach turns and I need to get outside. I make a break for the door. Cold air sweeps over me and I step into it with gratitude and relief.
The beer garden slopes downhill ahead of me and I’m led along it by a path of vast stone flags embedded in the lawn. The path stops at a stand of four picnic tables, but I keep walking to the dry-stone wall that marks the end of the garden. After the wall, the valley side drops away in a steep escarpment to which grass, close-gnawed by sheep, barely clings and through which sharp limestone outcrops erupt here and there. The other side rises more gently; its folds cradle tiny hamlets and even now, after midday, patches of low mist. Squat stone barns are scattered over the land.
When Mac moved out here, Barry wasn’t the only one to laugh at the idea of him as a country gent; I had a bit of a chuckle too. Mac did well for himself, though, with his big gob and his genuine talent for doing business, and if he wanted to spend his spare time in tweeds, then fair play to him, I thought. Standing here, though, I can see what he saw in the place. This is tough country, what they call marginal land, and it fits him. His house is out there somewhere. I can probably see it from here, but I don’t know which one it is. I never came to visit him; at the time, it seemed more important to keep the peace with Barry.
The grass is damp and my shoes are getting wet. It’ll seep through if I stay here. When I turn back, I see a man sat on the picnic table nearest to me. He sits on the outermost bench, facing out, so that his back is to the tabletop. He leans forward, with his elbows on his knees, and stares ahead. He looks familiar to me, though for a few odd seconds I can’t place him. Then I realize that it’s Lee, who dragged me away from the falling blocks, but he looks different, with his fashionable hair slicked into something neater and more suitable for a funeral.
‘Hiya.’
He nods at me. I walk over and sit down at the other end of his bench. He keeps looking out, over the valley. I sip at my pint.
‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ I say eventually.
‘That’s all right. You just charged over to him. It was pretty brave.’
‘I wasn’t really thinking. I didn’t even realize I was in any danger.’
‘It was still brave. Have you spoken to his wife?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know her that well. I’ve only met her the few times, like. Mac sort of lost touch with us for a while.’
‘I think she’d like to say thanks, at least. You know, for trying.’
‘Right.’
‘You and Mac were good friends, though?’
‘Aye, since we were kids. He lived next door to Geoff. We all grew up together.’
Lee studies the back of his hand and picks at his thumbnail. ‘Look, Mac had quite a bit of work lined up. If you’re interested, there’s some of those jobs we could take on. Renovations and conversions, things like that. You could ask Geoff if he fancies it too.’
I smile. No mention of Barry there. I think of the miserable fucker, sat inside and scoffing pork pies. He pissed me off today. He’s been pissing me off for a long time. I wonder if it’s still worth it. ‘All right, give us your number. We’ll have a chat about it.’
When I get back inside, I buy another drink and stand at the bar. I feel more at ease now and the beer slips down easily. Geoff comes to my side just as I finish it.
‘Do you want another?’ he asks.
‘I’ll get these.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Look, I’m sorry I disappeared the last few days.’
‘It’s all right. What were we supposed to do? Have a hugging session and a cry together?’
‘I thought that’s what you liked.’
‘No, I just get straight to the anal sex, me.’
‘Well, you’ve always been a romantic at heart.’
I buy our drinks and we sip together, each waiting for
the other to raise the issue. As usual, I’m the more drunk, so I crack first.
‘I think we need to have a serious discussion with Barry.’
‘Fuck him,’ Geoff mutters into his pint.
‘Aye, it’s all right saying that, but we’ve actually got to do something about this.’
‘It’s not right, man. What he said. We don’t need to go back to that shithole.’
‘I know. I’m on your side.’
Geoff’s shoulders sink and he leans against the bar. ‘Do you think he’s serious about it?’
‘I think if we don’t nip this in the bud, he’s going to turn up in the van next week and expect us to hop in and drive back down there like nothing happened.’
‘Shit.’
‘Aye.’ I rub my thumb up and down the side of my glass and watch the smear of grease form. I’m on dangerous ground here. This could go very wrong indeed, but somehow I hear myself saying it anyway. ‘We could just tell him to fuck off, you know. Move on. There’s plenty of work out there.’ The pit of my stomach fizzes.
‘Jesus. I don’t know about that. He’s a cunt, but he’s a mate, you know.’
‘Are you sure about that, these days?’
Geoff sighs. ‘No, mate. No, I’m not.’
‘Well then.’
‘Look, let’s at least reason with him first. If he sees that we’re really serious, he might change his mind.’
‘Fine, let’s go and show him that we’re really serious.’
I walk across the bar, to where we last saw Barry sitting, but he’s not there anymore. Geoff catches up with me. ‘Come on, mate, you’re drunk. Mebbes this isn’t the best time for it, eh?’
‘No time like the present, Geoff.’ Then I see Barry, on the other side of the room, talking to some people I’ve never met before. I feel like I don’t give a fuck about anything and I stalk up to them.
‘Barry, can we have a word?’
‘What’s up?’
‘We want to talk about the plan for next week.’
He looks at me through narrowed eyes. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
‘Never mind how much I’ve had to drink. We’ve got a serious problem to discuss.’
‘Are you two still on about that? Do you really want to talk about this here?’
‘Don’t you? Is that because mebbes you were thinking we’d happily go back to the site where Mac was killed?’
‘This isn’t the place.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just shut up, all right.’ He turns to the group he is standing with and leaves me to stare at the back of his head. I hear, ‘Don’t worry about that. He just gets a bit aggressive when he’s drunk.’ An old man gives me a disapproving look.
My fists are clenched and I am furious now. I can hardly believe that Barry wants to play at being the reasonable one.
Geoff puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Just leave it. Not here.’
—
Laura came to pick up me and Geoff, but she didn’t drive me all the way home; nobody ever does. It’s a pain in the neck to drive onto the estate and crawl along the streets littered with speed bumps. I always let them drop me off by the main road and I take the footpath home. It’s narrow, and it’s not well lit, but that doesn’t matter. Who’s going to fuck with me?
There’s a tufty bit of grass and a park bench along the way, and that’s where I have ended up. The sky is clear, and as a bonus, it seems that I miraculously avoided all the dog shit. I throw my head all the way back, and my skull rests, painfully, on the top rail of the bench. My eyes are filled with space. This is the best kind of being drunk, and staring into the star fields is the only way to get it. You can’t do it with all of the world crowding around you; you get perspective, that way, because it’s all so confusing that being drunk makes sense. Only in the simplicity of vast distance can you fully appreciate the joy of being wankered.
With my head like this, every breath feels deep. The air surges through my nostrils and makes an icy grab at the back of my throat. I cry a little, but, as ever, I can’t concentrate on the feeling. The sparse and pathetic tears just collect at my temples around the hairline. Soon they create a freezing sensation and I’m forced to wipe them away with my sleeve. Clearly, I’m bad at remembrance, as I can’t even maintain a dignified stillness.
If there was a time to indulge a moment, it is now. I cast around for a memory, but I just smell the dust.
12
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.’
Magnificent Joe Page 9