Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  A slim figure appears at the entrance. He stumbles and puts his arm out to steady himself against the wall.

  ‘Steve.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Up here.’

  I step out into the middle of the path and he must see my shadow because he says, ‘Oh right,’ and weaves towards me. ‘What’s this proposition, then?’

  ‘Steve, before I begin, I want you to know something: there’s nothing going on between me and Geoff’s wife.’

  ‘What?’

  I clench my fists at my sides, step forward, and barge Steve into the wall. ‘What did you tell Barry?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He pushes me, but I’m too big for him to move and I bear down harder.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. What did you tell Barry?’

  ‘Fuck. Off.’ He tries to wriggle away. I grab him by his jacket and slam him back into the wall.

  ‘I’m serious, Steve. You’d better tell me what’s going on.’ Even as this comes out of my mouth, I know it sounds weak. I feel weak. I have no fury on my side and this is not going to work. Steve stops resisting and just looks into my face, and I already know what he’s going to say.

  ‘Or what?’

  I have no good answer to that. Steve has called my bluff.

  ‘Let me go,’ he says.

  But I cannot let him go. If I don’t make him talk, I go home with nothing and Barry wins. My body is heavy, my limbs reluctant to do what they need to do next. I breathe in, close my eyes, and drive my knee into his bollocks. He jolts so hard that I let go of him and he bends double, gasping for air.

  ‘What did you tell Barry?’

  ‘Just that I saw you together and…I’m sorry. I got it wrong.’

  ‘You’re damn right you got it wrong!’ I smash the point of my elbow between his shoulder blades. His arms flail up and behind him and for a moment, before he screams, he looks like a puppet on muddled strings.

  I clamp my hand over his mouth and force him to the ground, smothering him with my weight. He struggles and squirms, and I put my other hand on the back of his head and twist it round until I can almost look him straight in the eye. He goes dead still. He believes me now, but I don’t know if I believe myself. ‘I reckon I could snap your fucking neck, Steve,’ I say. ‘Shall I try?’

  He makes a high, yelling sound in his throat. It might be ‘No!’ I take my hand away from his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he pants. ‘He shouldn’t have. I told him not to do anything stupid.’

  ‘You told him not to do anything stupid?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why the fuck is Barry talking to you about our business? What’s going on?’

  He doesn’t say anything. I get up and he tries to crawl, but I put my foot on his back and press down. ‘Stay where you are.’ He stops moving, but he still doesn’t talk. I have that feeling of a blow to the head, like I’m standing in a ghost body that only just overlaps my own. I kick him.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouts.

  ‘Then tell me why this happened. Tell me what you and that bastard are up to.’

  Steve rolls over and holds his side, breathing hard. ‘It’s small-time shite. It wasn’t worth none of this.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He shuffles himself into a seated position, with his back against the wall, and looks up at me. ‘You were working on that big job, right? And because it’s a big job, they have all kinds of gear on hire. Sometimes it’s there for days, and it’s nice stuff: generators, Stihl saws, chase cutters, high-speed drills; even the fucking safety equipment’s worth something.’

  ‘You were going to rob them? They keep it in a shipping container, with fuck-off big locks on it. You’d have to cut your way in. It’s in the middle of a fucking city!’

  ‘I know, but Barry said he could sort it out. He said he could make impressions of the keys.’

  ‘He’d have to pilfer them from the office first. He doesn’t have the balls.’

  ‘Well, apparently he thinks he does, because he’s gone this far, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Anyway, I’d give the copies to some good lads I know, and Barry would keep an eye on what was coming in and out of the site. When there was enough tasty stuff inside to make it worth our while…zip. They’re in and out. I fence the gear; Barry gets his cut. But then the accident happened and you and Geoff refused to go back and fucked up the plan.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much would he make?’

  ‘Depends on what we got. Mebbes a grand or so.’

  ‘A grand? He did this for a grand? For fuck’s sake, if he needed money, he could have pulled this sort of stunt on any job.’

  Steve shifts his weight uncomfortably and feels his ribs. ‘You know Barry – he’s got no imagination. He thought he was a criminal fucking genius just for coming up with this shitty little plan. He couldn’t go back to square one. He hasn’t got the brainpower.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘And it’s not just that. He likes to talk big. He likes to be the leader. He thinks he fucking owns you and Geoff, and he wanted to make you go back to the site to prove it. He needs the control. “I’ll show those two fuckers who’s in charge.” That’s what he said to me.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’

  But I believe it all too well. I’m tired and there is nothing more to say here. My leg shakes and the change in my pocket rattles. I put my hand on it to stop the sound; the movement stirs an acid feeling in my stomach that could be hunger, but isn’t. I look down at the dark, huddled shape of Steve and think that I should help him up. Instead, I walk away.

  ‌19

  Geoff is neither hungry nor thirsty, but to sit here he must order. The waitress taps the top of her pen against her pad. The pad is held in a stiff wallet coated with black vinyl that peels away at the spine, and there is a huge spot on the end of the waitress’s nose. Geoff stares at it, unable to form any idea of what he should say. The spot is red and swollen, and looks like it will burst soon.

  ‘Bacon butty and a pot of tea,’ he mumbles, and feels relieved that she will now go away. ‘Please.’

  ‘Brown or white?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bread. Brown or white?’

  ‘Brown. No, white.’ Geoff doesn’t know why he said that; he doesn’t like brown bread.

  ‘You can have a slice of each for all I care.’

  It’s painful to listen to other people talk, and he is sure that she is just bullying him now.

  The waitress’s face remains just as grey and solid as a cold dumpling. ‘Do you want any tomato or mushroom?’ A long pause. ‘In your sandwich.’

  ‘No. Plain. Just plain. Plain. Please.’

  The waitress writes down the order and finally leaves Geoff alone, but not in peace. He checks his watch. Late. And why do they have to meet here?

  The tables are in two columns along the length of the café, with a gangway down the middle to the kitchen door. Geoff is at the last one, with his back against the wall. Apart from an elderly couple near the entrance, the place is empty.

  Geoff looks down and sees the way the Formica has come away in large chips at the edge of his table. They look like bite marks. Chipped Formica and peeling vinyl; he knows his tea will come in a stainless-steel pot that dribbles everywhere.

  The order arrives and proves him right. Some things never change, but at least there is plenty of bacon in the sandwich. He nibbles at it, to get used to having food in his mouth again. A hot surge of saliva under his tongue surprises him and soon he eats properly in full bites. He is almost finished when he hears the door open.

  This must be the man. After two days of near-paralysis in a grotty hotel room in Middlesbrough, Geoff picked him pretty much at random from the Yellow Pages, and it shows. His suit sags around him and reminds Geoff of a schoolteacher or someone who works at the dole office. His hair is
thin, and his spectacles are steamed up. He doesn’t look like Geoff’s idea of a private investigator.

  The man takes off his glasses to wipe them clean, but drops the file folder held under his right arm. Geoff looks around in panic. Look at this shithole. Look at this idiot. He pushes the last piece of his bacon sandwich away from him and focuses on his twisted reflection in the teapot, trying not to look up as the dozy cunt walks over to him.

  ‘Hello, Geoff?’

  The truth arrives in Geoff’s head. He doesn’t need proof, because he knows Barry wasn’t lying. He doesn’t need proof, because all that matters is, he’s finally getting away. ‘No, mate. Not me, sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the private investigator. ‘Well, excuse me.’ He goes and sits at another table.

  Geoff pays and leaves.

  ‌20

  A couple of days after my run-in with Steve, there’s a loud knock at my front door. I check that the cricket bat is within easy reach, put the chain on, open the door, and peer through the crack. Whoever is there is standing just out of the light. I pick up the bat.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Howdy, partner.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Joe. I thought you were the fucking Gestapo. Why’d you knock so hard?’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘To pick up Mr Green.’

  Fuck. I’d forgotten about this. We’re supposed to be going to the church hall tonight to measure up for the pantomime set. ‘Bollocks. Hold on. I’ll just get my stuff.’

  —

  When we arrive, we find ourselves in the middle of a rehearsal. Someone plays the piano, trying to teach songs to a teenage girl who may or may not be playing Cinderella but is certainly tone-deaf. Two middle-aged men, possibly the Ugly Sisters, clatter about at the other end of the hall in an attempt to learn a dance routine. There are several children running around and knocking things over. I recognize nobody, which is probably a good job. Even now, I occasionally get a frosty reception from some long-term locals, depending on which version of the story they believe.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ronald.’ A flustered woman approaches us. She stands over Mr Green’s wheelchair and looks down at him. ‘We could only get the hall once a week, so we sort of have to do everything at once, you see.’

  Mr Green cranes to look up at her. ‘Are you going to tell us what you want doing with the scenery and that?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve just got a few things to do first.’ She notices me. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is my assistant.’

  ‘Oh. Very well. Hello. Right, back shortly.’ She scuttles off and begins a discussion with the pianist that involves a lot of pointing.

  I crouch beside Mr Green’s chair. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Shit-shower. It’s usual. Why don’t you go and measure the stage?’

  ‘Right.’ I get up and am about to go across to the stage when I notice a small boy walk towards us. He stands in front of Joe, tips his head, and stares brazenly in that way kids do.

  ‘Are you a mentalist?’ the boy asks Joe.

  Joe looks the boy up and down, and then answers solemnly, ‘Aye.’

  They stay there, looking at one another, until the boy’s mother comes over and yanks him away by the arm. ‘Come on,’ she scolds, then looks over her shoulder and flashes Joe an accusatory glare.

  I nudge Joe with my fist. ‘Howay, mate, I need some help.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’

  He follows me to the stage, and after I’ve explained to him for the third time that it’s imperative not to let go of the end of the tape, we manage to establish its dimensions.

  ‘Four metres wide and three metres deep.’

  Joe watches me write it down and then nods. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Four metres wide and three metres deep; it’s the same every year.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Aye.’ He smiles proudly. ‘My memory is magnificent.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He shrugs. ‘You never asked.’

  I want to throw the tape measure at his head, but if he has the energy for mischief, at least it means he’s no longer ill. ‘You daft bastard.’

  ‘You’re foul-mouthed, you.’

  ‘And proud of it.’ I stuff my notepad into my back pocket and clip the tape measure to my belt. ‘Look, Joe, is your mam all right? I thought she looked a bit ill the other day.’

  ‘Aye, she’s all right.’

  ‘Oh good. Shall I come over tonight? We can have a cup of tea, play a game of cards.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You like a game of Fish.’

  ‘We’re not receiving visitors.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re not receiving visitors.’ He does not look at me.

  ‘Did your mam say that?’

  ‘Aye.’ He folds his arms.

  ‘Joe, did you tell her I was there the other night?’

  ‘No.’ He steps off the stage and walks across the hall. I hurry after him and put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me away. ‘I didn’t tell!’

  I stop. If I push any further, he’ll go off, and I don’t want to do that to him in front of these people. He sits down on a plastic chair against the back wall and assumes a deep interest in the activities of the Ugly Sisters. I give him a couple of minutes and then go and sit next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. I’m just concerned for you both. You’re my friends.’

  ‘Don’t meddle.’

  ‘Did she say that too?’

  ‘It’s none of your business what she said.’

  ‘All right, Joe.’

  The flustered woman is speaking to Mr Green, and he waves me over impatiently.

  She talks for a long time and I take notes. I learn that her name is Lydia, she’s just moved up from somewhere down South, and this is her first year as director of the pantomime. She seems unsure as to precisely how she was roped into it, so we have something in common. I also learn that in addition to the headwear we’ve already produced she wants three sets of scenery made up and a set of castle battlements created. Once she has run through her list of requirements, she nods towards Joe.

  ‘Who is that chap?’

  ‘That’s Joe,’ I say. ‘He’s in your panto.’

  ‘I don’t remember casting him.’

  ‘You don’t need to cast him,’ Mr Green informs her. ‘He’s in it every year.’

  There’s a short silence, so I add, ‘He plays the back end of the horse.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hadn’t planned on a horse.’

  ‘There’s always a horse.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but who’s going to play the front end?’ For some reason they both look at me.

  ‘No. Don’t even think about it.’ I turn my back on them and look at Joe. He watches everything around him intently, but I don’t believe he really knows anyone here. I don’t know anyone here; none of them are old faces. Nobody speaks to him. Although he is surrounded by people, he looks more isolated than ever.

  —

  I narrowly escaped being made the front end of the horse, at least for the time being, and now I help Mr Green home. The rubber wheels of his chair fizz along the wet paving slabs, and over his hunched shoulders I can see his hands twine and fidget in his lap. I know he wants to get out and walk, but for such an excursion his wife mandated the chair. Anyway, he knows that he’s not up to it, so we trundle along in strained silence. Then he breaks it.

  ‘Why didn’t Joe come back with us?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wanted to go home.’

  ‘I was told that he usually hangs around you like a little puppy dog.’

  ‘I think I’ve upset his mam.’

  ‘Not a good idea – she has a formidable right fist.’

  Then he tells the story I’ve heard before, that when Joe was a kid, they tried him at the secondary school and he was bullied. One day, a teacher
just stood by and watched while three lads beat Joe up, and in response Mrs Joe stormed right into the staffroom and punched that teacher out. Joe stayed at home after that.

  ‘She did it with a fistful of loose change.’

  ‘You what? I’ve never heard that bit.’

  ‘She bloody did. It happened right in front of me. I was most impressed. I thought, there’s a woman I should make a friend of, because I certainly don’t want her as my enemy.’

  ‘You’ve known her for years, then.’

  ‘Aye.’ He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  Now I wish I hadn’t said anything, because he’s going to ask and then I’ll have to burden him with what I know. He’s fragile, and it’s not fair. Then again, he knows her well and it’s not right to keep him in the dark.

  ‘So what did you do to upset her?’

  ‘I went over and I cleaned her kitchen.’

  He sucks a breath between his teeth. ‘Bloody hell. Why?’

  ‘She’s ill.’

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘I think she’s ailing. Badly. Can’t cope with the house anymore. Joe was sick because he was cooking for himself.’

  Mr Green goes quiet for the distance between two streetlights and then says, ‘She won’t take interference.’

  He falls silent, and now his fingers don’t drum on the arm of the chair, but scratch at its rubber coating. I keep pushing his chair and hope I’ve done the right thing.

  When we get to his house, Mr Green pushes himself out of his chair without waiting for me to help him and fishes unsteadily for his keys. He opens the door and then stands, haloed by the light from inside. His clothes are very slack on his body.

  ‘Do you want me to fold this?’ I motion towards the chair.

  ‘Aye, son.’

  I kick up the clips and the chair sags in on itself. Mr Green watches me as I place it in the hallway.

  ‘We should go and see her together,’ he says. ‘Put on a united front, talk some sense into her.’

  ‘How are we going to talk sense into Mrs Joe?’

  ‘Any way we can. I’ll call you in the morning.’ Then he closes the door on me.

  I walk towards home. I’m on my street when a grinding of gears ahead dispels my muttering anxiety; there is a car attempting a turn in the road. It wants to come back this way, so it must have driven past without me noticing it. I walk on. The driver makes the final manoeuvre too quickly and runs out of space. The car mounts the kerb, but instead of slowing, accelerates and hops back onto the road with an audible scrape as the sump guard hits the concrete. It roars up the street, then swerves onto the wrong side of the road under heavy braking and comes to a halt alongside the pavement about twenty feet in front of me. I stop. Nobody gets out. There are footsteps behind me and pain in my eyes as the car’s headlights switch to full beam. I turn away, but something heavy slams into my body and I fall.