Finding Joe

by Anthony Masters

  “Nothing.” Paul quickened his pace, the sweat glistening on his brow. “We’ll check out the woods first. It’ll be cooler in there.”

  The marsh was a hot, steamy, brackish swamp, stinking in the evening heat, showing no sign of cooling off. On one side was a large, dense wood and on the other, leading towards the lake, was flat mushy ground that stretched endlessly in the heat haze, with a glint of water in the far distance.

  They walked on in silence, until they heard a distant roll of thunder.

  “We could get caught in a storm,” said Jake.

  “So what?” Paul was irritable. “Plenty of shelter.”

  “What about lightning?”

  “Worried you’ll get struck? Right up the arse!” Barry laughed mockingly.

  Paul glanced up at the sky with false confidence. “It’s the wrong colour for a storm. Besides, it’s getting cooler.”

  The breath of wind gave them hope, but it soon died away.

  “Is it?” asked Jake.

  “Don’t start being a bloody moaner then,” Paul flashed out.

  Jake and Barry suddenly felt wary of him. Like Joe, he was unpredictable. But like them, he’d suffered badly at Joe’s hands. So there was the bond between them, a bond, however, they couldn’t discuss. It was like an unspoken rumour.

  The wood was cooler but rank, smelling of urine. Dumping had taken place and there were piles of tyres as well as an old fridge, part of a motorbike and the rear end of a Ford Escort.

  However, the deeper they penetrated, the cleaner it became, the rank smell gone, replaced by the scent of wild garlic.

  I don’t trust them, thought Jake. And they don’t trust me – or each other.

  “No trace of Joe,” said Barry cheerfully.

  “He’s not going to be here.” Paul was gloomy.

  “We’ve got to try and find him.” Jake spoke doggedly. “Joe,” he called. “Joe. Are you here?”

  Barry and Paul laughed raucously.

  “Shall we all shout coo-eee?” Barry mocked.

  “Let’s do that.” Paul grinned maliciously, winking at him, excluding Jake. “Coo-eee!” he screamed in a high-pitched voice. “Coo-eee.”

  He continued for some time, startled birds flapping from the trees, a squirrel running across the path, until he got tired of the game.

  “Joe’s not here,” said Jake woodenly.

  “He could be having a kip,” Paul smirked.

  “You’d have woken him.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Barry said suddenly, and the other two looked at him curiously. “Let’s build a tree house.”

  “A what?” Paul was incredulous and Jake didn’t know what to say.

  “You gone out of your mind?”

  Barry immediately looked defensive. “We made one with Joe.”

  “When we were kids.”

  “Only a couple of years ago.”

  “That’s when we were kids.”

  “Why should we build a tree house?” asked Jake.

  “To look for Joe.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “We don’t know that, do we?”

  “All right.” Paul suddenly gave in. “Let’s build one as high as we can – like a lookout. Then we can see all over the marsh. Maybe we can spot him then.”

  Relieved they were doing something practical, they gazed up at the trees, all of which were straight and sheer. The wood was silent except for the low rumble of distant thunder. The path, such as it was, had become overgrown with foliage and brambles and stinging nettles and they had to pick their way carefully. It was all too obvious that no one had been along here recently.

  “How about here?” asked Paul.

  Jake suddenly felt gripped by an excitement that he hadn’t felt for a long time and for a moment he saw a shadowy Joe in front of them, tall and lithe and commanding, urging them on, ordering Barry to collect wood for a fire and him and Paul to scale the trees. But that was the old Joe. Not the new one who had gone out of his way to bring misery into their lives.

  The tree that Paul was pointing at had a fork in its clustered upper branches and a smaller, gnarled, more climbable tree grew almost against its trunk.

  “We can get up there,” said Paul.

  “No problem.” Barry was already glancing round the glade, checking for fallen wood that might not be too dead and ready to snap under their weight. “We can take some of that stuff with us.”

  “We’ll need some long spars for the platform,” Jake said, remembering how Joe would have planned the operation. It only seemed like yesterday.

  “And some smaller ones to go across. Didn’t we have rope last time?”

  “Joe brought some,” said Paul. “We’ll have to make do.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jake was eager. “We could use some of that creeper.” He pulled a strand down from around the tree. “It’s quite strong.”

  “OK,” said Barry. “Let’s get stuck in.”

  “Quite like old times then.” Paul’s stocky frame was poised beneath the tree. “You’re the best climber, Barry. Want a bunk up?”

  “Actually, I reckon Jake is.” Barry was generous. “OK by you?”

  Jake nodded. Suddenly they were a unit, a team working together. But it was weird without Joe.

  He had always been in charge.

  In the end they only used a little of the creeper, for it was much easier to borrow some of the rubbish that was scattered around the glade. Although there was less of the human debris here, they found old electrical flex, a section of corrugated iron and some pieces of nylon string and amalgamated them with the natural materials.

  Jake climbed the smaller tree and then clambered into the branches of the larger. It took him about five minutes, while Barry and Paul chose four long spars from the wood that littered the glade. They tested them out, checking they weren’t rotten, and then began to make a pile of shorter spars that could be lashed across the longer ones.

  Jake climbed on, eventually reaching the fork of the main tree, pulling himself up and straddling another, higher branch. He gazed down at the glade below, gasping in the heat, the sweat pouring off him, longing for water and wondering if they’d brought enough. Jake only had a small bottle in his bag. Had the others brought any at all? Whisky wasn’t exactly thirst quenching.

  Then Jake began to be more rational. What was he worrying about? After all, the marsh was surrounded by shops and garages, although they seemed remote now and there was still the night to consider.

  Jake felt confused. If Joe had been sitting beside him on the branch, if Joe had been anywhere at all, he would have been making decisions, giving instructions, dominating them. For a moment, Jake saw him again, walking through the woods, tall and confident, joking one moment, giving orders the next.

  But that was the old Joe, not the new Joe of the last couple of months. In fact, light-years seemed to have passed between the four of them and the world as it had been when they were children. Childhood. A foreign, alien place Jake had forgotten but which was now re-emerging, with all its freedom and insecurity.

  “You ready?” yelled Barry, who was climbing the neighbouring tree, two spars lashed to his back, struggling with the weight, the sweat running off him, the taut muscles in his arms standing out as he pushed himself on.

  Half an hour later, after considerable hard labour with Jake manipulating spars into position from above, Barry setting up from below and Paul carrying, they eventually succeeded in laying the base platform for their lookout. They pulled up the electrical flex but it was too stiff and slippery to lash the spars into position and they had to resort to the creeper instead. Despite the fact that they were managing to cope, all felt rudderless, slow and clumsy. Joe should have been with them, thought Paul. They all needed his encouragement.

  Eventually Jake joined Barry on the spars and Paul clambered up with more creeper, the bottle of whisky and the packet of Marlboro in the back pocket of his jeans. They had left the corrugated iron below, con
sidering it too sharp and rusty to be useful.

  There was just about room for all three of them on the rather shaky platform which they strengthened by lashing the lower spars to the branches with the creeper. It wasn’t very effective, but once it was done they sat looking down with a heady sense of triumph, the sweat cooling on their bodies, all too conscious of the shakiness of the platform below their feet.

  It’s almost as if Joe’s with us, thought Paul, and needed to put the thought into words at once.

  “Joe would have loved this.”

  “He’d have been in charge,” said Barry.

  “Why’re you talking about him like that?” demanded Jake in sudden dismay.

  “What you on about?” Paul was surly.

  “You’re talking about Joe as if he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Paul broke the long silence.

  “He’ll turn up,” said Barry in attempted reassurance. “Maybe any moment now.”

  “Or tomorrow,” added Paul. “Or the next day. He’s just done a runner, that’s all. He’ll show up all right.”

  The silence enwrapped them again, a solid weight pressing down.

  “Stuffy, isn’t it?” said Barry.

  No one replied.

  They swung their legs over the edge of the platform as if they were trying to stir up some cool air.

  No one spoke.

  A thrush started to sing and they listened to its song.

  Barry reached for the whisky and unscrewed the top. “Here’s to Joe.” He took a long swig and then passed the bottle round, first to Paul and then to Jake.

  They took long swigs, Jake spluttering over his and wishing he hadn’t agreed. Why had he been so weak? And yet – the alcohol, normally repugnant, felt good, invigorating, making him feel alive and interesting and wanting to talk. Jake took a covert glance at the other two but they were grinning inanely, the alcohol taking its toll.

  “Pretty good lookout,” said Paul, passing the whisky round again.

  This time, Jake looked forward to the next swig. It was beginning to have a welcome blanketing effect.

  “Funny about booze, isn’t it?” said Paul.

  “Booze makes you feel funny,” asserted Jake.

  “I didn’t mean that, you prat.”

  “What did you mean then?”

  “I meant –” Paul’s voice was slurred – “I meant the funny thing about booze is that it looshens –” He paused, trying to pronounce the word more clearly. “It loosens you up.”

  “Makes you crap, you mean?” put in Barry. “Gives you the runs?”

  “I didn’t mean that either.” Paul was ponderously over-indignant. “What I mean ish – is – that booze makes you shay things you don’t – didn’t – usually shay –”

  There was a sudden tension, as if Paul had just given them a warning rather than an observation. They passed the bottle round again, this time more tentatively. Then Paul screwed on the top and placed it carefully to one side.

  He belched and lay down, flat on his back.

  So did Barry – and, eventually, Jake.

  Turning away from each other, curling up womb-like in the welcoming gathering coolness, their eyes closed, Barry felt grateful. As if the lid had been put on them as well.

  Part Two

  Jake

  Jake woke an hour later. It was twilight and something unidentifiable scampered across the glade below. He could hear the drone of traffic on the arterial road and the even more distant clamour of music from the disco pub.

  As Jake sat up he saw Barry and Paul curled up on either side of him. Barry was snoring slightly, but Paul was silent except for the odd sniff. Jake didn’t want them to wake. He had a headache and the return to the futile search would be testing. It had to be postponed. He mustn’t wake them. They must sleep as long as possible.

  Was that a foot-fall he heard below him? Jake peered down, and once again imagined Joe striding across the glade, hands in pockets, fair hair pushed back, grey-green eyes mocking. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that he had been wearing a lot recently. DON’T MESS WITH ME, the legend read.

  But Joe had messed with people, thought Jake resentfully. Joe had decided to pass on his misery to his friends.

  Jake lay flat on his back, closed his eyes and saw himself running down the path on the other side of the marsh in a tracksuit. Joe was pacing him, and they were jogging alongside each other on a cool, grey, cloudy morning.

  Jake had never been someone who believed much in himself, but on that run – for a few brief and glorious moments – he had felt far more confident than at any other time in his life. He knew he’d always had the potential to be a really good runner. Maybe Joe was finally going to bring it on.

  His twin brothers, Tom and Sam, twelve years old and seemingly born confident, had always been brilliant cross-country runners, far exceeding any expectation that Jake might have had of himself.

  Both the twins were quite different from Jake. Sam was the more academic while Tom was more intuitive. They were identical, with a mutual closeness that was often threatening – at least to Jake.

  The twins outstripped everyone, much to the joy of his parents whose competitive streak, in Jake’s opinion, must have been frustrated by his own efforts. Ironically, he had loved running since childhood, when he had tried to emulate his father who, in his own younger days, had been a local champion.

  Jake and his father had jogged together over this marsh since he was nine, but that had petered out when the twins took up the sport and Jake’s performance had deteriorated. He knew he had the skill but, strangely, lacked the will to beat them, to put the twins in their place. Jake yearned for individuality rather than competition.

  “Too bad, old son,” Dad had said at first. “Try and push yourself harder.” But try as he might, Jake had not been able to do that. As a result, Dad’s patience began to wear thin. “You just aren’t trying”, he had told Jake, or, “You don’t work hard enough”, or once, and much more hurtfully, “You just haven’t got what it takes”. Eventually, admittedly in a temper, his father had said the worst thing of all – “You don’t have the guts, do you, Jake?”

  Slowly but surely the twins overhauled him, short and powerful, without the encumbrance of Jake’s gawky frame, and Dad had gradually and then totally swopped allegiances. Mum was competitive too in her own way, and although she initially tried to prevent the rejection from developing, she eventually gave up and even said to Jake, “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. Dad and I had to make it on our own, you know. We didn’t get much of a leg-up.” Jake’s father ran a garage in Dagenham, and his mother a hair-dressing salon. “We’ve both got our own businesses now,” she went on. “And we’ve got to keep them going. No one’s going to spoon-feed us. God helps those who help themselves.”

  Jake didn’t think his parents believed in God and this was the only reference to the Deity he had ever heard them make. But they made it many times.

  Jake concentrated, looking back, and saw Joe pacing him as they fast-jogged over the springy turf of the marsh towards the dull gleam of the lake.

  “How am I doing?” Jake gasped.

  “You’re doing good. You always were good.”

  Joe was a superb all-rounder, excelling at team sports as well as athletics. His spare, light frame, his stamina, his long, powerful legs – his overall high level of fitness was amazing. So was his persistence.

  “You don’t need me with Joe around,” Dad had said when Jake began to train with him. “He’s a great athlete. You’re the lucky one – so make sure you don’t let him down.”

  Mum had just said, “He’s a good mate to you, is Joe.” But the implication was the same. Don’t let him down.

  But he wasn’t going to let him down. Why should he? Why did his parents think he might?

  Now Jake was recalling more of what he and Joe had said to each other as they ran together. In fact, he now realized, that had been the last talk they had had before li
fe had started to go so badly wrong. They had both sat on the scrubby bank above the lake and looked down into the water. In a couple of weeks’ time Jake and Tom and Sam and Joe were going to enter the Belstead Marsh Marathon – an annual event that Dad himself had run year after year until he had to give up because of the arthritis in his knee.

  “You’re going to beat those twins,” Joe pronounced.

  “Yeah?” A feeling of helplessness inevitably overcame Jake when the twins were mentioned.

  It had been strange. Joe had never really taken an interest in running with him before. But about a month ago he had suddenly told Jake that he was determined Jake would do well in the marathon this year, better than he had ever done. Had he noticed, Jake wondered, how down he’d been getting with all Dad’s nagging? He hadn’t actually said anything, but it wouldn’t be difficult to guess at. He and Joe had been friends ever since primary school, accepting of each other, never probing, just like Paul and Barry. In fact they had all been inseparable, despite the fact that the four of them were very different. “Some friendships stick,” Mum had once said. “For no reason they stick like glue. Attraction of opposites, maybe.”

  Jake had often wanted to confide in Joe, to tell him how he felt about the twins and his parents and the fact that he chose not to compete. But somehow he never did, partly because he suspected that Joe had guessed and already knew what was going on.

  “We’ve got to lick this running business,” Joe had told Jake. “You’ve got it made. You’re a natural.”

  “What running business?” he had asked defensively.

  “You’re losing your cool,” Joe had continued. “It shows. Why don’t we do a bit of training together?”

  Although he was pleased, Jake had only half-heartedly agreed. They were all laid-back with each other, which was essential for self-esteem. Anyway, Jake still had no desire to beat the twins. Whatever he did, they always managed to show him up.

  When Sam and Tom had been born, they had invaded his life, sneaking their way into the family, blotting him out, taking the light, making Jake small and weak and insignificant in the eyes of his parents. He had never even tried to like them. When they were old enough, Tom and Sam fought Jake tooth and nail, pushing him further and further out on to a limb, determined to reduce him to nothing. At least, that’s how Jake saw it, how he’d always seen it. To beat the twins was to join them – and that was the last thing he wanted to do.