Finding Joe

by Anthony Masters

  “That’s stupid and dangerous,” Barry had said immediately. “There’s even a warning on the bags.”

  Joe had been gazing down at the litter on the ground below them. “There’s a useful looking one,” he had said cheerfully. “I think it’s even got your warning. Do you fancy poking your head into someone else’s plastic bag?”

  “No way,” Barry had said firmly.

  “We could have a competition. See how long we can breathe.”

  “No chance. Count me out.”

  “What’s your problem?” Joe had snapped. “You can always pull the thing off your head.”

  “You got a death wish?” Barry had been surprised and shocked. Joe had never shown him this dark side before.

  “I want to know what it’s like to be near death,” Joe had said abruptly and even more unexpectedly.

  “Don’t you like life?” Barry had only been half joking.

  “If it’s challenging.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Barry had said slowly.

  “Is there?” Joe had seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “Home. Your parents.”

  “Yes.” He had sounded curiously wooden. “They’re great.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You love them, don’t you? They love you.”

  “They’re always rowing,” Joe had muttered, and Barry had been shaken again. Joe had never spoken to him like this before. Why was he doing it now?

  “What does Debbie think?”

  “How do I know?”

  “She’s your sister.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re lucky to have fathers,” Barry had said, conscious of moralizing. “Paul hasn’t got one.”

  “Mine’s always out.”

  “I thought you two were close.”

  “We are. When he’s around.”

  “And your Mum?”

  But Joe hadn’t replied. Instead, he had hurriedly changed the subject and from that day to this Joe had never spoken to Barry about his family again.

  “Of course your lot breed like rabbits.”

  “What lot?”

  “You lot.” Joe had grinned to take the sting out of what he had just said, and Barry had struggled not to take offence. “And you’ve got God on your side as well.”

  “He’s not on anyone’s side.”

  “He’s certainly not on mine.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He wouldn’t let things happen.”

  “What things?”

  But Joe had easily resisted the probe. “Now – are you going to put your head in that plastic bag, or not?”

  “I’m not.”

  Joe had sighed. “Not worth me bothering then,” he had said. “It’s no fun on your own.”

  As he remained in hiding, Barry remembered another talk he had had with Joe about ten days ago, before he had found out about Roz.

  They had been walking towards the park, skateboards under their arms, when Joe had asked, “What about bunking off for a bit?”

  “School?”

  “And home.”

  “Where?”

  “We could go to France.”

  Oddly enough, Barry had never heard him speak with such authority on the subject before, and for a moment he wondered if the travel-fantasy game had been played out – and Joe had set his sights on something real.

  To Barry, however, the modified plan still seemed immensely dangerous. “We don’t speak the lingo.”

  “So what? How much money you got saved up?”

  “Couple of hundred.”

  “What for?”

  “The bike of course.”

  “So why don’t you blow it on France? You can always go back to that job of yours at Tesco.”

  “How long would we be away?”

  “Till the money runs out. Maybe we could get some work out there.”

  The conversation had petered out and wasn’t referred to again, but it had been the nearest they had come to a decision. Later, when he had found out about Roz, Barry wondered whether Joe had been trying to stop himself seeing her, maybe trying to prevent both of them plunging into despair.

  But that was only a theory.

  Barry glanced down at his watch again. He had a few minutes to go until his deadline ran out, and because the time was so short he allowed himself the painful task of remembering the unbelievable conversation he had had with Roz only a few days ago. He had not seen Joe to speak to after that, which was lucky for Barry would have liked to kill him. He had never felt such anger and loathing and pain – all mixed into one powerful hatred.

  Roz wasn’t a Catholic and that in itself had given Barry a sense of freedom, a real breath of fresh air.

  Barry had met Roz at school and they had been going out together for a long time. She was purposeful and decisive, determined to have a career outside the East End, despite the fact that her parents were as deeply rooted in the neighbourhood as Barry’s. Roz wanted to go to university. She wanted to be some kind of scientist. At first this had seemed safely in a distant future, but as the actuality approached Barry became increasingly uneasy. The word “university” became a distinct threat so he deliberately began to live for the day, and the days had seemed endless until last week when Roz had phoned Barry and asked him to meet her in Belini’s, the ice-cream parlour in the high street.

  He hadn’t felt any apprehension, even when he had seen her pale tense face against the gleaming red and white tiles. Barry had imagined Roz was anxious about her exams and wanted to talk. She had often done this in the past, needing a sounding board, running over her strategies and course work deadlines while he listened, clearing her frazzled mind with his stoic support.

  “You’re such opposites,” his mother had told them, and Roz had politely retorted, “That’s why we get on so well, Mrs James.” Later, Barry remembered it was also the reason why he and Joe and Jake and Paul had got on so well. That was the irony.

  Barry had always been deeply proud of the way Roz had always handled Mum, who was so overworked and weighed down with family responsibility that Barry had always felt taken for granted, just another member of a good Catholic family. Roz was someone who loved him on the outside, beyond his religion and the kind of life that it dictated. God, cloaked and mysterious, sitting in on cloud nine behind the pearly gates, would judge whether Barry was fit to enter heaven, an entry he often thought might be a potentially boring experience.

  What would he be expected to do in heaven, Barry had wondered when he was younger. Would there be any games to play, or would he be expected to sit around on his best behaviour for eternity? As Barry had grown older, however, his childish view of God had grown dimmer and yet nothing definite had taken its place. He still had to go to Mass every Sunday, though, and if he tried to get out of it there would always be a row.

  Mum sang in the choir, Dad read from the bible, Barry and his brother and sisters served the priest at the altar. But was there an after-life? Increasingly, he wondered if there was nothing at all and they were all indulging in some kind of useless ritual, play-acting, pretending there was a God. With Roz, who said she didn’t believe and never had, Barry felt he had identity and a feeling of freedom.

  Roz had already bought the particular ice-cream sundaes they liked, peach smothered in chocolate sauce. She was tall and slender, with dark swept-back hair and big eyes that usually looked searchingly into his, but this time they were blank, walled in, a barrier to her thoughts.

  A slightly cracked warning bell tolled in Barry’s mind, making the same sound as the bells of his own church, Christ the King. Could God be about to propel a thunderbolt in his direction?

  “About the exams?” asked Barry.

  There was a fractional pause. Then Roz shook her head. “About us.”

  For a moment, Barry imagined the familiar interior of the ice-cream parlour suddenly covered in huge and ever widening cracks.

  “What about
us?”

  “I wanted to tell you a few days ago, but maybe I still wasn’t sure.”

  “Sure of what?” A great hollow pit was opening up inside him. The cracked warning bell began to resound so loudly Barry could hardly hear what Roz was saying.

  “Of how I felt.”

  “I don’t get you,” he said determinedly.

  “I’ve met someone else. I’m sorry to build up to it. It was difficult to tell you.” She coughed and pushed her sundae away, taking a sip from an iced Coke.

  “I don’t get you,” Barry repeated, clinging on to ignorance and misunderstanding as a method of defence.

  “I’ve met someone else.” She spoke softly, for once looking away from him, staring ahead at the queue of customers by the counter.

  “You’ve met someone else,” he repeated like an automaton.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” Barry still didn’t believe what Roz was saying.

  “You know him.”

  “I do?”

  “Really well.” Her voice broke and there were tears in her eyes, making her look like a big china doll. Of course it was a game, Barry told himself. A guessing game that was going to end in a joke and soon they would both be laughing uproariously.

  “Who?”

  “I –”

  “You’ve got to tell me.” The joke was turning sour.

  “Joe.”

  “Who?” Barry stared at her uncomprehendingly, unable to take the name in, to associate Joe with her. Why, they had only met a couple of times, although they would have passed each other continuously in the school corridors.

  “Joe.” Roz gave a loud sob and then looked round awkwardly at the other customers, some of whom had noticed and were beginning to listen.

  “Joe,” he repeated, not caring who was listening.

  “We’ve been seeing each other. We met at –”

  “At my house.”

  “That was ages ago,” she said impatiently. “It didn’t start then.”

  “When did it start?” Barry asked, his voice a monotone, the slow, dull, horrific realization creeping over him at last, his stomach full of ice, the cracked warning bell still tolling.

  “We – we started to talk at school. Before the end of term.” She paused.

  “And then?”

  “We met – in his back garden.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a shed.”

  “You met him in a shed?”

  “In secret.”

  “In the shed?” Barry knew the conversation was becoming ridiculous. But what Roz was saying wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Where was the joke? When was it coming? When would he understand there was nothing to worry about and start laughing?

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Roz.

  “No?”

  “It’s just – we clicked.”

  “Clicked?” The word sounded as if she and Joe were two clockwork toys that had got inextricably locked together. Click, clock. Tick, tock. A clockwork mouse ran down the clock – slowly his shock turned to despair. “This can’t be true.”

  “It is, Barry.” She was firm now.

  “We’ve got too much going for us.” The desperation surged and he felt sick, burning hot as if he had a fever.

  “It wouldn’t have lasted.”

  “Why not?”

  “University –”

  “Then it won’t last with Joe.”

  “Why not?” Roz asked, almost innocently. “He’s keen to go. His grades are good.”

  “He never told me he was going to university.”

  “He’s only just made up his mind.”

  “What will he study?” Barry pushed his sundae away and began to play with the little mat underneath.

  “Geography.”

  “He’s no good at that.” His voice was wooden.

  “You don’t know him. He’s hoping for Manchester.”

  “That’s where you’re going.”

  “Yes.” She looked away again, this time studying the floor while Barry twirled his mat. “That’s right.”

  They were strangers, he thought. Joe and Roz. He didn’t know them, couldn’t ever have known them.

  “The bastard –” The anger suddenly appeared as a relief, like sunlight after heavy rain. He had something to do. Barry was no longer just a victim, taken aback by shock, in confusion, unable to cope. “I’ll fucking kill him.” Barry half rose and then sat down again.

  When Joe had suggested the plastic-bag contest all those years ago, why hadn’t he put the bag over his own head? Since that remote day at Belini’s Barry had had dreams about Joe struggling to get the plastic bag off his head – while Barry struggled to keep it on.

  “Don’t make a scene,” Roz implored him.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “I can’t take what you’ve done. Like, what he’s made you do.”

  “It was my decision. Look, Barry, Joe didn’t steal me away from you.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “He didn’t. We weren’t going anywhere. I wanted out. Joe came along at the right time, that’s all.”

  “I know Joe.” Barry’s voice was quiet and venomous. “He’s convincing. But actually he’s nothing at all. He only wants a challenge.” He paused and then began to gabble. “You’re the challenge. There’s nothing at home for him. His dad’s gone.” Barry was dredging away, grabbing at past and present.

  In his mind, Joe passed him a plastic bag. Put it on again, he said.

  “I know his dad’s gone,” she said.

  “He’s not coming back. He’s screwing around. Always has been.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this. Us. Him and me.”

  “You’re just sorry for him.”

  “No! I love him.”

  “You love me.” The adrenalin surged in Barry’s bloodstream.

  “I know it’s come as a terrible shock.”

  Barry grabbed her glass of peach and chocolate sundae.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she begged, suddenly afraid, gazing round, watching the people looking at her. At them. But Barry didn’t notice anyone.

  “I’m not going to,” he reassured her.

  “Don’t throw it over me.”

  “I’m not going to,” Barry repeated as he stood up and threw the sundae on to the floor, the glass smashing and the contents spreading in a sticky ooze over the marbled lino. Then he did the same with his own. He looked down at the mess with considerable satisfaction. “We had something.”

  The ice-cream parlour was hushed, all heads turned to watch the drama.

  “Yes. We did,” she whispered shakily, her hands trembling on the table.

  “Where is it now?” Barry’s voice was cold and analytical.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s nothing left?”

  Roz shook her head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Joe’s taken over. Shall I tell you why?”

  The assistants behind the counter were staring at Barry and Roz as if they were unable to move, to intervene, to do anything at all. Meanwhile, the audience, the customers, were still riveted.

  “He’s lost his dad,” Barry repeated. “He wants to hurt. Hurt me and you. You’re a challenge. That’s all. He’s sick. It won’t last.”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” Roz said quietly.

  “Sure,” said Barry, another burst of rage bubbling up inside him.

  The manager had been called and was bustling over while the customers were still enjoying the drama, yet half afraid they’d get involved. He stood by Barry’s side, large and out of condition, with a pencil moustache that for some bizarre reason gave his jowly features a passing resemblance to Adolf Hitler.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, hands on hips, attempting belligerence, betraying his bad nerves.

  “Not a lot,” said Barry. He opened his
wallet and pulled out a ten pound note. “That should cover it.”

  “No chance.”

  “Bad luck. I haven’t got any more money.”

  “Then I’ll have to detain you.” The manager advanced nervously on him.

  “It’s all right,” said Roz. “I can pay.”

  “It’ll cost you at least another twenty quid,” said the manager too glibly.

  “I’ve got that,” she added hurriedly.

  “You’re not paying anything,” said Barry.

  “She shouldn’t be paying,” said the manager. “You did the damage.”

  But Barry had changed his mind. “You’re dead right. But she owes me.”

  “Owes you what?”

  “Two years,” he said. “It feels like a lifetime.”

  Roz began to cry and there were muttered comments from the rest of the customers, disapproving, but still anxious not to get involved.

  “It’s disgraceful,” whispered a middle-aged woman, one of a pair sitting at a nearby table. “The age of chivalry is certainly dead.”

  “Absolutely outrageous,” agreed her companion, looking at the manager, boldly speaking up for the first time. “Why don’t you call the police?”

  “Because the young lady is paying for the damage,” he explained firmly.

  “Disgraceful,” said the first woman again, more loudly this time.

  “I’m paying for it willingly,” Roz pointed out, the tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “Well.” Barry put his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. “Bye for now, everybody. The show’s over. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  He sauntered out of the ice-cream parlour, still trying to look as casual as possible.

  Then he abruptly turned back, opened the door again and yelled, “You’re a bunch of pillocks. What are you? A bunch of pillocks.”

  The pillocks stared back warily while Roz wept in the manager’s arms.

  As he walked out, Barry’s eyes were also full of tears, but they were tears of rage and grief. The last place he wanted to go was home.

  Then he realized he was instinctively walking in a certain direction, heading towards Christ the King, rage building like a great hard lump inside him.

  The church was on the next street, always open, always ready to give shelter. Usually there were at least half-a-dozen old winos inside, and when Barry entered the gloomy but stately Victorian double doors he could see them sitting in the semi-darkness, emitting a strong stench of urine and alcohol.