Finding Joe

by Anthony Masters

  “What did you tell them?”

  “What happened.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes.” He spoke without expression and Paul wondered if he was telling the truth. Then he reckoned he must be.

  “There’s no point in comparing notes,” said Paul. “I made a statement at the hospital.”

  “They didn’t tell me that.” Joe still spoke without any emotion.

  “I grassed you up.” Paul’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. “You dropped me in it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Joe suddenly sounded contrite. “I panicked.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was pissed.”

  “We both were.”

  There was a silence.

  “You going to meet me or not?”

  Paul prevaricated. “We’re going to be for the high-jump. The stolen car, the booze, the –”

  “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I’ll tell them.”

  “You will?” Paul was amazed.

  “We’re mates, aren’t we? I got you into trouble.”

  “I’m still going to get the big one.”

  “Mitigating circumstances.” Joe sounded soothing. “You’ll get off with probation.”

  “And you?”

  “Boot camp, I expect.”

  Suddenly Paul felt a lessening of his anger. “OK. I’ll meet you.”

  “Up at the lake?” asked Joe.

  “When?”

  “Why not now? Is your mother home?”

  “She’s out shopping,” said Paul.

  “How long’s she going to be?”

  “She’s only just gone.”

  “How long’ve we got?” Joe’s voice was urgent.

  “A couple of hours. I could leave her a note. She’s not going to be pleased, though.”

  “Who is?” asked Joe.

  Walking was painful so Paul tried his bike which, predictably, was even more painful. Nevertheless, as he pedalled down the dual carriageway towards the marsh, with the trucks thundering past him, his knee began to unstiffen, and by the time he reached the lake he hardly noticed the pain.

  Joe was sitting there, his back to him, with his bike lying in the grass. It was half past eleven on a Tuesday morning and there was no one around. Joe started as Paul put down his bike and mumbled his name.

  He was struck by how ill Joe looked. His face was pale and gaunt and there were bags under his eyes.

  “You OK?” asked Paul vacuously.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” He seemed less confident now, and they avoided eye contact.

  “How did your mum take it?” asked Joe.

  “Badly. What about your lot?”

  “Dad’s been told but he hasn’t rung me.”

  “Even over this?”

  “Even over this,” said Joe sourly.

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s gone bananas. I’m on my own.”

  “My mum’s been quite a help really.”

  “Goody gum-drops.” Joe’s voice was hollow.

  “So what are we going to talk about?” asked Paul, sitting down beside him.

  “I’ve made my statement.”

  “So you said.”

  “I wrote down you were just a passenger.”

  “Yeah?” Paul was uneasy. He was suddenly sure that Joe was building up to something.

  “But I’m not going to be in court.”

  “Why the hell not?” Paul froze. Was Joe dropping him in it yet again?

  “I’m not going to any boot camp. I can’t take that.”

  “You’re tough enough,” Paul assured him. “It won’t be for long.”

  “I can’t be locked up so I’m going abroad.”

  “Why?” Paul was confused now.

  “Because that’s where Dad’s gone.”

  “He’s gone abroad?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Where?”

  “France. He’s got a job in a computer company at Lyons. His girlfriend’s gone with him. It’s a fresh start.”

  “Will he want to see you? After all this –” Paul’s voice petered out.

  “I don’t know. It was me who told him to piss off. It was me who hit him.” Joe looked hopefully at Paul. “What do you reckon?”

  “It won’t be easy,” said Paul cautiously.

  “I made him leave home. I’m going to say I’m sorry. It should be all right after that.” He sounded vague.

  “Joe –”

  “Yes?”

  But Paul was silent. He knew Joe was simply lying to himself.

  “So this is goodbye.” Joe sounded incredibly melodramatic. He also sounded as if he had suddenly become ten years old again. Joe was even biting his bottom lip.

  “Suppose your dad doesn’t want you?” asked Paul, getting the words out at last.

  “I’m going to try and make it up to him.”

  “Make what up?”

  “What I did.”

  This isn’t the old Joe – or the new Joe, thought Paul with rising anxiety. It’s a scared kid who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But instead of feeling sorry for him, instead of trying to reach Joe, Paul resorted to anger again.

  “You’re crazy,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll be arrested at the port.”

  “Interpol?” Joe grinned. “For a minor offence?”

  “It’s not a minor offence. Your dad would be horrified you’d done a runner.”

  “He wouldn’t know.”

  “He’d soon find out.”

  There was a hostile silence between them. Then Joe said quietly, “I thought you’d back me up.”

  “Can’t you call your dad?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “You could talk it all through on the phone.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Joe quietly, as if he didn’t want to know anything beyond the script he had written for himself.

  “You can’t do it.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Yeah?”

  “An idiot.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?”

  “France. Don’t you ever listen?”

  They faced each other. “We’re mates,” said Paul. “You’ve got to listen.” He grabbed at Joe’s arm but he shook him off. “You’re dropping me in it again.” Panic swept Paul. Was he doing that, or wasn’t he? He felt totally confused.

  “I’ve cleared you in my statement.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “It’ll have to be.” Joe turned away, but Paul followed, running after him, grabbing his arm again.

  “I won’t let you go,” he yelled.

  “No?”

  “You’re not running out on me. Not any more. Don’t make me do it.”

  “Make you do what?” asked Joe.

  They stood facing each other in the heat. The lake shimmered beside them. A frog croaked.

  Part Six

  The Lake

  Thunder cracked out and suddenly the rain came down in torrents, lashing and penetrating the bivouac. Jake stirred as the downpour began to saturate him and he rolled over, bumping into Paul who sat up, swearing, his head aching. Only Barry slept on, seemingly impervious to his soaking.

  “Look at him,” grumbled Paul. “Sleeping bloody beauty.”

  “You got a hangover?” asked Jake warily.

  “What do you think I’ve got?”

  “You drank too much.”

  “You’re a smug little bastard, aren’t you?” sneered Paul. “I thought you never drank. But you’ve been bloody swilling it down, haven’t you?”

  “Not as much as you have.”

  “Doesn’t Mummy like you drinking grown-up drinks?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Piss off then!”

  “You’re like a bear with a sore head,” la
ughed Jake.

  “And you’re like a monkey, looking for nuts.”

  Finally Barry woke, gazing up in alarm as lightning lit the swollen skies.

  “We could get hit,” Jake yelled at him.

  Barry yawned and stretched, despite the rain. “What by?”

  “Lightning, you idiot!”

  “Better make a move then.” He began to crawl out of the bivouac, kicking Jake as he went, making him howl with pain.

  “Shut up, you wimp,” snapped Paul.

  The morning had not started well.

  “Come on, happy campers,” said Barry who seemed less fragile than the other two who were crouching under a large bush, soaked to the skin and shivering.

  “What’s for breakfast?” asked Paul miserably.

  “I’ve got a bag of biscuits left,” said Barry.

  “What flavour?”

  “Cheese. Nice and salty.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Some carrots.”

  “Carrots?” Paul was obviously deeply depressed. “What the hell did you bring carrots for?”

  There was a long silence as the rain began to lessen.

  “Let’s go home,” said Paul sulkily. “Joe’s not anywhere round here, is he?”

  “We haven’t finished searching.” Jake was doggedly stubborn. “Have we, Barry?”

  “No,” he agreed uncertainly. “I don’t think we have.”

  A wall of silence seemed to deepen around them. All Barry could feel was a sense of impending disaster. If only they could talk – really talk – but no one was prepared to make the first move.

  More lightning flashed.

  “We shouldn’t stand here,” said Jake. “We could still get struck.” The idea seemed to obsess him.

  Barry and Paul told him what he could do with the lightning. Suddenly there was a sharper flash and a creaking sound.

  “There’s a tree going down over there,” said Jake.

  They watched the tall ash slowly begin to topple towards the ground about fifty metres away.

  “See what I mean?”

  The clammy heat returned as they trailed on towards the lake, leaderless and in single file.

  Paul felt dull and lifeless, his head still aching and mouth dry. He had drunk most of what was left of the water and the others hadn’t complained. To Barry, Paul seemed almost to have become an invalid that he and Jake had to look after.

  In fact, Paul felt as if he was in limbo, that they would eternally and apathetically tramp the marsh until they gradually became part of the landscape. He no longer wanted to go home. He no longer wanted to go anywhere.

  Barry, however, felt more determined than ever. They had to find Joe this morning. His discovery seemed to be the only goal he had left in his life. His hatred for Joe was as strong as ever, but he still had to find him for they had set out on an expedition which mustn’t fail. He had prayed a good deal in the night and was hopeful that God would not only hear his prayers but would answer them promptly. Barry remembered that when he was much younger, he had prayed for a bicycle for his birthday and sure enough, on the morning of his eleventh year, Dad had said, “Come down to the garage. I want you to take a look at something.”

  “What?” Barry had asked, the heady anticipation surging, but his father wouldn’t tell him.

  He had followed him outside, still in pyjamas and dressing-gown. The door of the garage had been open and inside stood a gleaming mountain bike in all its glory.

  It was a miracle.

  It was a godsend.

  His prayers had been answered.

  And now all God had to do was to produce another answer to prayer for the second time in Barry’s life. Five years had elapsed since he had prayed for and received the bike. Didn’t God owe him? Or should he be praying, in this case, to the Virgin Mary, or even one of the saints?

  In the back of his mind, however, Barry realized that his religion, his God, was rather more subtle than that. To give and not to count the cost. The command slipped into his head and wouldn’t go away.

  Jake, meanwhile, wet, cold and silent, also felt a sense of purpose that still completely overrode his physical misery. When they found Joe, Dad would say that at last he’d taken some initiative and he heard his father’s voice. “Well done, Jake. You found Joe. You really got stuck in, didn’t you? You haven’t let him down after all.”

  * * *

  The long silent walk continued until Paul suddenly shouted, “Now why didn’t we think of that before?” He was pointing at the old Second World War pillbox, its scarred and moss-covered concrete partly hidden in foliage.

  “How did we forget this dump?” agreed Jake. “We used to play here as kids. Remember?”

  “I’d forgotten,” said Paul.

  “So had I,” confessed Barry.

  “Maybe we forgot what it was like to be kids.” Paul began to run towards the pillbox, yelling Joe’s name.

  “Maybe we forgot lots of things,” muttered Jake as he and Barry began to follow.

  But they didn’t run. They walked slowly.

  “Do you want to find him?” asked Barry.

  “Yes.” Jake was positive. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve –”

  “Prayed for him?”

  “For his soul.”

  “Not for us finding him?”

  “That too,” said Barry hurriedly.

  Paul was peering through one of the slit windows and his whole body was rigid. “Someone’s there,” he whispered as the others came up.

  “Is it him?” asked Jake, his words tumbling over each other. “Is it Joe?”

  Paul didn’t reply and then Barry said quietly, “It is Joe, isn’t it? Is he hurt?”

  “Why should he be hurt?” asked Paul as he continued to stare through the slit.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why ask then?”

  “Let’s have a look,” demanded Jake, trying to push Paul aside.

  “OK.”

  Jake peered through. There was something, someone there, huddled up on a stone seat inside. “Take a look,” he said to Barry.

  When he gazed through Barry could only see a dark shape. “It could be Joe,” he muttered.

  “Let’s go in and see,” said Paul, but no one moved for they seemed frozen in time and space. There was the old Joe, he thought. And there was the new Joe. And there was the in-between Joe he had talked to at the lake. So who was Joe?

  “I don’t want to see him,” said Jake.

  “I do.” Barry was suddenly decisive. “I’ve got things to say.”

  “What things?” asked Jake.

  But Barry didn’t reply.

  “Let’s go,” said Paul, breaking the spell at last.

  The interior of the pillbox smelt of urine and mustiness.

  “There he is,” said Jake.

  Paul and Barry gazed at the sacks piled high on the stone seat. They looked as if they’d been there for years.

  “He’s under the sacks.” Jake sounded on the edge, almost hysterical.

  “Bollocks,” said Paul and he pulled at the stinking mass, sending the sacks sliding to the floor. With the slithering came the rat.

  “Christ!” screamed Jake as the thing scampered towards him, eyes dilated with fear.

  “Holy Mother of God!” gasped Barry, turning and running for the open air.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Paul as he followed him.

  Only Jake and the rat kept each other temporary company, eyes locked in mutual fear. Then Jake stumbled towards the light.

  “That was a nasty moment,” said Barry as they stood in the muggy but now welcoming heat of the marsh.

  “He wouldn’t have slept in that stinking hole.” Paul looked as if he was going to be sick. “Can’t think what we saw in it when we were kids.”

  “We saw things differently then,” said Jake.

  “Like, how different?”

  “We didn’t see things as real. We made them all up.�
��

  “Made up a pillbox?” sneered Paul.

  But Barry only said, “I know what he means. We used to play armies in there. Remember?”

  Jake nodded. “And we used to tell ghost stories.”

  “Did it smell then?” asked Paul.

  “Maybe we didn’t notice.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “What was?” asked Jake.

  “When we played.”

  “We played last night,” Paul reminded him.

  “That wasn’t play,” said Barry.

  “Joe used to make up games,” said Jake.

  “Do you think he made up this one?” asked Paul.

  “You think it’s a game?” Barry was hopeful.

  “I don’t know.” Jake shook his head. “Do you reckon he’s out there – still playing?”

  They gazed at each other, not knowing what to say.

  “Is it a game?” demanded Paul.

  “It’s Joe’s game,” Jake said. “He’s been playing all the time.”

  The heat seemed to be growing more intense.

  “I think games were over a good long time ago.” Paul turned away, his shoulders sagging.

  “Let’s go and look by the lake.” Barry moved ahead, his lips moving. Jake knew he was praying again. Maybe he should tell him to pray for them all.

  They began to move on in single file.

  Eventually they glimpsed the lake as the dull red ball that was the sun broke through the grey aftermath of the storm.

  No one had spoken for the last twenty minutes but tension was building, holding them tight in its grip as they approached the scummy water.

  There was no wind; everything was still. The grass, soaked by the torrential rain, was glistening in the sunlight and the lake was like dirty glass smeared with patches of green algae. Occasionally something small moved in the mulch and they could hear the song of a bird.

  “No sign of him,” said Paul. He sounded impatient. “Let’s go home. I want to have a shower.”

  “I suppose he never was on the marsh,” Barry observed bleakly.

  Jake said nothing, staring out over the lake.

  They could still hear the distant drone of the traffic and a crow flew cawing over their heads, heading for the wood where they had bivouacked last night.

  “Let’s have a closer look,” said Jake, and he began to walk briskly, heading for the far side of the lake without looking back.

  Barry and Paul glanced at each other uneasily.