Magnificent Joe (10 page)

I think Barry's scowl is going to stick to his face and stay there for ever. They'll cremate him like that and it'll be a closed-coffin job, because once he stops breathing, nobody will want to look at him again.

‘That fucking Mac, thinks he's the fucking crown prince.'

We've had this for days: every time the three of us have the cabin to ourselves, out it comes. It's nine thirty and Barry hasn't even changed into his boots yet. He kicks out at one of them and it skitters across the floor, coming to rest next to me. I kick it
back.

‘He's all right is our Mac,' says Geoff. ‘He's got a big gob, but a big heart
too.'

‘He's arrogant, that's what he is. Arrogant.' Barry drags hard at the last of his fag, drops it onto the floor of the cabin, and grinds it into a black smear under the heel of his trainer.

I've had enough of this. I finish my tea and walk outside. It's freezing. November brought an early frost, and now it's almost cold enough to justify downing tools, but Mac negotiated a completion bonus with the main contractor, so his lads keep at it. Barry won't be shown up, so we're here too. The difference is that they're actually working, while we are sat on our arses.

I mount the ladder and haul myself to the second tier of scaffolding that runs along the section we're to work on today. This side of the building is in shadow, and dew is frozen in the folds of the hessian that protects the blockwork. I'm about to pull it back so that I can see where new stacks are needed when Mac rounds the corner and says, ‘Morning.'

‘Morning, Mac.' My breath clouds.

‘Are them two coming out to play or what?'

‘Give 'em time. They have a unique conception of what constitutes a working
day.'

‘Has Barry mentioned the other night?'

‘No. I think he suspects something, though.'

‘Miserable bastard. Why the fuck are you still working for him anyway?'

‘It's not really for him, is it? We're old mates; it's just the way it's worked
out.'

‘Doesn't mean it has to stay that fucking
way.'

‘We've been the same crew almost our whole working lives, man. Anyway, it's Geoff I feel sorry for – he has to stand next to the bastard all
day.'

‘I'm not fucking worried about Geoff.'

‘Well, don't worry about me either. Shouldn't you be sat in an office somewhere?'

Mac laughs. ‘I couldn't sit down in my office even if I wanted to: it's an absolute pigsty.'

‘I bet it's a damn sight warmer than out here.'

‘Bollocks to the weather. I'll lead from the front. That's why my buggers are out here working, while your buggers are indoors.'

‘You've got some cheek, you know. You've been gone for years.'

‘You knew where to find me. You've hardly ever called. You could work with me, you know. I'd fucking pay you more for a start.'

‘Mac, don't rock the boat. You haven't been here. You don't know what's happened. There are other things I've got to consider.'

‘Like what?'

There is nothing I can tell him. Then I see the top of the ladder shift and Barry emerges over the edge of the platform. He looks sour, but I can't tell if that's because he heard anything or just because Mac's
here.

‘All right, Baz?' Mac asks with a smile.

‘Aye,' Barry mutters, and then looks at me. ‘Are you going to bring up some fucking muck or what?'

I'm quiet for a moment; even Barry doesn't usually talk to me like
that.

‘There's a tub of it right behind you,' Mac observes calmly. He's right: there is. A full tub, sat on a pallet. If I gave Barry the merest shove, he'd land in it arse-first.

Barry gives it a cursory glance. ‘That'll be
old.'

‘Actually, it's fresh. I was on the teleloader anyway, so I sent it up for you, and a pack of blocks. You can say thanks if you like.' Mac puts his hands on his hips. Barry stares at him. Mac stares
back.

‘Thanks.'

‘You're welcome, son.' Mac claps his hands together and rubs them briskly. ‘Right, I'd best get on with some work.'

Barry watches Mac until he disappears round the corner of the building and then nods at the pack of blocks. ‘They're a bit close to the edge, like.'

‘Never mind, we'll soon use them
all.'

‘Not at the speed Geoff's moving. He's on his third cup of tea and he hasn't even put his boots on.' Barry picks up his float and trowel, and knocks them together to clear the crust. ‘Lazy bastard.' He stands there for a moment and stares at the blocks as if he's steeling himself to start work, but then snorts, ‘Fuck it,' sits down on top of the wall and lights a cigarette.

He smokes in silence and I don't know what to do, so I just watch. Eventually, he looks up at me. ‘Was Mac giving you earache, then?'

‘No, just chatting, you know.' I scratch the back of my
head.

‘He's full of shit,
him.'

‘Aye, well, he must be doing something right.' I don't want to stand here and have this conversation with Barry. ‘I'm fucking freezing. I'm going to start work.'

‘Suit yourself.'

—

Eventually, Geoff drags himself out of the cabin and our collective mood improves somewhat. Cold gives you a hardship in common – unlike rain, which just locks you into a personal misery – and soon even Barry is laughing at the odd joke here and there. We fall into a rhythm of work, until I feel the first edge of late-morning hunger and somehow the soggy sandwiches in my bag become a tempting prospect.

‘I'm getting hungry. I think I'll go
in.'

‘Righto. We'll be along in a minute. Put the kettle
on.'

I clamber down the ladder and begin to trudge to the cabin when Mac spots me from inside the ground floor of the building.

‘You all right?' he calls through the window opening.

‘Aye, just going for me bait.'

‘Anything nice?'

‘Potted beef.'

‘Classy.'

‘Oh right, because I suppose you've got smoked salmon,
eh?'

Someone starts the engine of the teleloader, so I don't catch Mac's response, but I think it involved the words ‘cheeky bastard'. I give him a wave and head in, and behind me I hear the teleloader's reverse pips. I have my hand on the door handle when there's a loud crash and the pips abruptly stop. That doesn't sound good. I turn round and look back towards the building, but can't immediately work out what happened. All I can see is the teleloader, which is stopped roughly where I was standing when I spoke to Mac. Then I notice Barry and Geoff, still on the second level, peering over the edge. Something is going on. I climb up the steps of the cabin to get a better view, and it dawns on me: the idiot driver reversed into the scaffolding. Thankfully, Barry and Geoff were working three bays along or they might have been knocked
off.

I trot over, and as I get closer, I see that two standards have been knocked out entirely. The boards above wobble and twist. Then I see Mac; he's at the window again, and cranes out to see what's happening. He shouts, but I can't hear it, because the engine of the teleloader is still running. I can see the guy in the cab just sat there like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. Mac starts to climb through the window and I'm suddenly flooded with fear, because I can see exactly what's about to happen.

‘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.

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.