Magnificent Joe (4 page)

‘Yeah, well.' I look over the water for a few moments. ‘I just felt like being outside for a while. I used to come here when I was little.'

Another long pause, during which she stops and sits on a stump. She looks up at me, actually fixes me with her gaze. ‘Were you reminiscing?'

‘I try not
to.'

She laughs and her smile is wide and bright. ‘We don't see much of
you.'

‘I don't think Geoff considers me house-trained.'

She shifts over and gestures me towards her. ‘Sit down.' The stump is big enough for two and I am careful to leave space between us, but then she reaches out and touches my arm. ‘It would have been easier for you just to tell him, in the long run I mean.'

‘It wasn't the right thing to
do.'

‘But you didn't know that then. You didn't really know
me.'

‘I could just tell.'

‘Thank you, anyway.'

‘You don't need to thank me. You don't owe me anything.'

I look into her face. I always thought her eyes were green, but now I can see that they contain flecks of brown. A gust of wind and a few of the last leaves give up and are carried
away.

‘I'll leave you to it, then,' she
says.

‘Yeah.'

Suddenly, she leans over and kisses me on the forehead – just above my eye, right on my scar – rough and tender at the same time. Then she gets up and walks away, quickly, without another word. Soon she disappears beneath the trees. I feel a vague breath of regret under my sternum; I wonder what it would be like to have someone I could talk to about anything I wanted. Laura is the worst possible choice, though, and anyway, that's all bollocks: a problem shared is a problem doubled.

I kick out at the ground and turn up a stone. I bend down and pick it up. It's muddy, but what does that matter? I straighten my body and aim for the water, then see movement on the other side of the pond: a man, with a rifle and a satchel. He hurries away, but I recognize his walk and his lank black
hair.

‘Steve!'

He doesn't hear me, and I can't catch up with him from here even if I wanted to. The shifty bugger probably couldn't see who I was and decided to scarper for fear of getting caught shooting where he shouldn't. I throw the stone. It hits the water with a satisfying splash.

‌
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Barry was waiting outside the prison just as he'd promised, and when Jim walked over, he opened the car door for
him.

‘All right?'

‘Aye, I'm all right.' Jim paused and looked at Barry, who didn't move but looked straight
back.

‘Get in, then, unless you want to hang about here.'

‘No. No, let's
go.'

When Jim was seated, Barry closed the door on him and walked round to the driver's side. Jim watched him through the windscreen; as he passed, he dragged his fingertips across the bonnet. Then he got in and started the engine.

‘It's not mine. I've borrowed it for the
day.'

‘Right.'

‘We're buying a van, like. For work.'

Jim nodded and looked out of his window. Barry reversed out of the parking space and they drove
off.

When they got onto the dual carriageway, Jim began to take notice of the road signs because they weren't right. They didn't point home, to the village.

‘Are you taking me to Middlesbrough?'

‘Aye.' Barry kept his eyes on the
road.

‘Why?' Jim felt suspicious. If he had allowed himself to imagine anything, this would not have been
it.

Barry smiled thinly. ‘You'll
see.'

‘For fuck's sake, Baz, I've only been out for twenty minutes. Can we not just go to the
pub?'

‘There's plenty of time for that.'

Jim felt uneasy. The heater was on in the car and the air was close. The jeans they had given him didn't fit properly – too tight on the thighs. Barry smelled of aftershave. Jim started to feel carsick.

‘Stop. I'm going to throw
up.'

On the hard shoulder, Barry didn't stay in the car, but got out and stood almost near enough to Jim to have his shoes splashed. Jim disgorged his breakfast in a long stream, and when he was done, he hooked his tongue through his mouth to pick up the pieces of half-digested food and spat them into the grass. Some of the sick was in his nose and he dislodged it with a hard snort; the chunks spidered to the ground in a thread of mucus. Jim watched them fall, then wiped his mouth and stood
up.

The traffic hurtled past them. The air-wash of the trucks was strong and it made the car rock on its suspension. Jim looked around. There was just the road, the embankment, and then, probably, fields.

‘Are you finished?'

‘Yeah. What the fuck are we doing?'

‘Trust
us.'

Barry turned to walk round the car, and Jim shouted after him, ‘But I don't fucking trust
you!'

Barry spun back to Jim and threw his arms out to the side. ‘What else have you got? Are you going to stand here? Are you going to walk home?' Jim couldn't answer. They faced each other, like that, at the side of the road until Barry spoke again, calm this time. ‘Get in the car, man,' and Jim
did.

—

Later, they sat in a café on Linthorpe Road, and Jim could see people everywhere, just doing things: walking, shopping, eating, drinking. Eventually, he had to stare at the Formica tabletop so Barry wouldn't see that his head was spinning. It was the women, mainly. Jim knew that he was supposed to find them attractive, but he wasn't prepared for the colours of their make-up. He thought they looked like Chinese dragons. Nothing had seemed this vivid on his pre-release outings, but now there were no limits.

Jim realized that his right leg was jiggling and he tensed the muscles, clamped his heel to the floor. He wanted to turn over the table, grab Barry by the shoulders, and scream into his face, ‘What are we doing here? Take me home!'
but he knew he had to ride it out, humour Barry, because without him he was stuck: no lift, nowhere to stay. He shredded a napkin.

Food arrived, and tea in a big stainless-steel pot. Barry had ordered them a fry-up each, without even asking Jim what he wanted. Barry tucked in. Jim watched him
chew.

‘Howay, get that down
you.'

Jim sawed off a piece of sausage and put it into his mouth. He held it between his teeth for a few moments before he could work up the will to bite down, but then he got going and it calmed
him.

They were half-way through before Barry spoke again. ‘I'm sorry about your parents.'

Jim shrugged, tried to keep eating.

‘Your mam especially. It wasn't fair.'

‘It was just cancer, Barry. It could have happened to anyone.'

‘Are you angry with your
dad?'

‘For killing himself?'

‘Yeah.'

‘No. He's dead. What's the point? Can I just eat in peace?'

‘Suit yourself.'

The food wasn't going down well now, though, so he pushed the plate away. ‘I can't afford to eat out, Barry. The money they gave me, it's fuck
all.'

‘Don't worry.' Barry looked sly. ‘I'll take it out of your wages.'

‘What wages?'

‘There's loads of work on at the moment. Me and Geoff could do with another pair of hands.'

Jim started to feel the dizzy anger again. He didn't understand what was going on. ‘What?'

‘Well, you'll need a job, and we're your mates. It just makes sense.'

‘Don't fuck me around, Baz. I don't know anything about bricklaying.'

‘You don't have to know anything. We just need a labourer. Think about it. We've got loads of work. You'd be well sorted.' Barry spoke casually, but his eyes were fixed on Jim. Jim stared at the tabletop and pushed grains of salt around with his fingernail. Barry watched for a few seconds and then asked, ‘What else are you going to do for money?'

Jim muttered, ‘I don't know,' and he really didn't. He had no plan at
all.

Barry spread his hands and said, ‘Well then,' as if it was all settled.

Jim looked up and couldn't find any comfort in Barry's smile.

—

Back in the car, Barry chatted at Jim and told him things he already knew from Barry and Geoff's occasional visits – that he didn't have to worry about the Scrutons because they'd moved away, that Martin was with a different crowd now and had no interest in opening old wounds, that Geoff still lived with his parents and was fatter than ever, that Mac ‘the gobshite' was in Spain building hotels, that Barry couldn't understand how the council had buggered up Jim's housing, because no fucker else wanted to live in the village anymore.

‘Thanks for letting me stay with you,' Jim managed to say. ‘They might have kept me in otherwise.'

‘Least I could do. But tread carefully, 'cos wor lass is pregnant and that pisses them
off.'

‘Congratulations.'

Barry just sniffed. ‘Stupid cunt messed up her pills.'

‘Oh.'

‘Never mind. It has to happen sooner or later,' Barry said with a sigh, and fumbled to light a cigarette. He took a couple of heavy drags and wound down the window. ‘Look, have you heard from your uncle?'

‘No. You saw him at mam's funeral. He wouldn't even look at me. Thought it was my fault. You know, that she didn't have the strength to beat
it.'

Barry nodded, thin-lipped. ‘So he didn't tell
you.'

‘Tell me what?'

‘He packed up, Jim. Took his family to live in Australia. They're gone.'

‘Right. I
see.'

So that was it. Jim did not have a single blood relative left to call on. And he saw what Barry had really meant by ‘What else have you got?' Then, as if he were reading Jim's thoughts, Barry said, ‘Don't worry – me and Geoff will look after
you.'

Still Barry did not take Jim home. Instead, they drove deep into a grid of terraced houses just outside the centre of Middlesbrough. ‘You should get yourself a woman: it helps calm you down. You could do with a bit of calming down,' Barry
said.

Jim ignored him. He let his head loll over the back of the car seat and stared at the roof, but then Barry was braking, veering to the right, and winding down the window all at the same time. Jim looked to see. The car drew level with a black man who was walking down the street. Barry took a last, deep drag of his cigarette and flicked it hard out of the window. It hit the man in the side of the face. Barry sped up again and through a cloud of smoke said, ‘Fucking niggers. We're being over-run.'

Jim scrambled to look out of the rear screen; the man was staring after them, with his hand to his face. Then they turned a corner, and Jim slid back into his seat. ‘Are you trying to get me sent down again?'

‘Relax.'

‘Don't fucking tell me to relax. Where are we going?'

‘You've never had sex before, have
you?'

Jim twisted in his seat. ‘Are you looking for a smack in the mouth?'

‘All right, all right. I'm just making conversation.'

‘I don't want a fucking conversation.'

‘Aye, I can see that. Anyway, we're here.' Barry pulled over and turned off the ignition.

It was just a narrow, terraced street, identical to the ones they'd been driving through. Some of the houses were boarded up, others were obviously lived in, and the rest fell somewhere in between. Here and there the road revealed great patches of cobbles where the tarmac had broken up. The lamppost at the corner listed dangerously, and about four feet up it in white marker someone had scrawled,
‘NF.'

‘This is a fucking shithole. Why are we here?'

‘She's waiting for you,' said Barry.

‘Who?'

‘In there.' Barry nodded at the house they were parked outside. The paint on the door was blistered; the brown curtains were drawn; the downstairs window was broken at the corner and patched with cardboard and electrician's
tape.

Jim felt the sickness return, and with it realization. ‘Have you paid a prostitute?'

Barry smiled. ‘No money has changed hands. I've just called in a favour.'

‘I'm not doing this.'

‘Don't be stupid. Every man needs to fuck and you've waited longer than most.'

Jim was still and silent for a moment. He thought of the women on the street and in the café, the hairspray and eye shadow, and the plump waitress with her top buttons undone and her tits cupped in a red bra. Then he scrambled for his seatbelt. ‘Fine, I'll do it. Satisfied?'

‘Good lad.' Barry grabbed Jim's arm. ‘Look, you're not going to regret this, take it from me. Don't let the state of the house put you off – she's a good-looking young lass.'

Jim could tell that Barry wasn't lying about this, at least, so he just nodded and got out of the car. He stood on the pavement for a little while and breathed fresh air until he heard Barry's muffled voice behind him. ‘Go in!' Jim walked to the door and opened
it.

There was darkness and a strong odour of damp. Jim saw that he was at the bottom of a staircase and that there was a door immediately to his left. It was very quiet. He went through the door and found himself in what might have been a living room. There was a little more light there. It came through the curtains, and from inside Jim could see that they were made of sacking. At the back of the room was another doorway, slightly ajar. The only furniture was a broken-down sofa covered with a twisted heap of blankets.

‘Is that him?' a man's voice came from the room behind the door. He sounded sharp and angry. Jim lifted his hands, ready to make fists.

‘What?' A low voice was there in the room with him. Then movement, and what Jim had thought were just blankets on the sofa resolved themselves into a person. Jim could only see half her face, the other half was covered by her hair. She squinted at him for a few moments, and then whatever fear or curiosity had motivated her to move seemed to slide away and she sank back into the cushions without saying another
word.

‘Ignore them. You're looking for me.' Another voice.

Jim turned round. It was a young woman. She wore a thin dressing gown. She had blonde hair and was barefoot. Jim had never seen a prostitute before, and despite what Barry had said, he'd expected someone older. He didn't know what to do, or even how to speak to
her.

‘Follow me.' It didn't occur to Jim not to obey her, and she led him upstairs and into a bedroom. It was fresher and lighter than downstairs. The sheets looked almost clean.

‘Sit down and get ready. I'll be back in a minute.' Then she disappeared, closed the door behind
her.

Jim was alone in the room. He sat on the edge of the bed. What did ‘get ready' mean? He thumped his leg. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.'

After a few minutes, she came back, raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Are you going to get undressed?'

There was nothing to say, so he did it. Then she dropped her dressing gown and she was naked. She climbed onto the bed with him. Jim grabbed a fistful of sheets. Her hands were very
cold.

—

‘Jesus Christ!' Barry tapped the clock on the dashboard. ‘I expected you to be in and out within ten minutes. What the fuck did you do to
her?'

Jim shrugged.

‘You didn't ask her to talk, did
you?'

‘No.'

‘Good. How do you feel?'

‘Just drive, would
you.'

‘Suit yourself.'

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Barry punched Jim on the shoulder. ‘You're not feeling guilty, are you? You'd better not have caught fucking religion.'

‘Of course I haven't.'

‘Well then, smile, you twat. You're a man
now.'