Afterwards (25 page)

He didn’t get Alice either. Why did she have to keep on at it, make it the one thing that counts? If I’m going to know you, there’s this one thing I have to know. Joseph didn’t think it had to work that way.

The closest he’d ever come to telling was with a girlfriend once, and he thought about her again, in the days after he got the old man’s letter and there was
nothing from Alice. He didn’t like it at first: it felt disloyal to be thinking about someone else. She was called Julie, but then Joseph didn’t think he was remembering her so much: it was more about the way it had happened, and why he’d come nearer that time than he had with Alice.

She was his ex by then, a year it had lasted with her, give or take. He’d moved into her flat over the winter: a few clothes left there first, a toothbrush, CDs, and then his friends started phoning him at her place. They never really talked about what was going on between them, but Joseph started paying half the rent in March. He told her he loved her, because he did. His mum was pleased and he thought Julie was as well.

In the summer she told him she didn’t like it. That he was so quiet sometimes. She said it bothered her that he went days, weeks it felt like, without talking. Breakfasts together, dinners eaten, whole evenings spent on the sofa and no how are you love, what’s been happening, did you see, no nothing.

– Like you’re not there. Or I may as well not be.

They were out the back of the pub on the benches when she said that, and it was a bright evening, sunset behind the estate, yellow in the trees. Pints on the table and a bag of crisps split open between them. Julie cried and it threw him: they’d never had a row before, and he wasn’t sure that’s what they were doing now, or what was happening. Her make-up ran and Joseph went inside for some toilet roll, chest tight and head gone blank, he didn’t know what to be thinking. Said he was sorry when he came out and he put his arms around her.

Didn’t know what he was sorry for, not really. Shocked him, never thought she was unhappy, didn’t know he was like that.

Joseph had met her a few months after he left the army. She started coming to the snooker club, the sister of a girlfriend of someone he’d been to school with. Her family didn’t live on the estate, but she grew up in the high flats, just a few streets away, and Joseph knew her cousins too, worked with one of them before he joined up. He slept with her a few times and that was good, and then he started looking forward to her being there, mostly it was Thursday nights. She was seeing someone else, Malky told him, and then a week or two later he said she wasn’t any more. Julie never said anything, it just worked out that way: no discussion, no embarrassing asking, just time passing and then they were a couple.

Joseph was living at his mum and dad’s then, and he’d started paying back what Eve had lent him. His parents went out together on Friday nights and Julie came to see him, stayed over whole weekends after a while. Joseph would go out with his dad and play a few games of snooker, and Julie would stay in and watch Saturday telly with his mum. Packet of biscuits open, their feet pulled up into the easy chairs, he’d hear them chatting as he went out the door and down the road.

Joseph came home with bottles of lager, and after his mum and dad had gone to bed Julie would pull her knickers off, smiling, and they’d lie down on the sofa. Or sometimes it’d be the kitchen, or sometimes she wanted the cold tiles in the back bathroom. Her feet wedged up against the washing machine and her eyes closing, lashes
flickering: small tits, pink-red nipples, soft belly, hard arms and legs all pushing and pulling. Her mouth was the best thing, thin lips, wet teeth, cool tongue. They’d share a fag and a bottle and then that mouth would be smiling again, pressing and nipping him on.

She worked for the gas board and their office was on the industrial estate. Rented a flat ten minutes up the road from his mum and dad’s place. If he went there after work she’d take his painting clothes off at the door and run him a bath. She’d scrub his arms and hands, and then they’d get into bed, and afterwards Julie lay between his legs and talked to him. About things she read in the paper, what her boss said, who her sister went out with the day before. Her hair spread across his chest and he loved it, listening to her but not listening while the evening passed and she was talking. Joseph thought this was getting settled, thought they were happy. Didn’t know it was starting, even then.

– I never know what to do when you’re like that, Joey. What am I supposed to do?

The sun had gone down and they were still outside, first pints finished, more bought, the spilled tops of them spreading out across the table. He loved her and put his fingers in the wet and drew lines while she called him moody, said it was impossible sometimes to know what he was thinking, and it drove her mad being the one who had to do the asking all the time. He said he didn’t know what she meant and she said:

– See, see? That’s exactly it. I’m asking you, I’m asking you now and you’re not telling nothing.

They argued a lot that summer. Still sleeping together, and that was still good, but then she stopped wanting that in the autumn.

– Just a substitute. Fucking for talking. No good having one without the other.

And he hated it when she said things like that because it wasn’t the way he felt about it, about her. Nowhere near. Not something he did to fill in the gaps, it was just what he wanted to do to her, with her. It was what he thought about when he thought about her, which felt like most of the time. Days at work he’d want to be crying, remembering how she used to unzip her skirt and be looking at him, smiling.

Julie asked him to leave and he didn’t, so then she told him to go. He got a room at a mate’s place to tide him over and he’d still see her sometimes at the pub, or the snooker club. Once or twice she slept with him again, but they always ended up crying. And then she started seeing someone else: Malky told him. Joseph saw them together a few weeks later and embarrassed her, shouting. In the middle of her street on a Saturday morning and all the neighbours standing at their windows, watching.

What was he supposed to tell her? What did she want? Joseph remembered being on edge the whole time, after she started asking. They grew up in the same place, knew all the same people, he thought there was only one thing he’d never told her, and he was sure she wouldn’t want to hear that, not really. It wasn’t just the problem of where to start, or how to explain. There was just no way of telling what she would do or feel or think after he
said it, after she knew. Not likely to be the end of it, was it? Wouldn’t solve anything. Just the beginning of a whole new set of problems.

Joseph went round to her flat again, about a year later. He’d been gone a few months, and he could see from her face she’d heard from someone: that he was losing it these days and living back at his mum and dad’s, sponging off his sister. Julie was alone and when he said he wanted to talk to her, he saw the way she rolled her eyes and he thought he’d do it now, give her a proper shock and she’d be sorry for asking. He sat down in her kitchen that had been his once too, and then he started to tell her about the road block and checking the cars through. About who else was there that day, the other men in the multiple. It was all coming out, all the words, and she was listening, and he really thought he might say it, and even thinking that made him start crying.

Julie was crying too, standing there across the room from him with her fingers wiping at her eyes, even though he’d told her nothing yet, hadn’t even got halfway through.

It was too much then. Gone from being nothing to too much in seconds.

But Joseph kept on talking: he’d started now, it was too late, and so he finished his story. But that’s all it was, because the way he told her, it was Townsend who fired the rifle, and he was just one of the men who saw him do it.

– What you crying for?

– Because you are.

But Joseph wasn’t any more, he just felt worn out. Julie didn’t want him to go but he left anyway, because he thought she might take her clothes off or say she was sorry or something and he didn’t want any of that to be happening. Thought it’d be just like the last time he saw her: bed first and then more crying.

Tears and remorse
. Joseph thought that’s what Julie had wanted. Couldn’t give them to her, and he was glad he hadn’t. He was sorry for the way he’d treated her, but he didn’t want to howl in front of her about what he’d done in Ireland.
Why? Cry long enough and loud enough and you’ll be a better person for it? Better than the man you were, when you dropped the bombs or fired the bullet?
Joseph didn’t believe in that.
Just a way to get yourself off the hook.
Didn’t think it worked either.
Look at David: years of it, over and over, until you’re an old man and you’re still no closer to an easy conscience.

He hadn’t planned to lie to Julie. He’d gone there to frighten her maybe. Tell her and then ask her, what the fuck do we do now then, now I’ve done the talking? But he wasn’t proud of the way he’d reacted that day, and he didn’t want to do that with Alice. Had no wish to scare her, didn’t want any shouting either, no anger, never wanted to get angry with her. He just didn’t want to tell her.

All the questions Alice asked her grandad, and him too now. That’s what she wanted, or thought she did maybe: for him to squeeze it all out, every last guilty drop. Prove it to me, just how sorry you are. Should have asked her gran, the old girl could have told her: there’s no end to it, it’s just self-pity, and it just goes on and on.

You think about it and think about it, you do nothing else. Only remember, and then you let yourself stop.
Not overnight and never completely, but that was the way it happened, and Joseph couldn’t see that as wrong.

If it’s not going to help. If you’re never going to change it. Why touch the sore part any more than you have to?

Alice didn’t know how to describe it. Whether she was angry or frightened, or both. All her grandfather would say was not to be hard on Joseph, nothing more. It didn’t seem to matter how often she or her mother asked him what Joseph had done and why.

Her mum called her, every couple of days, and in every conversation, Alice said the same thing.

– I can’t just do nothing.

She worked and cycled and shopped and cleaned and cooked. Couldn’t phone him or go and see him. Her mouth felt stopped up, throat blocked. She was hurt: cut out.
Useless too. Weak, just wasting time
. She had no idea what Joseph was thinking or feeling, where he was or if he was alright. Alice knew she was out of her depth. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and thought over and again how she couldn’t just leave it, not like this.

– I don’t know what to do.

Her mum suggested his parents, going to talk to them, but Alice still wasn’t sure. She thought Eve would be better: Joseph saw more of her, she might be able to tell Alice more, but it still took her days to make the decision. Eve had always been wary of her, and if she was
honest, Alice was afraid how she might react. Didn’t know what Joseph might have told her about the past weeks. She wasn’t in the phone book under Mason and Alice didn’t know her address, but she knew the name of her business, Joseph had talked about it a few times, and so she looked it up in the Yellow Pages.

– He’s alright. Getting there.

Eve wasn’t very forthcoming at first.

– He’s living at ours mostly, but he goes home a bit too. Stays overnight.

– Your mum and dad’s house?

– No, his flat.

Alice didn’t want to hang up, just give up on Eve, but she didn’t want to talk like this, on the phone: too easy for Joseph’s sister to keep fending her off. Almost as practised as Joseph was. She was surprised when Eve agreed to see her. Two days later, at lunchtime, the office was in a railway arch, not far from the hospital. Eve ran stalls on markets and Alice knew she didn’t have a shop, but had never thought where she might work from before. She wheeled her bike along the concrete path that led off the road, through the high gates, past the car wash and the lock-ups, and found Eve hosing down the floor. Torn leaves and pollen swimming in the gutters outside the big double doors. It was a cold day, and not much warmer inside. Eve apologised for that: it was the first thing she said, told Alice she had to keep it cold in there because of the flowers. She was thick with layers, long woollen socks pulled up to cover her legs, old mittens with the fingers and thumbs chopped off. Eve smiled.

– You won’t want me to take your coat.

In the far corner there was a sink and a fridge and a kettle. Eve filled it up and rinsed two mugs, kept her back turned and Alice thought she was taking her time. A long table stood against the wall on her left, and at the near end were two folding chairs: open and ready, it looked like. Alice leaned her bike up against the doors and sat down.

The room was vast, the ceiling high above their heads: curved brick and damp, whitewash peeling. The whole place smelt green with sap, although Alice couldn’t see many flowers. The floor to the right of her was a mass of black buckets of different sizes, all half-filled with water, ready for whatever came back from the markets this evening. Four large arrangements sat at the other end of the table, waiting for Eve to finish up and deliver them. She’d told Alice she had to leave by two at the latest, and Alice thought that gave her less than an hour.

– I think Joseph needs help.

Such a banal thing to say, so obvious. Worse because she was speaking to his sister’s back.

– What do you think we’re doing?

Eve replied without turning, stirring milk into the mugs, putting the carton back into the fridge.

It stung, being spoken to like that, but Alice let it pass.
Keep going
. On past experience, she thought she should have been prepared. The one time Eve had been different
with her was at the snooker club. When Joseph was away for what felt like ages, buying a round in the other room, and Alice had finished her game with Arthur. She hadn’t known what to do with herself until Eve came over and sat next to her. She’d asked Alice about work, and after her grandad, and it was small talk really, but Eve knew all the details, even Grandad’s name. Alice had presumed Eve wasn’t interested in her, but it was clear then that she’d been interested enough to find out a bit from Joseph. Alice had been aware too that Eve had come over to make her feel comfortable, and she’d liked her for it.
She can’t have invited me here just to be rude.