Magnificent Joe (17 page)

By the time we've finished our tea, Joe looks better. He fidgets, but is otherwise back to his default, out-of-phase rationality.

‘Missed
Coronation Street
,' he says glumly.

I look at my watch. ‘You missed your bedtime too, mate.'

‘I don't have a bedtime. I'm an adult.'

‘Too right. You're bloody ancient,
you.'

‘My mam says I'm in my prime.'

‘She would. Do you want a sandwich?'

‘Not hungry.' He folds his
arms.

Unfortunately, I am, but I don't want to be the only one sat here eating. I look at Mr Green, who flares his nostrils impatiently. ‘Let's get back up there and find out how she is,' he says. ‘If Joe can refrain from brawling this time.'

I squeeze Joe's shoulder. ‘He's all right. We've got it sorted, haven't we, mate?'

Joe shrugs my hand away, but nods. ‘All sorted. It's magnificent.'

‘Howay, then.'

I get up and manoeuvre Mr Green past the tables and chairs to the exit of the cafeteria and out into the corridor. The smell of grease and stale mash subsides, and with it any feeling of ease: I'm in a hospital, again, and the news is bound to be bad. Joe shambles beside me, just a step behind.

‘Did the doctor say anything to you?' I ask
him.

‘He said hello. He said his name was Dr Ahmed. He said—'

‘Joe, did he say anything about your mother?'

‘He said she was on strike.'

I give up and we walk the rest of the way back to the unit in silence.

When we get there, there is nobody at the desk. I almost wait like a good little boy, but Joe keeps going, so we follow him. He stops at a room and looks through the doorway.

‘Is she in there?'

He
nods.

The curtains are drawn around the bed, but I can see at least three pairs of feet moving in the gap at the bottom. There are voices too, low and urgent. All I catch are numbers, and medical words I don't understand.

Joe makes for the curtains, but I grab his coat and haul him back. ‘Just let them do their job, mate.'

‘Who is it in there?'

‘It's the doctors, you nugget.'

‘Bollocks to that – she hates the bastards.'

Joe swears approximately never, so I don't notice him unbutton his coat and walk out of it until it's limp in my hand and I'm standing there like a dickhead.

‘Joe, don't go in there.'

But it's too late. He barges into the curtain and pushes it up and over his head. Before it falls behind him, I see the nurse from earlier turn in shock from her work at Mrs Joe's bedside.

‘What are you doing to
her?'

‘Get
out!'

‘Leave her alone!'

‘We're trying to treat
her.'

‘You perverts!'

‘For God's sake' – another voice, a man – ‘I've been through this with you already. Wait outside.'

I step out from behind the wheelchair, but Mr Green blocks my path with his walking stick. ‘Don't make it worse, son. We're in enough trouble as it
is.'

Suddenly, the curtain bulges and Joe is steered out by a young Asian doctor with both hands clamped firmly on Joe's shoulders. Joe struggles a little, but the doctor spins him round so they're face to face. ‘Go and sit outside and stop playing silly buggers.'

Joe doesn't have his mother's balls; if a figure in authority looks him in the eye and tells him what to do, he does it. He slopes out and brushes past me without an acknowledgement.

The doctor pushes his hair out of his face and sees Mr Green and me. ‘Who are
you?'

‘We're…uh…friends,' I
say.

‘Of him, or
her?'

‘Both,' says Mr Green.

The doctor keeps looking at me. ‘Are you mentalists
too?'

‘Not usually.'

‘Good. I'll see you in a few minutes.'

He goes back behind the curtain.

We find Joe reading a magazine in the unit's common area. He flicks through the pages and mutters to himself. On the other side of the room, a woman and a man huddle with their backs to us. She sobs into his shirt. I resist the urge to smack Joe round the head; instead, I wheel Mr Green to one side of him and sit down on the other.

‘What's this season's colours, then?'

‘You what?'

I lean in to see what he's reading.
FHM
. ‘That shit'll rot your brain.'

He holds it closer to his face. ‘It's all right,' I hear him mutter from behind the cover.

I snatch the magazine away from him and chuck it onto a nearby end table.

‘How! Give it back!'

‘Shut up,' I hiss. ‘You're not the only person in here with problems.'

He butts his forehead up against mine and stares into my eyes from under knotted brows. ‘You're rude.' His spittle splatters on my chin and
lips.

I want to shake him hard. I glance at the other people. The woman's face is still buried in the man's chest, but he has noticed us. He watches nervously over the top of her
head.

I slide down the chair so that the man can't see, grab Joe by the collar, and drag him down with me. ‘Get off!' he squeals.

‘Shut up – you're disturbing people.'

‘You're disturbing
me!'

‘Why are you pretending that you don't understand what's happening?'

‘You're a nutter,
you.'

‘Joe, I know you're not this stupid.'

‘What are you on about?'

‘Your mother's seriously ill, man. She might
die.'

He twists out of my grasp, stands up, stomps across the room, and lets himself drop onto a soft chair in the corner. He is very still for a moment, but he can't hold it in. His lip twitches and his eyes shine, and then he covers his
face.

‘Oh brilliant,' says Mr Green.

‘I got through to him, didn't I? It's better than a fucking spaz attack every five minutes.'

Mr Green shrugs and looks
away.

‘Sorry,' I
say.

I watch Joe cry. I'm just too tired to walk over there and do anything about it, but a growing fear buzzes in my fingers and toes. The doctor appears.

‘There you are. I need a word.' He stands in the doorway.

I get up and take the handles of Mr Green's wheelchair. The doctor holds up his
hand.

‘Just you will be fine. We don't need to hold a conference.'

‘Oh,
but—'

Mr Green stops me. ‘Just go and find out what's happening. I'll stay with
him
.'

I follow the doctor to a small room. He closes the door behind us. Although there are chairs, he does not sit down. I ache, but I don't want to have a conversation with his crotch, so I remain standing
too.

‘You're a friend of the family?'

‘Yes.'

‘Her son…' He gestures with his right hand – half a question, half an alternative to stating the obvious.

‘…is a bit soft in the head,' I finish for
him.

‘Quite. He can't continue to behave that way or he'll get himself thrown out of the hospital.'

‘He'll be all right now, I think. It's dawned on him that things are serious. Look, how is
she?'

‘Yes, I was coming to that.'

‘So?'

‘Well, she's very ill. It seems she had a small stroke recently, maybe more than
one.'

‘On strike,' I mutter. ‘I get
it.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Nothing.'

The doctor furrows his brow. ‘She was in a bad way when she arrived: very weak, very dehydrated, obviously hadn't eaten for several days.'

The fear bursts. I feel sick. I could have done more, should have done more, but I was too wrapped up in all my other problems. Even when I did pay attention, I was more concerned with protecting her dignity – and now that dignity could cost her her life. ‘Right,' I
say.

‘Now, we've put her on a drip and we've made her comfortable, but frankly it's too late. I think you'd better prepare for the worst.'

‘Neglect. She's dying of neglect.'

‘You could say that. It's quite common, actually.'

‘How long?'

‘Difficult to say, but not long. Hours, perhaps. He can sit with her, but you shouldn't expect her to be responsive.'

There's nothing to say. I want to go outside; the fluorescent lights make my eyes
ache.

‘Well, I'll leave you to it. Just ask at the desk if you need anything.' He leaves and I stand in the room and watch the carpet. I don't know how to explain this to Joe, but then, what's to explain? He's going to see for himself soon enough.

By morning it was all over. She was so thin and white against the white of her pillow that we could see the faint pulse of life under her skin. And then we couldn't. I drove Joe and Mr Green home; there was nothing else to do. We were monosyllabic with tiredness and defeat, and as I finally slumped through the door of my house, it felt like a place I had lived in a long time
ago.

I try not to think of Joe. I don't want to remember the slope of his shoulders as he walked from my car to his home or the dazed rattle of his key until he realized the door had been left unlocked. Of course I didn't go in with him; I could barely lift my own head. There's a limit.

I'm about to climb the stairs to go to bed, when a piece of paper catches my eye. It's just inside the door, on its edge up against the skirting board. It could be a flyer, but then I see that one side is ragged, as if it was torn away from something. I pick it up. It's a
note:

I hope you're not at the pub; you should be taking it easy the state you're in! I just popped round to check that you're OK, but you've buggered off. I thought you'd be resting. Ring me if you need anything.

Laura

God knows why she bothered – she has enough problems of her own – but as I read the evidence that someone cares, even a little bit, I feel a small warmth in my stomach. I walk towards the phone, but the idea melts before I get there. It is 8.45 a.m., I haven't slept, I can't even begin to approach the task of explaining what happened last night, and the only other thing I have to say is, ‘Thanks for giving a fuck.' It won't do at all. I go to
bed.

—

Later, I am woken by the sound of the bin men. I check my watch. It is 1 p.m. If I close my eyes I'll fall straight back to sleep, but if I do that I'll end up nocturnal. I stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes and it dawns on me that I'm absolutely starving: incentive enough to get up and go downstairs.

In the kitchen, I use a knife to dig the mould patches out of a couple of slices of bread. Then I put the bread in the toaster. I haven't had the chance to clean in here, or buy food, for over a week and the general squalor makes me think of Joe again. He'll need to learn to look after himself, but to do that he will have to accept that his life has changed for good. Dealing with change is not one of Joe's strong points. For that matter, it's not one of
mine.

The toast pops up. I manage to scrape enough margarine out of the almost-finished tub to cover both slices, just about. They taste like shit. Never mind Joe, I'm going to peg out myself if things carry on like this. I have no idea what he's doing right now – on his own in that house – but he'll have to cope without me for a little longer. I have things that need to be
done.

I gently prod at my ribs; they still hurt. I circle my shoulders; moving still hurts. Clearly, the best thing for me is the couch and a quantity of Scotch, but it cannot be. I still have no cash and I still haven't reported my card stolen, so I have to go to the bank. That accomplished, I will have to go to the petrol station because the car's almost empty. And if I'm at the petrol station, I may as well go into the supermarket. The alternative is starvation.

I brush the crumbs off my T-shirt and start looking for my
keys.

—

My bank balance is not encouraging, so I buy only half a tank and my food shopping is even more frugal than usual. In the supermarket, shoppers swerve to avoid getting close as I rummage through the bakery shelves for the cheapest possible loaves of bread, black-eyed and hissing to myself as the bending and stretching prompts new parts of my body to remind me that I'm not in the best of health. There's nothing for it but to crash on through the day, and do what needs to be done. I let the rest of the world blur past me. If I stop to think, I'll seize up, or worse.

I pay and get everything into the car. I've probably forgotten a lot of things I need, but at least I now have some food that's fit for human consumption. I sit behind the wheel and tear into a packet of sausage rolls. I'm hungry enough that even cold they taste good. The fat coats the roof of my mouth. I eat all five. I feel sick. I wind down the window and drive
away.

The freezing air makes my eyes water. I let the tears flow all the way
home.

—

Back at the house, I put away the shopping. It doesn't look like much once it's in the cupboard, but it'll satisfy my needs for a few days at least. The kitchen is still a tip, but my visit to the bank has reminded me that I have a greater priority – namely, to secure gainful employment. I pick up the phone. I'm going to call Lee and press him about these jobs, and I'm not going to let anything deflect me from the task…except for the fact that I don't know his number. It's stored on my mobile; automatically I reach into my pocket. My mobile is not there.

‘Oh shit.'

It's not in my pocket because it's on the bathroom floor where I left it, completely fucked. I slam the receiver back into the cradle and wince as the shock of the impact travels through my sprained wrist.

‘Fuck.'

I don't know his last name, so the directory is useless to me. Then I see Laura's note, next to the phone where I put it. I pick it up and read it again: ‘Ring me if you need anything.'

—

By the time I knock on the door, I feel a bit daft. There was no real need to come all the way to Geoff's house; it would have been quicker to ask a neighbour, some of whom have started actually speaking to me in recent years. It was just the momentum of the day that brought me here; the signs all pointed this way and I followed them. She opens the
door.

‘You look terrible.'

‘Thanks,' I say. She turns back into the house and I follow her to the living room. ‘Have you heard anything from Geoff?'

‘No.'

‘Have you tried his family?'

‘They won't talk to me,' she sighs. ‘He must have told them. Why are you up and about, anyway?'

‘I didn't have much choice in the matter.'

‘Well, it's your funeral. Do you want a drink?'

‘No, thanks.'

We stand in silence for a few moments and then she looks at me and smiles. ‘You wanted to borrow my phone.'

‘Please.'

She hands me her mobile and watches as I take it apart and replace her SIM card with mine. ‘Is it an important number?' she
asks.

‘Aye, pretty important – someone who might have some work for
me.'

‘Oh. Just temporary?'

‘Sounds like it could be long term. If it works out, like.'

I turn her phone on, and as it plays its little welcome jingle, I look up at her. I'm about to say, ‘Thank you,' when suddenly I understand the look on her face. ‘Fuck. Laura, I'm sorry. It's just I'm completely skint. I cannat afford to wait for him, y'know? It doesn't mean I don't think he's coming back.'

She sighs and sits down on the couch. I'm left, awkward, in the centre of the room. I sit next to
her.

‘I'm sorry,' I say again.

‘It's all right. You've got to get on, I suppose. Everything's changing.'

‘Aye, it
is.'

‘To be honest, I'm surprised how well I can imagine carrying on without
him.'

‘Well, it's like anything; you just find a way, don't
you.'

‘Hark at you,' she says. ‘You should be one of them self-help gurus.'

‘Thanks. Well, there's at least one thing you've still got in common with Geoff.'

‘What's that?'

‘That I can rely on you to take the piss.'

‘I'm glad I'm still amusing to someone.'

‘Oh yeah. It's a laugh a minute around here.' I sink back into the sofa, and with relaxation comes a resurgence of fatigue and then a long yawn. ‘Sorry. I'm shattered.'

‘I was going to ask if you'd been sleeping. You look absolutely knackered. Even the eye that isn't black is black.'

‘Something bad happened last night.'

‘How
bad?'

‘Really bad,' and I tell her the story of Mrs Joe's death.

She doesn't interrupt me as I talk, but when I have finished, she gives me a sad smile and says, ‘Well, I'm sorry to hear that. It sounds like you were very fond of
her.'

‘Aye, I suppose I was. She's always been around, y'know? Ever since I can remember.'

It's cold in the room, and without a word Laura gets up and turns on the gas fire. Blue flames burst into life over the fake coal and incandescent prickles of light spread into a vivid blush. Laura shuffles herself back onto the sofa without quite standing up again, and I find myself talking more than I'd meant
to.

‘I felt like she was the last link to my parents. Well, my dad.' I did feel that, but I didn't know that I felt it until now. ‘She was the only person who knew them that I could talk to. Well, talk to sensibly, anyway. But I didn't, really. There was so much more I could have asked, but I was too embarrassed.'

A long pause. Laura reaches out and touches my hand. ‘Look, Mrs Joe probably told you more than you realize, and you shouldn't dwell on the things you regret.'

‘That's easier said than done. I feel guilty.'

‘Guilty?'

I stare into the
fire.

‘It wasn't your fault; she was an old woman. She's not your responsibility, she never
was.'

‘It's not just that. It's my dad. Looking after them is about the only thing I've ever done that he would have been proud of, and I've buggered it
up.'

‘But what about her family? Where are they in this? Don't they have some responsibility?'

‘She has a younger brother. At least, I think he's still alive; I didn't hear of anything happening to him. He hasn't lived around here for years, though. I don't think I've ever met
him.'

‘You'll need to get in touch with him. There's arrangements to be made – all the talking to undertakers and solicitors and that.'

‘I hadn't thought that far on
yet.'

‘Well, you shouldn't have to, especially the state you're
in.'

‘It's not that
bad.'

‘It's not that good either. And you've got Joe to keep an eye
on.'

‘Aye. No one else is going to do it.' I look into my lap and see that she holds my left hand between both of hers. I hadn't noticed her take it. She squeezes my fingers and it makes me smile. ‘Thanks,' I find myself saying.

‘Are you sure you're all right?'

‘I'll manage.'

‘You're so full of optimism.'

‘That's what keeps me grinning.'

She pats me on the knee and stands up. ‘I'm going to put the kettle
on.'

I watch her walk into the kitchen, then hear the noise of the tap. Outside, it's getting dark. I should write down the number, go home, and make my call, but I don't want to move yet. I'll drink my tea and then I'll
go.

—

My route back from Laura's house takes me past the end of Mr Green's street. I pause. Laura was right about the things that are and are not my responsibility, and knowing that makes everything seem easier to think about. I turn towards Mr Green's house. The light in the front room isn't on, but there is one on upstairs. I'm about to knock when I notice a glow at the end of the side passage, so I go round the
back.

I find him in the shed. The door is slightly ajar, so I tap on it and he turns round with a start.

‘Oh, it's
you.'

‘You found something to work on, then.'

‘There's always something to work on.' He sniffs. ‘You didn't finish all the tiaras, did
you.'

‘No, I didn't. Something came
up.'

‘Aye, he confessed to me at the last rehearsal.'

‘Sorry. I'd have cleaned it away, but I needed to get him home.'

‘Come in, would you. It's chilly.'

I pull the door closed after myself, unhook a folding chair from its place on the wall, and sit down. He lowers himself into his own chair. I notice that the pantomime tiaras are approximately as I left them; whatever he's doing out here hasn't involved much actual work. The air is thick with the warm smell of paraffin; an old heater burns in the back corner. It wasn't lit last time I was in here. I point at it with my
foot.

‘That thing's lethal. You should get an electric
one.'

‘It's a bit late for me to worry about health and safety now.' He gestures vaguely at his walking stick, propped in the corner alongside a split pickaxe-handle.

‘You still have a wife,' I
say.

‘I think it would be a relief for both of
us.'

‘Bollocks to you, then.' A little pan-flash of anger.

He watches me steadily from beneath an arched eyebrow. ‘You sound like you need some sleep.'

‘Sorry. I managed some earlier, but you know what it's like when your routine's buggered
up.'

‘Aye, well. We're two grumpy bastards together, then.' He tips his head towards the heater. ‘You can fill it up for me, if you like. I'll just spill the bloody stuff everywhere.'

There's a can marked, ‘Paraffin', on the shelf above my head. I get up and swing it down with a heavy slosh; then I take it over and squat next to the heater. I can't see a funnel anywhere, so I pour slowly.

When I'm finished, he's still sitting there, staring into space and massaging the knuckles of his left hand between the thumb and fingers of his right. I put the paraffin back, and he looks at me as if he'd forgotten I was here. I sit
down.