Magnificent Joe by James Wheatley Page A

didn’t go to work, but got dressed and walked through the village and along the lane to Joe’s house. Jim hadn’t been there for years, but the route came automatically to him.
    When he arrived, he went round the back and stopped as he walked into the yard. There was a car there. He recognized it, but it used to be serviceable and parked at the front to be driven occasionally – and inexpertly – by Mrs Joe. Now it was up on blocks and the dark, dry stain on the cobbles said all its oil had long leaked away. There was no one here to maintain it, thought Jim. The last person to do any work on it was probably his own father. Jim slipped past it and knocked on the back door. He felt like someone forcing themselves to step out into space.
    She answered after a while. To Jim, she’d always looked old. Now she looked a bit older than that. She peered at him over the rims of her specs.
    â€˜He told me you were back,’ she said.
    â€˜He says the place is falling down around your ears.’
    Mrs Joe sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’

‌ ‌ 6
October 2004
    We roll onto the site through a thin, damp mist. It’s Monday morning, it’s eight thirty, and I’ve got that cold-start feeling where every joint in my body seems to grate and squeal, and the week hasn’t even started yet. I get out of the van and the cold comes through my sweater immediately. I shiver. I reach back in and grab my boots, then trot over to the cabin. Of course, the door is locked.
    â€˜Who’s got the key?’
    â€˜I have – hold on.’ Geoff climbs out of the van, followed by Barry. ‘Bollocks, it’s colder now than it was when we left.’
    â€˜Stop moaning and bring us the key.’
    Geoff wanders over and rummages in his pocket for the key to the cabin. ‘Fucking bastard.’ He separates it from the crap, gripping it precariously between two fingers. Flakes of old tissue paper float to the ground, and a packet of tobacco almost follows. Eventually, he fumbles the key into the keyhole and lets us in.
    â€˜Put the fucking kettle on, then,’ says Barry, and throws himself into one of the plastic seats. He lights a cigarette immediately and sucks in the smoke with relish.
    The cabin is dank from being closed up all weekend, and stinks of the mud that coats the floor. Soon, though, Barry’s cigarette smoke cuts through the damp, dirty smell. Geoff has settled into his own seat and is proceeding to roll himself a fag. I presume, therefore, that the command to put the kettle on was directed at me. I fill the kettle in the filthy sink and brew up as the other two tap fag ash onto the floor.
    â€˜Fuck.’ My heart sinks. Last thing I need on a Monday morning.
    â€˜What?’ asks Barry.
    â€˜There’s no fucking teabags.’
    â€˜There was a whole fucking packet of PG Tips on Friday.’
    â€˜They were that fitter’s. He took them home.’
    â€˜Stingy cunt.’
    We look at each other shiftily. I sigh.
    â€˜You’d best go and get some,’ says Barry.
    â€˜Money.’ I hold out my hand. The other two reluctantly cough up a quid each.
    â€˜Get some milk as well.’
    â€”
    Fifteen minutes later, I return to the site bearing a plastic bottle of semi-skimmed milk and a box of eighty teabags. As I trudge up the access road, I see a silver 4x4 parked right outside the cabin. It looks quite posh and not very old, and I’ve never seen it here before. I wonder, glumly, if some kind of manager has come down to check up on things, but as I get closer, I hear Geoff’s giggle through the door. Something must have cheered him up.
    As soon as I get inside, I am enveloped by stinking blue cigar smoke, and as I cough, I see something that gives me such a shock I almost choke on my own spit.
    â€˜Fucking hell.’
    â€˜All right?’ Mac grins at me, grips his cigar in his teeth, and shakes my hand