Finding Joe Read online

  Finding Joe

  ANTHONY MASTERS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One Joe

  Part Two Jake

  Part Three The Game

  Part Four Barry

  Part Five Paul

  Part Six The Lake

  A Note on the Author

  Prologue

  The corpse drifted and settled, face down, amongst the reeds.

  He moved a little closer, staring down blankly, incredulous.

  The weather was close and sultry and almost unbearably hot. The surface of the lake was scummy, with an oil-slick at one end. He wouldn’t mind betting that someone had dumped a stolen car.

  Once, years ago, he remembered, the lake had been drained. The muddy bottom had looked like an alien city, with its weed-draped rusting vehicles and bikes and prams and even a small caravan. Tyres had reared out of the silt in spread-eagled piles, and there were the skeletons of dogs and sheep and what looked like a horse but might have been a cow – although he had never seen a herd of cattle on Belstead Marsh. The bright-green boggy land and the nearby dusty woods were too near London, only a few miles from the East End. There was the lake, a few dew ponds and an awful lot of refuse. Local people didn’t regard the marsh as a place of possible beauty. They saw it as an eyesore that had been dumped on for years and was past reclaiming.

  But the marsh had been their playground when they were kids and he still had a certain affection for the place.

  He had imagined the corpse would sink, but it hadn’t. Should he nudge the thing out into deeper water? But how? He’d have to plunge in, wade or even swim, and the thought of being in that brackish filth repelled him even more than the terrible event that had happened between them.

  Of course he no longer hated him, but he didn’t feel any grief either. In fact, he didn’t feel anything much – only a steely numbness and now a strange curiosity. He’d never seen anyone dead before. A few minutes ago the floating thing had been alive, a flesh and blood human being. Now it was nothing at all.

  He remembered the carved letters on his grandfather’s grave. Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. But the corpse, once a person, was in the lake. Nothing was going to remain exactly as it was and the biggest influence in his life was now nothing at all.

  The corpse drifted again, but only even further into the reeds. There was no wind and the lake was stagnant, filled with rainwater but without any springs. There couldn’t be any kind of current so how had the corpse moved?

  He continued to gaze down. What would he do if someone came? But no one ever did. This was a stinking tip of a place, a no man’s land; even the birds seemed to avoid the lake.

  Belstead Marsh was known locally as Rancid City, largely because of the dumped vehicles that had built up around the lake as well as below its surface.

  The only living creatures he had ever seen in the water were frogs, sometimes by the dozen, croaking away, but tonight they hadn’t appeared or made any sound at all. The evening heat was oppressive; there was a smell of rotting weed and he could just hear the dim noise of traffic on the arterial road that ran past the marsh.

  He should go now.

  But he still couldn’t tear himself away because he was trying to remember what the hatred had been like. He had been full of it, but now he couldn’t imagine how it had felt. He was as dead inside as the corpse nudging the reeds like a shop dummy or a large discarded doll. A dragonfly buzzed and now he thought he heard a frog croak, but couldn’t be sure.

  Once again he thought of his grandfather, and remembered the hymn played at the end of his funeral.

  Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide.

  For the first time, the numbness went and tears came into his eyes. How had it happened? How had death come – just like that? And now it was too late. He had not acted fast enough. He had not acted at all.

  * * *

  Time to go. He moved slowly away and then looked back at the reeds, smelling the foul air but no longer able to see the floating thing. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, he retraced his steps and stared down yet again. The corpse floated, one fist clenched, the other hand open, fingers trailing lazily in the cloudy water.

  I’ve got to go, he told himself. Someone will come. But no one did, although he didn’t bother to look, and it was dark before he left the corpse’s side.

  Part One

  Joe

  “He’ll be back,” said Debbie as they idled the hot afternoon away in the skateboard park. “He won’t have gone far. It’s only another row. I’m not worried and neither is Mum. She’s not even going to bother to tell Dad.” But Debbie’s casual anxiety belied her words. She was obviously dead worried.

  Jake, Barry and Paul sat on the edge of the ramp, clutching their skateboards, looking up at Debbie, sharing the same thoughts.

  She needed them to find Joe.

  Debbie was talking too much, explaining herself away. But she was actually only saying one thing. Find Joe. You’ve got to find Joe.

  “He’ll turn up,” said Barry.

  “I know,” she replied.

  “No problem,” Paul assured her.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “He probably got pissed somewhere,” volunteered Jake. “Still sleeping it off.”

  “Typical of him,” grinned Debbie. Then the grin was switched off like a light-bulb, and her face went dark. “He’s never stayed away this long. He’s just punishing us.” She paused. “I know it’s been bad since Dad left home.” Debbie couldn’t stop talking, needing to chew over a past they all knew as well as Belstead Marsh.

  “How long is it now?” asked Barry.

  “Couple of months. It’s rotten. Dad never rings Joe. Never rings.” She repeated the words thoughtfully, as if trying to build up a case for her brother’s disappearance. “He’s really upset. He was so close to Dad. They used to do such a lot together.” She paused again, venting her anger, the bitter bile surfacing. “That Bilton woman – bloody Betty Bilton – she’s made Dad forget about us. She’s turned his head. That’s what Mum says. Turned his head. He’s, like, got obsessed with her. We’re bloody invisible.” She turned away from them so they wouldn’t see her tears, but they had heard them in her voice. “Mum hasn’t called the police,” continued Debbie after a while, as if answering a question no one had asked. “He’s stayed out all night before. He’s always come back.” She paused, still needing reassurance. “But it’s a long time now. Like, over twenty-four hours. Are you sure you don’t know where he is?” She had asked that before, of course, over and over again.

  Jake shook his head.

  “Haven’t a clue,” said Barry.

  “Sorry.” Paul shrugged.

  She looked at them. Jake, tall and thin with his narrow face and freckles and ginger hair. Debbie was put off by freckles, not exactly repelled, but she didn’t like them.

  Her gaze switched to Barry, small and wiry with his dark hair. He was religious, wasn’t he? A Catholic? It was his duty to help her, and as for muscular Paul, with his squat frame and broad shoulders and shaved head – well, he was Joe’s best friend. He had to help.

  So what was the matter with them? For the first time she felt raw panic, but with a considerable effort Debbie tried to control herself.

  “Mum’s rung your parents.”

  “Yes?” Paul looked hostile.

  “I mean – your mum,” Debbie said quickly.

  “What would she know?”

  She ignored the question and switched to another tack. “Where have you lot been, anyway?”

  “We’ve been around,”
said Barry.

  “And you haven’t seen Joe?” demanded Debbie.

  “No.”

  “Were you going to see him?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you always hung around together.” Debbie sounded puzzled. “You must have seen Joe.”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Had a row?”

  There was momentary hesitation. “No,” they chorused and then looked at each other uneasily, or at least Debbie thought so, but she was suspicious of everyone and everything now. She tried to rationalize the situation. Joe had to come out on top, but of course he hadn’t with Dad. If only he’d phone. Dad, not Joe. But, yes – Joe too. If Dad had phoned Joe then this wouldn’t, couldn’t have happened. Was Dad punishing Joe? Was Joe passing it on? Her thoughts were getting into such a muddle and the three boys in front of her were such a solid wall of silence that Debbie could barely cope. What had been the point of searching them out in the first place?

  Stubbornly, Debbie plodded on. “We’ve checked all the usual places. The club. Uncle Bill’s.” She paused, glanced at Barry and then looked away again. “Roz.”

  Barry gazed up at her, hostility in his eyes. She looked a bit like Joe. Tall and fair with high cheekbones and a clear complexion. Her hair was cropped and she wore Bermudas that didn’t suit her thin legs.

  “It’s Saturday afternoon –” Debbie was repeating herself now – “and still no sign of him.” The panic bubbled back, freezing cold, and Debbie felt rooted to the spot, as if she would stand here eternally saying the same words over and over again. Why wouldn’t they help?

  Barry stood up. But he didn’t say anything and she was suddenly afraid they were all going to walk out on her.

  “You should do something,” she yelled at them in sudden anger. Dad silent. Joe silent. Now Joe’s mates silent. Someone had to do something.

  “What?” asked Jake, fiddling with the wheels of his skateboard.

  “Look for him,” she yelled again amidst a sudden bumping clatter as a group of young boys arrived.

  “Us?” asked Barry in apparent bewilderment.

  The heat was stifling now, the sun a dull red ball in a smothering, suffocating sky.

  “Why not?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Again they shook their heads and looked away.

  “I’ve got to get back to Mum.” Debbie at last conceded defeat.

  “We could try.” Paul made it sound as if she had asked the impossible.

  The heat shimmered on the concrete ramps of the park, the shadows of the skateboarders wafting like strange birds in the lowering sun. Dust rose and spiralled, making them choke.

  “Maybe he camped out on the marsh,” she said. Joe had done that several times since Dad had gone, but only for a night. He’d always come back early in the morning, truculent, wanting her and Mum to have missed him, and of course they had, and Joe had enjoyed their anxiety. So why hadn’t he turned up? Was he putting the screws on, wanting to test them out even more?

  “How long’s he been gone?” asked Jake.

  “Two nights now,” she said bleakly.

  “Is the tent still there?” asked Paul.

  Of course she’d checked. “It’s still there.”

  “Then he –”

  “He wouldn’t need a tent. It’s hot enough, isn’t it?”

  “OK,” said Jake.

  “OK what?”

  “We’ll take a look.”

  “Where?” asked Debbie in surprise, sounding stupid.

  “On the marsh.” Jake turned to the other two who looked resentful, or were they just unwilling? Debbie couldn’t work out what they were feeling.

  “OK,” said Barry and Paul without enthusiasm.

  “When are you going?”

  There was a long silence. Then Jake said, “Now.”

  “You’ll keep in touch?”

  “We’ll try,” said Jake.

  “We could go and look,” said Paul woodenly as they watched Debbie trudge back over the brown grass. A dog ran up to her yelping and she kicked out at it, hurrying on as the dog ran away and the owner bawled abuse. Everyone was bad-tempered. The heat was too much.

  “Why not?” Barry got up and stretched, yawning, rubbing his hands through his sweat-sticky hair.

  “We could take rucksacks,” said Jake.

  The other two laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” He looked hurt, as if he was a child again, left out of a private joke.

  “We’re not sleeping rough.” The other two seemed quite alarmed now and Jake grinned, regaining supremacy.

  “Why not?”

  There seemed no answer.

  “We used to when we were kids.”

  “We’re not kids now,” said Paul.

  “Anyway, we could take something to eat,” Jake continued.

  “And drink.” Barry looked hopeful. “I could nick some of my dad’s Scotch.”

  “How much?” asked Paul.

  “A bottle –”

  “He’ll suss you.”

  “He won’t.” Barry was confident. “He’s got so much he won’t notice. Not ever.”

  “All right then.” Jake seemed to have assumed temporary leadership. “We’ll go then.”

  Barry frowned. “Do we really want to find Joe? I mean – he’s been a right pain in the arse, hasn’t he?”

  They looked at each other uneasily. It was the first time any of them had made this admission and Jake suddenly felt strange, as if they were establishing a new bond.

  “We’ve got to help Debs out,” said Paul. “You can see she’s upset.”

  “Then there’s her mum,” added Barry.

  “We’ve got to help.” Jake sounded righteously indignant.

  They were all justifying their actions now with a false enthusiasm.

  “We’ll search the marsh then,” Jake summed up. “Get some rations together and meet back here in an hour.”

  No one moved.

  “Who do you think you are?” asked Paul. “A scoutmaster?”

  “Someone’s got to get it together,” muttered Jake.

  “It could be fun.” Barry wanted to lighten up. “Building bivouacs and boozing.”

  “Better than looking for Joe,” muttered Paul.

  As they somewhat reluctantly prepared for a night on Belstead Marsh, Barry grabbed a bottle of whisky from his father’s drinks cabinet, Paul found his mother’s hiding-place for her cigarettes and Jake borrowed a Walkman from one of his twin brothers because his own was broken. Then he put it back. A Walkman seemed wrong.

  The looting gave them satisfaction, comfort for their quest. None of them wanted to find Joe. He’d given them hell. Joe could stay out as long as he liked.

  They returned an hour later with their rucksacks full and a sense of increasing uncertainty. The skateboard park was a kilometre from the marsh and they began the journey self-consciously, unwillingly, hoping someone would call the idea off. But no one did.

  “I feel a right prat,” said Paul. “Going for a hike in this heat. Everyone’s going to think I’m a boy scout.”

  “Or a girl guide,” laughed Barry.

  Jake groaned. Barry was capable of making feeble jokes for long periods of time. Was this going to be one of them? If so, the search promised to be as heavy as the weather. Jake was sweating profusely in the hard sunlight, conscious that he was with over-familiar company. That was the problem. They knew each other too well, and although they didn’t want to be with Joe, without him they were leaderless.

  The arterial road between Dagenham and the M25 was a grey ribbon of diesel-belching trucks. Rackety run-down pubs and clubs lined the route, jostling for space with timber yards, service stations, used-car lots and a laundry. The buildings shimmered in the scorching late-afternoon sun and the trucks were a moving wall of stinking heat.

  “Bring the whisky then, Barry?” asked Paul hopefully.

  “Bottle of Haig.”


  “We can get arseholed then.”

  “What about that, Jake?”

  “What?”

  “Getting arseholed.”

  “Sounds fantastic.” Jake spoke without conviction. Unlike the other two, he didn’t smoke or drink, not because he disapproved but because he didn’t like the taste. Anyway, both would interfere with his running.

  They tramped on, tar melting on the road, the sound of the trucks like screaming steel, the traffic fumes acrid, toxic, sticking in their throats.

  It was six p.m. and already music was blaring from Sound City, the disco pub that overlooked Belstead Marsh.

  “Where’re we going to start?” asked Jake.

  “The woods.” Barry was hot and tired already.

  “And then?”

  “The marsh.”

  “That’ll take us a bit of time,” said Paul.

  “So we’ll have to sleep out,” said Barry.

  “All right then.” Paul didn’t seem to mind either way.

  “I haven’t told my parents.” Jake was alarmed.

  “I have,” said Barry, grinning. “Just in case.”

  “So did I.”

  Jake came to a full stop, gazing at them suspiciously. Why did he feel so threatened? It was as if Joe was in charge. “I’ll have to make a call,” he yelled above the roaring of a huge truck that created a noxious wind. Choking, Jake saw a call-box and ran for it.

  Left alone, Paul said to Barry, “Could be a bit of fun.”

  “How many fags you got?”

  “Pack of Marlboro. I could sell you some.”

  “Bet you pinched those from your mum,” laughed Barry.

  “You got any?”

  “A few Rothmans.”

  “We’ll make do.” Paul’s voice tailed away slightly as they accidentally made eye contact. “Joe’s a pain,” he said.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Where’s he gone then?”

  “Christ knows. You know Joe.”

  “I thought I did.”

  Jake came back, looking flurried.

  “Mummy getting worked up then?” asked Paul.

  “Kind of.”

  “Wish my mum worried,” said Paul unexpectedly.

  “Eh?” Barry didn’t seem to want to grasp the idea.