Magnificent Joe Read Free

want to come here and get a fucking hand-out. In the meantime, us three are working for a living, and what do we get for it?’ Barry floats the question over the table as though he expects something profound in response.
    â€˜Fuck all, mate,’ sighs Geoff.
    â€˜Exactly! Fuck. All.’
    â€˜Well,’ I join in, ‘it pays for the beer, like.’
    Geoff snorts, but Barry looks at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘Look, it’s all right for you,’ he huffs. ‘You’re free and single, but I’ve got a family to raise and this country is going to shit.’
    I fail to see what raising a family has got to do with it – apart from the fact that Barry always wants to act as if he’s older and wiser – but I just shrug and take a drink of beer. There is no point in stirring him up. Besides, I’ve got nothing to prove to Barry.
    Geoff nudges me in the ribs. ‘Here comes trouble.’
    I glance over and groan. Sinister Steve – the local one-stop shop for anything knocked off or bootlegged – has slipped through the door. He looks at us. The pub is crowded, but Steve moves through the throng like smoke and arrives directly behind Barry. He taps him on the shoulder.
    â€˜Fucking hell!’ Barry twists in his chair.
    â€˜All right, mate?’
    â€˜You fucking sneaky bastard. I almost dropped me pint.’
    â€˜Yeah, good evening to you too.’ Steve nods at me and Geoff, then pulls over a stool and sits down next to Barry, too close. Barry stiffens slightly, but he stays still and lets Steve talk into the side of his face. I can’t hear their conversation, but it doesn’t last long before the pair of them get up and leave together. ‘Back in a minute,’ says Barry.
    â€˜What’s that all about?’ I ask Geoff.
    â€˜He’s banned from selling fags in the pub, so he does it in the car park instead.’
    â€˜Right. Are you ready for another?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜Go on, then.’
    â€˜Fuck off, it’s not even my round. Anyway, you both owe me for the lottery, and you’re the worst – you’re two fucking weeks behind. If we win, I’ll keep it for myself.’
    â€˜All right, all right, calm down. It was worth a try.’
    I go to the bar and buy another round. When I return to our table, Barry is back with two large cartons of cigarettes wrapped in a plastic bag.
    â€˜Got what you wanted, then.’
    â€˜No, I was hoping he’d have some frilly knickers in stock.’
    â€˜Well, we had our suspicions.’ I lean over to put the drinks down, and as I do so, I get a whiff of something coming from Barry’s direction. ‘Have you stood in dog shit?’
    â€˜You what?’
    â€˜Something smells.’
    Barry leans to one side and checks his feet. ‘Fuck.’
    â€˜Is it?’
    â€˜Bollocks. I was only in the fucking car park.’
    â€˜Well, you’d better go back there.’
    Barry shakes his head like a man who has become accustomed to having every noble principle crushed. ‘Modern Britain, eh?’ He lets it hang there, as if we all know exactly what is wrong with the world.

‌ ‌ 2
June 1990
    On the last day of Jim’s almost-life, summer filled the village with a warmth that made men and women want to loll like cats. Old couples dragged dining chairs into their front yards and read the Sunday papers. They turned the pages with languor and exchanged soft commentary on the stories of the day, sometimes shuffling back inside to make tea, fetch a packet of biscuits, or spend a penny. Kids zipped past on bicycles and played football in the streets, and when they swore, the old folk glanced up and clucked. The kids played on. Jim walked past them all, head down, hoping not to be noticed.
    At the end of the terrace, Jim turned left and tramped up the main road that led out of the village. He felt more free there, away from the houses,