not stimulation,’ I tried to explain. ‘No tear-jerkers, which rules out a lot more than you may think, for obvious reasons. No documentaries or kids films ’cause they just remind you of too much. So, yeah, slasher-horror really is your best bet.
The Evil Dead
is the ultimate wake-movie.’
Joe tried to be serious for a second, then smiled. ‘You always did have all the best advice,’ he said.
He turned on his back, closed his eyes and let out this huge sigh. I was looking at the shape of his lips, the Cupid’s bow, the wideness of them, the way they always looked like he was about to say something amusing, trying to remember what it felt like to kiss him. Then remembering that I shouldn’t even be here.
‘
You
bought me that pen,’ he said suddenly. I’d forgotten I was still holding it.
‘Funny, wasn’t I?’ I said. ‘Such a sophisticated, witty sixteen-year-old.’
‘You were,’ he said, taking it and tipping it upside down.
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘I thought you were – cute, complicated …’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, weren’t we all?’
‘I’m not surprised that you work for the Mental Health Service – the sidelined in our society … You always liked the underdog.’
‘Me and you, too, then, hey?’
When I’d last seen Joe, three years ago, he’d been living with his girlfriend in Preston but seemed a bit lost, career-wise, working in a sports shop. In our brief email exchange during the last few days, he’d told me he was now teaching English to NEETs (Not in Education, Employment or Training) – kids who’d spent most of their lives skiving off school or inside, basically, and wanted to turn their lives around. He absolutely loved it, he said. The perfect job, if you took away the mounds of paperwork, which was exactly how I felt about my work.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised, either, Joe. All that energy had to go somewhere.’
‘We were a pair of little revolutionaries.’ He grinned.
‘Were we? I can’t remember. I just remember you used to say to me –’ I assumed the younger voice of Joe’s radical years – ‘it’s evolution, Robbie, not revolution.’
‘Did I? God, what a dick. I was so
intense
!’
‘Oh, Joe, you’re still intense.’
‘How would you know?’ He said, tapping my thigh, as if chastising me for not getting in touch. I ignored it.
‘Actually, you saying that really helped when things were grim,’ I said, seriously. ‘I sometimes say it to my clients.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, just to remind them that recovery … it takes time. Step by step. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that.’
He smiled. He knew what I was getting at.
The room was growing dim, it was getting late, and I was here, having a heart-to-heart, the very thing I’d promised myself not to do. I stood up.
‘Look, I really should be going now,’ I said. ‘I’ll just go downstairs and say, “Hi” to your dad, okay?’
But Joe suddenly got up from the bed and went rooting in a drawer for something.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Trying to make you stay.’
‘Joseph Sawyer,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to come in the first place!’
He turned around. He looked hurt.
‘But why?’
Why did he not get it?
‘Because,’ I sighed, exasperated. ‘Because … oh, God, it doesn’t matter.’ I’m really glad I did come.
He had something in his hand. He put it behind him and, walking backwards, picked up the bottle of JD off the table with his free hand and handed it to me. He always did have this way of making you do things. ‘Come on, drink up,’ he said. ‘This is going to take you right back.’
That’s what I’m worried about.
But then, there was a sound like someone loading a gun, a click, the whirr of a tape being rewound and then, the bluesy, achey riffs of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Since I’ve Been Loving You’ – we used to listen to this track, this album, all the time – and when I saw Joe’s face, the look in his eyes
The Evil Dead
is the ultimate wake-movie.’
Joe tried to be serious for a second, then smiled. ‘You always did have all the best advice,’ he said.
He turned on his back, closed his eyes and let out this huge sigh. I was looking at the shape of his lips, the Cupid’s bow, the wideness of them, the way they always looked like he was about to say something amusing, trying to remember what it felt like to kiss him. Then remembering that I shouldn’t even be here.
‘
You
bought me that pen,’ he said suddenly. I’d forgotten I was still holding it.
‘Funny, wasn’t I?’ I said. ‘Such a sophisticated, witty sixteen-year-old.’
‘You were,’ he said, taking it and tipping it upside down.
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘I thought you were – cute, complicated …’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, weren’t we all?’
‘I’m not surprised that you work for the Mental Health Service – the sidelined in our society … You always liked the underdog.’
‘Me and you, too, then, hey?’
When I’d last seen Joe, three years ago, he’d been living with his girlfriend in Preston but seemed a bit lost, career-wise, working in a sports shop. In our brief email exchange during the last few days, he’d told me he was now teaching English to NEETs (Not in Education, Employment or Training) – kids who’d spent most of their lives skiving off school or inside, basically, and wanted to turn their lives around. He absolutely loved it, he said. The perfect job, if you took away the mounds of paperwork, which was exactly how I felt about my work.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised, either, Joe. All that energy had to go somewhere.’
‘We were a pair of little revolutionaries.’ He grinned.
‘Were we? I can’t remember. I just remember you used to say to me –’ I assumed the younger voice of Joe’s radical years – ‘it’s evolution, Robbie, not revolution.’
‘Did I? God, what a dick. I was so
intense
!’
‘Oh, Joe, you’re still intense.’
‘How would you know?’ He said, tapping my thigh, as if chastising me for not getting in touch. I ignored it.
‘Actually, you saying that really helped when things were grim,’ I said, seriously. ‘I sometimes say it to my clients.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, just to remind them that recovery … it takes time. Step by step. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that.’
He smiled. He knew what I was getting at.
The room was growing dim, it was getting late, and I was here, having a heart-to-heart, the very thing I’d promised myself not to do. I stood up.
‘Look, I really should be going now,’ I said. ‘I’ll just go downstairs and say, “Hi” to your dad, okay?’
But Joe suddenly got up from the bed and went rooting in a drawer for something.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Trying to make you stay.’
‘Joseph Sawyer,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to come in the first place!’
He turned around. He looked hurt.
‘But why?’
Why did he not get it?
‘Because,’ I sighed, exasperated. ‘Because … oh, God, it doesn’t matter.’ I’m really glad I did come.
He had something in his hand. He put it behind him and, walking backwards, picked up the bottle of JD off the table with his free hand and handed it to me. He always did have this way of making you do things. ‘Come on, drink up,’ he said. ‘This is going to take you right back.’
That’s what I’m worried about.
But then, there was a sound like someone loading a gun, a click, the whirr of a tape being rewound and then, the bluesy, achey riffs of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Since I’ve Been Loving You’ – we used to listen to this track, this album, all the time – and when I saw Joe’s face, the look in his eyes
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