Dead Joe — Who Is He Anyway?

New ongoing East End series: one lad’s obsession with the quietest bloke on the street.

—Hey, look. There he is.

Me mate Kes Saunders was pointing up the road. I saw him. “Dead Joe,” they called him round our way. I dunno why. I think because of how he looked. Dark clothes, walking slow and steady. He didn’t say much.

—Ah, yeah.

—He’s fuckin’ weird, ain’t he?

—Dunno, Kes. Just a bloke.

—Yeah, but why’s he like tha’?

—Like wha’?

—Yer know. All slow and miserable. All them dark clothes an’ tha’.

—Dunno, mate. You ever spoken wiv him?

—Nah, fuck off! I wouldn’t. He might be a fuckin’ serial killer or summat.

—Fer fuck’s sake, Kes. He ain’t—

—’Ow d’you know, eh? Spoken to him, ’ave ya?

—Well, nah, I ain’t—

—There yer go then.

By now, Dead Joe was well up the road. Whitechapel Road, that was. I reckoned he was heading for the caff. Mick’s place. He always went there. Same time every day.

—Oi, nobhead. Are yer comin’ or wha’?

Kes was pointing at the Nag’s Head. He liked going for pints. I always thought a bit too much. But what else were we gonna do? This was the East End. We weren’t on shift down the docks for another couple of hours.

—Yeah, fuck it. Why not.

Kes was already at the door. He rolled his eyes at me and went in. I followed. Kes went straight to the bar.

—Two pints o’ best please, Kath.

—You two not at work today?

—Yeah, later, innit? We’re on the fuckin’ late shift.

—Ah, righ’. Shit, tha’.

She got busy. I found a table. The bar smelled of fried food, beer and old furniture.

The door opened. Shaz Clark walked in. On her own, which suited me. I had a thing for Shaz. She didn’t return the feelings. She thought I was a twat, I reckoned.

—Fuck me, it’s the dockers. We’re safe, Kath. Our workin’-class heroes are ’ere.

—Bollocks to ya an’ all, said Kes, grinning his face off.

He liked Shaz as well. She rolled her eyes and strutted over to me.

—Move over then, nobhead. Let a lady sit down.

—Ah, yeah. Sorry, Shaz.

I moved too fast. Nearly sent me pint flying. Shaz rolled her eyes again and sat down. Her blue eyes gave me the look. That one. The one ladies are born with. The one that says men are twats.

Kes came over with our pints. He sat on the stool next to Shaz.

—’Ow’s it goin’ wiv ya then, Shaz?

—Alrigh’. Got work meself in a bit.

—You still at that trendy clothes shop?

—Yeah. It ain’t trendy, it’s “alternative”.

—Wha’ does that mean?

—It means twats like you won’t find anythin’ to wear in it.

Kes leaned over clutching his chest like she’d stabbed him.

—I’m fuckin’ wounded. ’Elp me.

—Ya beyond ’elp, yer moron, Shaz said, but she was grinning.

—’Ere, Shaz. We just saw Dead Joe.

—Did yer? He gives me the creeps, tha’ fella.

—Why? I asked.

—Dunno. Summat off about him. Never talks unless he has to. Rushes nowhere. Always in black clothes.

She shuddered.

—Dunno nuffin’ about him, but he’s weird.

—Yeah, he’s well dodgy. I ’eard him speak the other day, said Kes.

—Did ya?

—Yeah. He said, “I drink yer blood,” in a deep voice—

—Fuck off, Kes! Shaz slapped him.

We all laughed and sipped our drinks. The sun was shining in through the grimy window. It made the dust motes float about like little nutters having a party.

—You pair on lates then?

—Yeah, Shaz. Fuckin’ sucks, I said, all tough and macho.

—Good thing for nobheads like you pair. Keeps yer out of trouble.

—Shaz Clark. We never get into any trouble or cause any, I’ll ’ave yer know.

Kes was pretending he was an actor on stage.

—Shut up, nobhead. I ’eard there was an accident down there the other day?

—Yeah, Shaz, there was. Bloke got crushed by pallets o’ wood, I said.

—Fuck. Did he survive it?

—Yeah. He said he felt like a right plank afterwards.

She stared at me, unblinking. Then it was great. She laughed and slapped me, but in a playful way. I liked that.

—For fuck’s sake, Alfie. Was there really an accident?

—Yeah, and a bloke did nearly get crushed. Pallets o’ spuds, I think.

—Jeez.

We all drank our drinks, contemplating our days ahead. Shaz in the “alternative” clothes shop. Me and Kes humping and dumping all manner of goods down at the docks.

And for some reason, I wondered then what Dead Joe would be doing.