No More Heroes

by Stephen Thompson

  Closing my eyes again, I started talking to myself: ‘Think, Simon. Think.’ I paced to and fro, to and fro. Unable to make the break-through, I screamed in frustration and started jumping up and down like a spoilt child. When I felt the carriage rock I froze, my mind racing. Deep down in the pit of my stomach I knew I’d stumbled across a solution. Just to be sure, I jumped up and down a few more times and yes, the carriage rocked from side to side. And that’s when I remembered: while I was down on the tracks, I had noticed that the front part of the carriage was slightly off the rail. If I could make it tilt a little further on to its side, then the upper part of the metal beam, the part wedged in the window, should come loose enough to allow me to pull it away and drag the girl to safety.

  Excited, I moved down the carriage and jumped through the double doors back on to the track. Charles was still there. He was sitting beside Stuart, cradling his head. He saw me but said nothing but I didn’t like the look of him, he was too hunched. I wondered for a moment if Stuart had died in his arms but I had no time to dwell on it. I stood back a bit to assess the state of the carriage. Just as I had remembered, it was slightly tilted on one side, away from where I stood. I could see the metal beam sticking out of the window above. The floor of the carriage was level with my head. To shift it, I would have to use my arms and shove it forward. Under normal circumstances, that would have been impossible, but with the carriage being off the rail slightly, I felt I had a small chance. Digging my heels into the gravel to secure my footing, I leaned forward and placed my hands against the side of the carriage so that my body was stretched out almost in a straight line. Summoning all my remaining strength, I pushed so hard I felt something give in my lower back. The pain was excruciating but the carriage had moved a bit so I gave it another shove, and then another, screaming at the top of my voice each time.

  By now the sweat was pouring off me and I could barely see I was so dizzy. Every muscle in my body was shot. I had nothing left. When I looked up at the window and saw that the beam hadn’t moved I slumped to the ground and started sobbing. I had neither the energy nor the will to go back into the carriage. The girl was probably long dead and I just couldn’t face seeing her. Sitting there on the tracks, my face wet with tears, I saw something in my peripheral vision and turned to see a group of people running along the tracks towards me. They looked so hazy in the distance they could have been a mirage. I passed out before they got to me. Later, when I woke up in hospital, I found out they were paramedics.

  Part One

  When we arrived at the town hall Rhona and Sky started fussing over me like a couple of mother hens, their anxiety bringing out their natural rivalry. No sooner had Rhona straightened my tie than Sky was saying it looked better the way it was. Where Rhona was keen for me to make a good showing, present myself in the best light, Sky cautioned against putting on airs and advised me to be natural. This caused an argument between them and I was forced to act as referee, which increased my nerves even as I was trying to settle theirs. And all this was in full view of the Mayor, the invited guests and several national newspaper journalists

  It was a small but decent turnout, about fifty people in total. The afternoon began with everyone milling around the high-ceilinged entrance hall, chatting in cliques and enjoying a pre-reception tipple of cheap white wine. Curiously, the middle-aged Mayor, who seemed weighed down as much by his chain of medallions as by his responsibilities, hardly had a word to say to me before things got under way proper. After an initial handshake and a brief summary of the afternoon’s agenda, he abandoned me. And as if taking their lead from the big man, none of the other guests approached me either, not even the journalists. Maybe they thought it wasn’t correct protocol, like speaking to the Queen without officially being invited to, but still it felt strange standing in a corner with Rhona and Sky and thinking I didn’t belong there when in fact I was the guest of honour. Not since I first arrived in Duddenham had I experienced such a sharp sense of disconnection. At that moment I felt a pang of nostalgia for London like never before. It was physical, a kind of dull ache in the pit of my stomach, and what with the wine and my frayed nerves and the fact that I hadn’t eaten a proper breakfast, I started to feel nauseous and feared that I might actually retch. Luckily the feeling died down, but it never went away completely and for the remainder of the afternoon I prayed that I wouldn’t embarrass myself and everyone else by throwing up.

  I spent the next two hours sitting at a long table on a podium in the company of the Mayor and a handful of other council officials. I felt uncomfortable sitting up there looking down on the guests. As I scanned their faces I wasn’t sure that all of them were as taken with me as the Mayor had claimed. In fact most of them seemed quite indifferent to what was happening; even bored. And yet they had put on their best clothes and come along anyway. I know that had it not been in my honour, Rhona and Sky would never have attended such a dreary event. As it was, those two were sitting proudly in the front row, smiling up at me, as if I was about to receive the Nobel Prize.

  Standing at a lectern, the Mayor kicked off the proceedings by thanking everyone for coming and mentioned, on my behalf, how much I appreciated it and how proud I was for such a strong show of support. I had told him beforehand that I would not be making a speech, so he was doing his best to speak for me without misrepresenting me. This required him to preface almost everything he said with, ‘I’m sure Simon won’t mind my saying,’ or ‘I’m sure Simon would agree with me when I say,’ after which he would turn to me to get my assent and I would nod at him to carry on. After a few minutes I started to relax and allowed myself to be swept along on the tide of all his praise and plaudits. I believe I even exchanged a smile or two with Rhona and Sky.

  All in all the Mayor did a very good job on me, except once when he said, ‘I’m sure Simon would agree when I say that from the first day he arrived here he has been shown nothing but warmth and hospitality…’ Not true, Mr Mayor. Not true at all.

  When I first came to Duddenham, feeling lonely and practically wandering around with my chin on my chest, a time when I yearned, physically yearned, for a bit of human contact, I found the majority of the people I came across to be cold and standoffish. Yes they would smile and nod – when they were not openly gawking – but only in the most mechanical way and only in passing. They were certainly not interested in talking to me. For a bit of much-needed conversation I had to rely on the few words I was able to exchange each day with my local newsagent, a sprightly old guy called Len.

  Even now, after seven years of being in the town, I had never been invited to a party or to a neighbour’s house for dinner or even for a cup of tea. Then again, it worked both ways. What exactly had I done to try to meet people? Not very much. I once went to my local community centre – a prefab building on a piece of litter-strewn scrubland near my house – to see what community activities I might get involved in, but, snob that I am, I just couldn’t bring myself to join the local bowling club or the bird watching society or to take part in the preparations for the annual sofa race, a spectacle that, had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed. The truth was, the town had little to recommend it. It was the sort of place you drove through, or around, on your way to somewhere more enlivening. Of the few thousand inhabitants, all but a handful lived outside the town centre in crumbling, pebble-dashed houses or on drab, low-rise housing estates. It got few visitors, wasn’t known for anything, had no famous sons or daughters. I discovered it purely by chance.

  On my way to drop off a parcel – I was working as a deliveryman at the time – I took a wrong exit on the motorway and had to do a detour through the town centre. The shops along the high street told me I was in a deprived part of the country: Poundstretcher, Iceland, Mr Chippy’s Chip Shop, Corals, Cash Converter. ‘I could live here,’ I thought, which says something about the state I was in at the time. A few days later I went back and checked into a B&B. The next day I began looking for work. It took me
a week to find a job and a further week to find a house, which I still occupy. After his first visit to see me, Theodore shook his head and said, ‘Why do this to yourself, bro? Why punish yourself like this?’ But that wasn’t how I saw it. Living in that town suited me just fine. It was cheap but more importantly, it allowed me to be whoever I wanted to be, to re-invent myself. In fact, I’d been feeling more peaceful and settled in my life than I had done in years.

  After the bombing, my life, on every significant level, turned upside down. I became, as the saying goes, an overnight celebrity. I was held up as a hero, with my face plastered all over the local and national papers. Imagine that – me, a hero. It would have been frightening if it hadn’t been so absurd. The upshot of this new-found fame was that suddenly everyone wanted a piece of me. I now had to contend with complete strangers approaching me in the street with requests to recount the gory details of my so-called heroics. To walk into my local pub was to be subjected to the kind of intrusive, in-your-face attention that would have sent Gandhi into a rage. A week after the bombing I was in there having a quick one with Dave when two old geezers who were sitting next to us leaned across and, without so much as a by-your-leave, practically demanded my autograph. When, with gritted teeth, I scribbled my illegible initials on their beer mats, one of them beamed at me and said, ‘Who says there’s no more heroes? God love you, son. God love you.’ Of course Dave saw the whole thing as one big joke and spent the rest of the evening teasing me with an over the top rendition of the Superman theme tune, but I was struggling to see the funny side.

  No-one likes to have their privacy invaded. It was nothing compared to the attitude of the press, though, especially the tabloids. No matter how many times I turned down their requests for an exclusive interview, which came with everincreasing financial inducements, they refused to take no for an answer. At least they had finally decamped from my doorstep, but I knew that for as long as the bombing remained in the news – and it showed no signs of going away – they would keep calling me. They were nothing if not persistent. I had changed my mobile number twice since the bombing but they always seemed to get hold of it.

  After the Mayor had finished his address, we were shown a short video of recorded interviews given by some of the survivors of the bombing, including Stuart and Latonya, the girl who had been trapped under the beam. I had spoken to both of them since the bombing, they had contacted me to express their gratitude. In the video, Latonya described her escape as a miracle. According to her – and this was corroborated by the emergency services – my efforts to dislodge the beam had been successful. I had moved it, only very slightly, but enough for the paramedics to pull Latonya free. Several of her ribs had been crushed, and she’d suffered a lot of internal bleeding, but she was well on her to making a full recovery. Both she and Stuart claimed to owe me their lives. I felt utterly undeserving of such sentiments.

  It came upon me without warning. Towards the end of the video my vision suddenly went hazy. Panicking, I blinked several times to try and regain focus, but if anything it made the problem worse. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. The room had been darkened for the video, so I used that to my advantage and started rubbing my eyes. And then, as quickly as it had left me, my vision returned. But now there was another, more worrying problem. When I looked again at the screen I did not see what I had expected to see. Instead of the film we had been watching I saw something that made me get up and head for the exit. Outside the hall I was quickly joined by Rhona and Sky and not long after that by the Mayor and the other council officials. They found me leaning against a wall, shaking like a freezing puppy. I waved everyone away except Rhona and Sky. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I told them. Straightening up as best I could, I apologised to the Mayor and the others and we left. On the way home I suddenly remembered that the audience, including the assembled journalists, had been denied their Q&A session with me and that the Mayor was supposed to have presented me with the keys to the town.

  We headed towards the town centre to get a cab, at my suggestion. The walk home was only about forty-five minutes, but I didn’t feel up to it. It was a hot, sunny afternoon in August and I was sweaty and faint and desperate to get home. At one point Rhona insisted that I loosen my tie and unbutton my collar and every now and then Sky would ask if I wanted to stop and rest for a bit. To reach the cab rank we had to walk along the high street. As usual for a Saturday, it was clogged with shoppers and noisy, most of the noise coming from a three-piece brass band who always busked outside the Marie Curie charity shop. Normally I didn’t mind them, but that afternoon their instruments sounded maddeningly loud and out of tune.

  As we got to the rank I suddenly felt really thirsty. Sky offered to go into the nearby Greggs and get some drinks but I told her it was a waste of money. ‘Blockbuster is only two doors down, remember? Dave’s in today. Just tell him what you want and he’ll put it on my account.’ She went off and left me and Rhona to queue up. It was only then that Rhona asked me to explain what had had happened at the town hall. To avoid being overheard by the other people in the queue – some of them had recognised me and were trying not to stare – I whispered, ‘Can we talk about it when we get home?’ Rhona stroked my back and said, ‘Sure.’

  Just then Sky returned carrying three bottles of Fanta. She handed one to me, one to Rhona and kept one for herself. She was accompanied by Dave, who was wearing his Blockbuster uniform. Short and stocky, I’d always thought he looked like a bouncer. After kissing Rhona on the cheek, he looked me up and down and said, ‘I hope you don’t think you’re getting out of your shift tomorrow.’ I rolled my eyes. Rhona put her arms around Dave’s shoulder and said, ‘Any new games in?’ He shook his head, ‘’Fraid not, love, nothing you’d be interested in anyway.’

  A couple of cabs pulled up, people got into them, they pulled out again. We shuffled a little further along the pavement. Dave said to me, ‘Never seen you suited and booted before. You look almost handsome.’ That made Sky laugh. I was feeling too out of sorts to banter with Dave. I did my best but I couldn’t muster the necessary bite. ‘I see you’ve locked the store again during opening hours. That’s against company policy isn’t it?’ Barely hiding his annoyance, Dave came back with, ‘What are they gonna do, sack me? I wish they would.’ We’d reached the head of the queue and our cab arrived, stopping directly in front of us. I stepped straight from the pavement into the front passenger seat, which had more room for my long legs. Through the open window, Dave said, ‘Oh by the way, got a bone to pick with you, sir. How come I didn’t get an invite to your big day?’ It was an awkward moment. I felt it, Rhona and Sky felt it, even the cab driver felt it. I started stuttering but Dave said, ‘Only joking you lemon. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The cab driver visibly relaxed and said, ‘We all set?’

  Twenty minutes later the cab pulled up outside my house. Narrow, curved, tree-lined and deadly quiet, the contrast between my street and the town centre was marked. Just being in it made me feel better. I turned to Rhona and said, as a joke, ‘Coming in? I tidied up specially.’ She laughed. ‘No, you’re alright. I’ve made my yearly visit. That’s plenty for me.’ She had come round a few days earlier, for the first time in months, and only because she’d wanted to butter me up. As I got out of the cab she became serious. ‘You gonna be OK?’ I nodded and she added, ‘Why not swing by later? I’ll cook. You can bring booze.’ I touched her arm through the open window and said, ‘Done.’ I then winked at Sky who smiled at me and said, ‘Bring me a bottle of cider?’ I looked at Rhona. ‘It’s up to you,’ she said. The cab driver was getting impatient so I tapped twice on his roof and he drove off.

  I got in, undressed and went and stood under the shower, amused at the thought of how much Rhona hated coming to my house. At first she had used the excuse of not wanting to leave Sky alone in the evenings, but it was no longer valid since Sky, at sixteen, was now capable of looking after herself and could stay at Trevor’s if necessary. I’d once suggested that th
ey come over more and occasionally spend the night but Rhona had claimed she didn’t want to impose on me. Eventually I had it out with her and she admitted she found my house depressing. I had no defence. My house is depressing.

  Two-storeys, brown, pebble-dashed, with rotting bay windows, a gravelled front yard used for the bins and a narrow back garden with a weed-choked lawn, it was by far the worst kept property in the street. And that was just the exterior. It was even worse on the inside. How many times had I told myself to change the stained shower curtain and the wonky toilet lid? How often had I sworn to throw out the broken down sofa and splash out on a new one? I could barely stand to look at the ancient net curtains, the moth-eaten drapes, the grey, threadbare carpet and the peeling, wood-chip wallpaper, and yet I did nothing about them. Even the landlord had said he was prepared to reimburse me for whatever I laid out, within reason, but not even that had stirred me into action. Initially I told myself that as a temporary stop I would be foolish to spend time and money on refurbishments, but when did temporary end and permanent begin? I’d lived in the house for seven years. Anyhow, since Rhona confessed that she couldn’t stand the place, she rarely called round, despite the fact that we lived at opposite ends of the same street. I can’t say I blamed her.