No More Heroes

by Stephen Thompson

  She arrived a few minutes early, which increased my already jangly nerves. At the front door she handed me not one, but two bottles of red wine. When we entered the living room, her eyes widened. ‘Good God! Someone’s been busy. Wait,’ she had a quick look around, ‘I’m in the right house, aren’t I?’ It’s strange how the things we first admire about a person end up becoming the very things we loathe. I used to find her sarcasm entertaining, now I found it dull. ‘Funny.’ I said, and went off to the kitchen to open one of the bottles of wine.

  When I returned Rhona was sitting, or should I say reclining, on the sofa. She had one leg up under her bum and was flicking through my cable listings magazine. As I entered the room she said, ‘All this stuff on TV and not one decent programme anywhere. And you wonder why I’m into computer games.’ She tossed the magazine aside. I handed her a glass of wine and sat down beside her at what I thought was a safe enough distance. She noticed the gesture, but let it go without comment. ‘Cheers,’ she said, looking deep into my eyes. She had quite a penetrating stare, unnerving, but I didn’t avert my eyes as I was determined not to be wrong footed by her. She was being at her most seductive, evidenced by the low cut top that exposed her ample cleavage and by the fact that she had practically showered in perfume. The room was filled with her floral scent. ‘Cheers,’ I replied. We touched glasses, put them to our lips, and then I came to the point. ‘So come on. Out with it.’ She smiled. ‘OK. But you have to promise that you’ll hear me out before you say anything.’ That confirmed it. I was not going to like what she had to say. ‘Do you promise?’ she said, in her best little girl voice. She even gave a little pout for good measure. I sighed. ‘Yes, yes, I promise. Now get on with it.’

  She said she had been mulling over my situation with the press and their constant requests for interviews. While she understood my reluctance to have anything to do with them, while she was proud of the fact that I wanted to protect my privacy and, by extension, the people in my life who might also be affected, the fact remained that I was in a position to capitalise on my fame and I should seriously consider selling my story to the papers. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and if I didn’t exploit it I would live to regret it. I thought she had finished but she quickly added, ‘And if you don’t want to do it for yourself, then do it for me. You know what it would mean for me to be free of Trevor. You’d be helping me. Sky, too.’ So that was it. She wasn’t interested in my welfare, but her’s and her daughter’s. I lost my temper, we rowed and she stormed out, calling me a fool and other names besides. Not long after she left I began to feel guilty for the way I had reacted. Once I had calmed down and looked at the thing rationally, I could see the sense in what she was suggesting. The sums of money being offered for my story would have made a significant difference to my life. It would have enabled me to do those things I’d been dreaming about for years: buy my own home, set up a business of some kind, go travelling. All that was now in reach.

  In fairness I had been thinking about selling my story long before Rhona made her suggestion but had been delaying it in the hope that the interest in the bombing would die away and the decision would be taken out of my hands. In fact the story, which was now being universally referred to as 7/7, had gathered such momentum that I was now getting phone calls from all sorts of people wanting to exploit my celebrity: join this movement, become the public face of that charity, support this cause. In this area alone I could have written my own cheques. These people were prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of using my face and name. But I feared getting involved with them almost as much as I feared the media. For one thing, a lot of the stuff would have involved appearing on TV, which I would simply not consider under any circumstances, and for another, it would have meant going to London. I hadn’t been back since the bombing and was very nervous about doing so. But I hadn’t ruled out the possibility of giving one big interview to either a newspaper or magazine. It wouldn’t have required too much of me to answer some questions and pose for a few photographs and I felt sure I could dictate when and where. When I thought about it like that it almost began to seem easy and I felt foolish for not having done it already. Rhona had been right. In her cack-handed, self-serving way, she had helped me make up my mind.

  Two days after the reception at the town hall I had gone back there, at the request of the Mayor, to complete the key-giving ceremony. That time there was only a handful of people present, the ceremony took place in a nondescript ante-room, and the only media in attendance was a reporter from the local weekly paper who waited patiently for everything to finish and then, with cheeky glint in his eye, asked if I would consider giving him an exclusive interview. When I turned him down, with a smile and a pat on his young, dandruffed shoulders, he said, ‘Oh come on, Simon, where’s your sense of local pride?’

  After leaving the town hall I went round to see Rhona and Sky. They hadn’t been able to attend the rescheduled ceremony due to work and boyfriend commitments respectively and were keen to hear news of how it had gone. When I said, ‘Nothing to write home about,’ they were visibly relieved not to have missed out on anything. When I showed them my ‘key’, an outsized thing made from aluminium, they laughed. Sky then told me that she had bought one of the papers that morning to show the article to Chloe. Apparently Chloe thought I looked ‘well fit’ and that given the chance she would ‘do’ me.

  At the reception I’d been approached by a man called Richard Bottomley who claimed to be an agent. He had, he said, travelled from London to meet me in person and he wanted to make me a promise. ‘If you allow me to represent you, I’ll make you a fortune.’ He was in his early thirties, with a fleshy, slightly pockmarked face. He was wearing a sharp pinstripe suit and shiny brogues and seemed very sure of himself without being cocky. I was impressed by him and made a point of telling him so, even as I was turning down his offer. Fortunately I had kept his card. Now feeling guilty at the way things had gone with Rhona, I decided to call him. When he heard my voice, he shrieked with excitement down the phone and a day later he came to visit me again.

  We went to my local pub for lunch and he talked excitedly about what he described as my ‘earning potential’. I must admit that he seduced me with all the figures he bandied about which, in my current financial situation, wasn’t saying very much. It didn’t take long for us to reach an agreement. Before we parted company he made me sign a contract, which he had been presumptuous enough to bring with him, and then told me to leave everything in his ‘capable hands’.

  ‘From now on, you don’t have to do anything. If any offers come your way, let me know and I’ll deal with them. Direct all enquiries to me, all right? Now, then, as far as the interview’s concerned, I’ll contact the editors myself to see who’s offering the most dosh. My bet is that it’ll be one of the Sunday tabloids. You wouldn’t mind that would you?’

  I did mind. I minded very much, but at that stage I just wanted to grab the money and run.

  ‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘But I’ve got a couple of stipulations. They have to come to me and I get final say on any photos they use.’ Richard made a quick note of my demands then said, ‘The press are usually very sensitive on the issue of editorial control, for obvious reasons, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  Richard came up trumps. For an exclusive interview, the Sunday Mirror offered me a hundred grand. I could hardly believe it. Even without Richard’s ten per cent commission that still left me a tidy sum. The paper had initially offered eighty thousand but, using the other papers’ interest as a bargaining tool, Richard had persuaded them to raise their offer. ‘They really want your story. I can’t be sure of the exact angle, but from what they said, I think they’re keen to hear about those moments between you and the girl.’

  ‘Why those moments in particular?’

  ‘As I said, I can’t be sure, but my guess is that they want to focus on what made you stay with her so long and how you found the strength to move the carriage.’ He lau
ghed down the phone then went on, ‘You’re a hero now, but by the time they’re finished, you’ll be a super-hero. We might have to get you a pair of tights and a cape.’

  ‘Oh please. Don’t you start.’

  Now that I’d made the decision, I felt even more nervous and conflicted. Instead of withdrawing from the spotlight, I was now consciously stepping into it. And for money. I was proud that I would now be able to help Rhona in her ongoing struggle to get out from under her bullying ex-husband, but if I was being totally honest, that was a by-product of my decision to sell my story. In a strange way, I felt deserving of all the attention I’d been getting. For once in my miserable life I had done something to be proud of, and I wouldn’t have been human if I didn’t wanted some kind of recognition for my actions, some kind of praise.

  * * *

  The Mirror interview took place a week later at my flat. Once again I attempted a bit of tidying up before the journalist arrived. In the end the effort was wasted as the interview was conducted in my back garden. Having spent the previous night in a stuffy B&B near the town centre, the journalist – a stragglyhaired forty-something woman called Susie Lowencrantz – was keen to sample a bit of the early-morning sunshine. She arrived at nine a.m. sharp and we talked almost non-stop till midday. She began by asking me about my life before I moved to Duddenham and I spun her yarn about a guy who had been born and brought up in a tough neighbourhood of London, who’d left school early and who, after years of doing ‘nothing in particular’, had grown tired of life in London and decided to sample the waters elsewhere. ‘But why this place?’ asked Lowencrantz, to which I replied, ‘I was looking for a change, somewhere out of London, somewhere cheap.’

  Backtracking slightly, she asked me to provide more details of my childhood, at which point I became extremely wary of her. Why was she so keen to know about my past? Was she up to something? Was there was more to her than met the eye?

  ‘There’s not much else to tell. Like I said, I went to a normal secondary school, left at sixteen, looked for work, couldn’t find any and started signing on. Between that time and when I came here, I’ve been in and out of work. I’m working at the moment.’

  She didn’t seem convinced but I’d to put an edge to my voice, making it clear that I wasn’t delving any further into my past. She scribbled my response and asked, ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Blockbuster.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise, which was how people usually reacted when I mentioned my job.

  ‘You enjoy the work?’ she asked, trying to keep the judgement out of her voice. The more she spoke, the more I disliked her.

  ‘Not really. I used to, but now I hate it. I’ll probably get fired after saying this, but even a chimp could do that work.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave if you hate it so much?’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  From then on her demeanour seemed to shift, she became more focussed, her questions became more specific and they were all to do with the bombing. She wanted blood and guts, she wanted gore, she wanted graphic details to titillate her readers. And so, playing the game, I gave her enough to keep her happy but held back from the truly horrific stuff. As Richard had thought, she asked me to describe the time I had spent with Stuart and Latonya and made me talk her through my efforts to move the carriage. She didn’t seem to care how difficult it was for me to dredge it all up again. She was no shrink. She was a hard-nosed hack who’d come to do a job and was not going to allow sentiment to get in the way.

  When I started talking about Stuart and how I’d had to bind his legs, I began to shake visibly at the memory, but Lowencrantz either didn’t notice or she did and ignored it. She also asked me about Mohammad Sidique Khan.

  ‘You say you saw him?’

  I nodded, no longer willing to co-operate with what had now turned into an interrogation. She asked me to describe him, which I did, to the best of my memory, and afterwards she said, ‘And how do you feel about what he did, what they did?’

  I didn’t know what to say besides, ‘It was wrong.’

  She noted my answer, taking a little too long over it. I couldn’t wait for her wrap things up and I realised I’d made a huge mistake inviting her into my house. At last she said, ‘OK, I think I’ve got enough. Just to remind you that the photographer’ll be here day after tomorrow. He’ll contact you directly.’ She folded her notepad and switched off her Dictaphone. I observed her for a few moments as she hastily stuffed everything into her bag. She had what she wanted and suddenly seemed in a great hurry to get away. Just as she got up to leave I said, ‘You didn’t ask what I’m gonna do with the money you’re paying me. The reader might like to know that, don’t you reckon?’ It was a sly dig but I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to see her squirm a bit. She flashed me a condescending smile and said, ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why? That not part of the story, too?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not a part the reader’s interested in.’

  * * *

  I used my next shift with Dave to hand in my notice. It was a Friday evening, one of our busiest times. The customers were coming in by the minute, renting their films for the weekend and taking advantage of our special offers. Ideally I’d have waited till a more quiet time to make the announcement but I was keen to get the thing over and done with in case I changed my mind. I’d been in that position before, on the verge of leaving, only to back track out of fear. Jobs as cushy as those didn’t grow on trees, which made it both a blessing and a curse: the ease of the work is what had trapped me.

  Later that evening, while we were tidying up ahead of closing, Dave said he was happy that I was leaving. ‘At least one of us is escaping, eh?’ He had been at Blockbuster for eight years, and whilst he had often thought about quitting, he had so far lacked the courage to go through with it.

  Trying to console him I said, ‘Well at least you made manager.’

  ‘Big deal. I get almost the same money as before but with three times the responsibility. I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes I miss being a CSR. You guys don’t know you’re alive.’

  For a moment he went almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. And then he snapped out of it.

  ‘But you’re out. You’re free. We should celebrate.’

  I’d been feeling guilty since he mentioned not being invited to the reception and it felt like a good moment to apologise. ‘Sorry about the other day.’ He looked puzzled, so I explained.

  After he’d heard me out, he said, ‘Don’t worry. I was working that day, anyway. Remember?’

  ‘I know, but you could have booked it off if I’d given you notice. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  He slapped me on the back and said, ‘You’re not gonna get all mushy on me are you? I hate mush.’

  I smiled and he went round the back to put the alarm on. While he was gone I started thinking about our friendship. It was a strange one. We were close without being intimate. We didn’t confide in each other or speak about anything of real importance. Though we lived, roughly, in the same area, I’d never been to his house and he’d never been to mine. We went to the pub, usually after work, sank a few pints while either watching football or talking about it, then went home. I didn’t need anything more from him, and until he made that comment about the reception, I had assumed he felt the same way. He hadn’t given me the slightest indication that he was interested in going, even though I had talked to him about it. To me he was the ideal friend, respectful of your space without being standoffish. He had never pried into my personal life or history and I had taken that to mean that he would like me to extend him the same courtesy.

  In the beginning, we had provided each other with the basic facts our lives and things had never really moved on from there. I was from London, I had an older brother who was a Christian, my parents had retired and moved back to Jamaica, I had come to Duddenham for a change of scenery and a lower cost of living. He was born and raised in Duddenham and had spent mos
t of his life there, he lived alone, he was close to his parents and saw them daily, he had always worked and always in retail, he had two friends he had known since school. I’d met them but had never socialised with them as Dave liked to keep us apart. One was an old flame called Stacie, a sullen, peroxide blonde whose roots were always showing, and the other was a guy called Paul, a biker who wore leathers all year round. They sometimes came into the store to get free rentals on Dave’s account. If Dave was on shift, they’d stay and talk with him a while; if not, they couldn’t get out of the store fast enough, especially if I was working. I had the impression that they didn’t like me, that they saw me as some kind of rival for Dave’s attention. He was that type, he had the ability to make you feel like the most important person in his life. That’s certainly how he had made me feel, before the bombing but even more so after it. He was proud of what I’d done, but, in keeping with the nature of our friendship, the only way he could show it without causing us embarrassment or inflating my ego, was to poke fun at me. Rhona thought he was just being jealous, but I knew better, I knew that the more cutting his put-down, the deeper his affection.

  A couple of evenings after I told him I was quitting my job, we went to one of our regular haunts for a few pints. It had been a while since we’d gone for a drink together and I’d forgotten just how much I enjoyed it. For midweek, the place was quite busy. As we walked in, a couple of the regulars nodded and smiled at me but not everyone in the pub was happy to see me. Trevor was in that night, sitting in a corner with a friend. When he saw me he all but hissed. I said to Dave, ‘There’s a bad smell in here tonight. Let’s go somewhere else.’ He spotted Trevor and said, ‘Why the hell should we? Last time I checked, this weren’t his pub.’ And with that he practically marched me up to the bar and ordered the first round from Sabina, the young Polish bar girl.