No More Heroes

by Stephen Thompson

  ‘I dunno about that. I have a sneaky feeling that me and her are done as of today.’

  He went silent for a moment then said, ‘Why? Because of the story?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll know for sure when I go and see her this evening, but she left a message on the phone and she doesn’t sound too happy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants out.’

  Theodore sighed. ‘That’d be a shame. I hope it doesn’t happen, but if it does, then I pray you’ll see sense and come back to London. After all, what reason would you have for staying in that place if you and Rhona broke up?’

  He didn’t need to ask the question, and I know he wasn’t really looking for an answer, but still I said, ‘None.’

  The hours rolled by, slowly. Locked up in the flat, I felt more like a prisoner than when I was actually incarcerated. With a few hours left to kill before Rhona got home, I gave in to the temptation to check out the TV news. I had to see if my story had been picked up. Ten minutes of flicking between the channels showed that it hadn’t. There was still a chance it would appear later that day or in the days to come, but I doubted it. The news stations had so far ignored my fame, which had been an invention of the tabloid press, and whilst I didn’t want to tempt fate, it seemed they would also ignore my disgrace.

  I had only myself to blame. I should never have spoken to the press. In the wake of the bombing, all my instincts had told me to steer clear of publicity, to keep my head down, but ultimately the pull had proved just too strong. The day I called him to get advice about whether I should sell my story, the first thing Theodore had said was, ‘It’s up to you. But I have to say that all the money in the world won’t solve your problems. It won’t make you feel any better about yourself. If anything, it’ll probably make you feel worse.’ How true. I had almost a hundred grand tucked away in the bank, earning interest, but it was about as comforting to me as a last meal is to a condemned man. I didn’t want any of it. I decided that I would honour my promises to give a bit to Rhona, Sky and my parents, then donate the rest to charity.

  Just as it had been the first time around, there were innocent people in my life who would have to share in my shame. Rhona would have to hide her face, whilst Sky was probably even then being teased by her schoolmates. There was no escape for them. Just as there’d been no escape for Theodore and my parents during the original scandal. At least my parents were now in Jamaica and would be spared further humiliation, but Theodore would have to go through it all over again. For all his bravado, for all his claims that his faith insulated him from the judgements of others, the truth is he had suffered and would suffer again the stigma of being the brother of a convicted rapist.

  It was well after dark before I plucked up the courage to go and see Rhona. I had waited because I wanted the activity on our street to die down before venturing outside. The walk from my place to Rhona’s took no more than ten minutes door to door, but to avoid even the slightest chance of running into someone I decided to drive. I sneaked out of the house and walked briskly across the road to where my car was parked. I was about to put the key in the door when I sensed a presence behind me. I swivelled in an instant and came face to face with Trevor. He had two of his friends with him. I didn’t recognise them. To make sure I didn’t try to run, they flanked me. Trevor eyeballed me for what seemed an age.

  Eventually I said, ‘Well, you gonna stand there all night holding your dick or you and your girls gonna actually do something?’

  He smiled, which was the signal for his boys to start inching towards me. He himself actually took a step backwards, giving his mates room to work. At that point I relaxed. If I had any fight in me I couldn’t summon it. I couldn’t be bothered. When Trevor’s henchman pounced on me I put up a token resistance. In no time they had me in an arm and neck lock. Only then did Trevor step forward. ‘I’m gonna show you what we do to rapists round here.’

  They left me in a crumpled heap at the front wheel of my car. My face, which had taken most of the punishment, I couldn’t feel. I had suffered some kind of internal damage as well, possibly a broken rib or two. When I tried to stand up the pain in my side made me cry out and slump back to the ground. For a moment I thought about crawling across the street to my flat but the pain was just too severe to move. In the end I took out my mobile and called Dave. He answered on the first ring. Through my swollen bloody lips I just about managed to say, ‘Dave. Need your help.’ I didn’t have the energy to say anything else. No longer able to keep myself upright, I toppled sideways and the phone fell from my hand onto the pavement. For the next minute or so I could hear Dave saying, ‘Hello. Hello. Simon? You there?’ Soon afterwards I passed out.

  I woke up in hospital. Dave had driven round to mine and found me lying on the pavement. Later he joked that he had almost given himself a hernia trying to put me in his car. I spent the night in hospital. Before being discharged, one of the patients stopped me as I was leaving the ward and asked for my autograph. Dave, who had come to pick me up, was practically shoved aside. I couldn’t believe it. There I was, my face full of stitches, my ribs bound as tightly as a mummy, walking on crutches, being asked for an autograph. The patient, a gaunt, forty-something woman dressed in a hospital-issue gown and slippers, wasn’t even interested to know what had happened to me. My celebrity was all that concerned her. She clearly didn’t know about the revelations and I wondered how long it would be before she found out and ripped up the piece of paper on which I had scribbled, ‘To Jenny. Lots of love, Simon Weekes.’

  Dave put me up in his flat and took three days off work especially to take care of me. In that time he waited on me hand and foot, without complaint and without expectation of reward. I offered him some money, not for services rendered, but just because I had more than I needed and he didn’t seem to have enough and it felt like the right thing to do. He refused, was almost insulted. When I told him that I wanted to do something for him, that I needed to, he said, ’You’re a mate. That’s enough.’

  Whilst I was convalescing at Dave’s, I thought about calling Theodore to tell him what had happened, but I didn’t want him to fret unnecessarily so I decided to leave it till I was back on my feet. I also called Rhona, several times, but she never picked up. I left messages but she never got back to me. In desperation I called Sky on her mobile. As soon as she answered I could hear the tension in her voice. When I asked after Rhona, she said, ‘She’s here.’

  She was whispering to avoid being overheard by her mum, but it didn’t work because I heard Rhona say, ‘Is that Simon?’

  Sky said to me, ‘see you soon,’ and moments later Rhona came on the line.

  ‘That was a cheap trick calling Sky like that.’

  She was right.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I haven’t been taking your calls because I just needed a bit of time to sort my feelings. I probably didn’t handle it right and I’m sorry about that, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I panicked, that’s all.’ I heard her shuffling, probably getting more comfortable. I pictured her sitting down.

  ‘Thing is, Simon, it’s not only about you and me, there’s Sky, too. I have to do what I can to protect her from all this.’

  ‘Sky doesn’t need protecting. She’s a big girl.’

  That hit a nerve. ‘How the hell do you know what she needs from what she doesn’t? When you have kids of your own then come back and talk to me.’

  She paused, composed herself. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Simon. Honestly, that’s not what I want.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  She went quiet for a moment then said, ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I know but it’s hard, it’s hard to figure out how to handle things at the moment. I can deal with the attention, but as I say, it’s not fair on Sky. We’ve already had journalists calling up asking to speak to her.’

  ‘What could they possibly want with her?’

  ‘They wanted her to talk a
bout you, they….’ she hesitated, then went on, ‘they were trying to get her to dig the dirt on you. I answered the phone so they never had the chance to speak to her directly. When I realised what they were after, I gave it to them straight: I told them you had never been anything but kind and loving to Sky and that she saw you almost as a father. Of course they didn’t want to hear that and put the phone down on me.’

  I was seething. The bastards. The very idea that I would hurt Sky….

  It was time for plain speaking. I said, ‘Be honest, do you want to keep this going or what?’

  She didn’t answer straight away, which made me panic.

  Eventually she said, ‘Yes. Yes I do, but….’

  I could hear the fear in her voice, ‘…but maybe we should take a little break? Just a week or so until things die down? That sound reasonable to you?’ It didn’t sound reasonable at all but it did sound logical. ‘Fair enough.’

  Within a week I was feeling better, physically at any rate. I no longer needed the crutch and the bandages round my ribs had been removed. The summer was on its way out but it was still warm enough to sit outside.

  One Sunday evening Dave and I went for a drink at our local and managed to find a seat in the busy beer garden at the back. I felt very nervous being out. I drew a lot of sideways glances and even a few whispered comments, but after two pints of Guinness I ceased caring. By the end Dave and I were laughing and joking and swapping amusing – and sometimes not so amusing – Blockbuster anecdotes, one of which featured Rhona. I had forgotten it but Dave, his speech slurred by all the lager he’d had, recounted it in full. We were at work one day when he asked me how old Rhona was. Without hesitation I said, ‘Thirty-seven. Why?’ Immediately he started laughing. When I asked him to share the joke, he pulled up Rhona’s account on the computer screen and showed me her personal details, which included her date of birth. She was actually forty-one. I couldn’t help myself and burst out laughing, at which point Dave said, ‘That, my friend, is a clear case of mutton dressed as lamb.’

  Later that afternoon, while Dave went off to get a round, I sent a text to Sky to say that I was going to spend a few days with my brother in London and to ask if she wanted me to bring her back something. She didn’t want anything, but she said I should hurry back as she missed having me around. I thought that was the end of our little flurry of messages, but later, while Dave was suggesting that he and I spend a lads’ weekend together in ‘the smoke’, I received another one from her. It read, ‘u rlly do thse thngs 2 tht grl?’

  I hadn’t expected that. It jolted me, like a punch to the stomach. I was tempted to ignore it, but Sky always had the ability to get what she wanted from me.

  I sent her a reply saying, ‘Yes I did, but it was a long time ago and I regret it very much.’

  She didn’t respond. I tried to imagine what she was thinking and hoped she wasn’t judging me. A few moments later I felt my phone vibrate. ‘hrd wot dad did. wot n arse. cll me frm lndn? hugs…xxx.’

  I blinked back the tears, hoping that Dave hadn’t noticed.

  At Kings Cross station I toyed with the idea of taking a taxi to Theodore’s but the masochist in me opted for the tube. I convinced myself that it would be quicker and less hassle – I had arrived in London at the height of rush hour – but looking back I realised that I was simply testing myself. And it was indeed a test, but nowhere near as severe as the last time. ‘Your brain has received a massive shock. It will recover in time.’ That process, it seemed, was now in an advanced state.

  Because he had to go to work, Theodore had left the key to his flat under the doormat. I let myself in, dumped my suitcase, called Rhona at the surgery to let her know I had arrived safely, then went out again. It was just too sunny and pleasant a day to be indoors. I went for a walk and ended up in a nearby park that was used mostly by mothers and toddlers. It had a paved play area, complete with swings and slides and a roundabout, and was screened from the busy road by a high wire-meshed fence. It was empty, except for a group of teenage boys having a kick-about. They were a mixed bunch ethnically, ranging in age from about twelve to fifteen. I sat on a weather-beaten bench and decided to watch them for a while. I was sitting only a few feet away but they barely noticed me. At that moment nothing was more important to them than the game. As I watched them, a memory from my childhood sprang unbidden into my mind. Theodore and I were playing ‘Wembley’ in the street immediately outside our house, jumpers for goal posts. Mum popped her head out the window and called us in. We completely ignored her and carried on playing. She was forced to come and get us, but when she tried to collar us, we ran rings round her, dribbled the ball between her legs, and tied her in knots. Despite herself, she ended up in fits of laughter. Dad came to the window to see what the commotion was then disappeared again. Moments later he too was in the street, and before long we were playing two against two: me and Mum versus Dad and Theodore. Several curtains twitched as we ran around making quite a noise. The game went on for some time, but I couldn’t remember which team, if either, won.

  Acknowledgements

  I couldn’t have written this novel without the love, encouragement and support of the following people: my ever-dependable friends James Wood, Kate Goldsworthy, Shenagh Cameron, Sabina Kubica and Nabil Elouahabi; my fellow Greeks Daphne Kauffmann, Spiros Arsenis, Daisy Arsenis, Lilla Dendrinou, Tommy Dendrinou, Kostis Karavias, John Harrison and Kathryn Harrison; my champion Rukhsana Yasmin; and last, but never surpassed, my big bro ‘Yardie’ and likkle sister Karen. I love you all.

  An extra mention must go to Valerie Brandes for reminding me of what good editing is all about, and to Jazzmine Breary for encouraging me to keep an open mind about the things I make. You guys are an inspiration. Thanks for the faith you’ve shown in mon petit bouquin. Vive Jacaranda!