No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  And then I realise as I turn towards the house, that lad, he doesn’t have one long arm, he has a fucking baseball bat in his hand.

  Gaz comes roaring out of the house, slams through the gate like a berserker, the bat raised high above his head. Obviously never swung in anger his entire life, but it won’t take much practice. One lucky shot to a bloke’s head is more than enough to put him down. But this guy’s all over the place, the booze still in his system. Means he’s way off-balance, but it also means he won’t know when to stop swinging.

  “Frank. Bat.”

  He’s still wrapped around Simon, can’t see me. “What?”

  “Drop him and run.”

  Gaz swings wild, slicing the air over my head as I drop to a crouch that spikes my back. I dig in, put my palms to the tarmac for balance and scramble out of the way as Gaz chops the bat once off the road. The vibration must’ve kicked a shock up his arms because he pauses. Shakes his hand out, adjusts his grip.

  It’s all the time I need to run to the car. I pull open the driver’s door.

  I shout at him, “Frank, I’m telling you—”

  Frank’s broken the hug, and I see Simon stagger a few steps off to one side.

  Turn back, and there’s Gaz coming for me again.

  I put up a warning hand. “Hang fire a fuckin’ second—”

  Have to whip my hand out of the way as he swings at it. Then again, aiming for my head this time, but I shove the open driver’s door at him and the bat goes through the side window.

  He kicks the door shut and I back off, break into a run as Gaz slices at me with the bat, connecting this time, the end of the bat switching my hip out. I twist painfully and fall against the boot.

  He backs up, prepares another swing. Looks like the fucker’s all set on killing me. Eyes like a purebred mental case.

  Then Frank’s in front of me. Gaz swings with the bat, but he’s way off the mark. Frank launches himself at Gaz before the lad has a chance to swing it like he means it. The two of them hit the tarmac, the bat jolting out of Gaz’s hand and rolling across the road.

  “Frank,” I say.

  There’s a liquid thump as Frank puts his fist in the student’s face. He draws his hand back, pauses for a second as if he’s hefting the weight of his own knuckles for the first time, then lands another blow.

  I grab my hip, my other hand wrapped around the empty window frame. Sucking air to kill the throb and stifle some of the fear. I’m just waiting for the martial arts expert to come out of the house now.

  “Frank. Leave him. Get in the fuckin’ car.”

  Frank pulls himself to his feet. As he does so, Gaz rolls out onto his side, his hands up over his face, fingers caging the mess that used to be his nose. He lets out a low guttural moan as Frank backs off across the road towards me. I slap the big lad on the shoulder and get into the Micra. He slams the passenger door as I struggle with the ignition. I’m twisting the key, but the engine won’t catch.

  “Cal,” he says.

  “C’mon, you fuckin’—”

  “Cal.”

  A bang against the windscreen throws me back in my seat. “The fuck was that?”

  And I see him out of the corner of my eye. Simon. He’s picked up the baseball bat, glaring at us through his guitar band hair, his mouth open. Then his lips slap shut and he takes another pass, swinging at the windscreen. The glass rattles in the frame.

  Frank panics. “You want to start the engine, Cal?”

  I wrench the key in the ignition again. “No, I thought I’d leave it and see if he can get through the windscreen, you Deacon.”

  Simon backs off a few steps, the soles of his trainers scraping against the road. Still breathing through his mouth. He’s saying something to himself, but while he’s moving his mouth, there’s no sound coming from him. Then, when he’s far enough away for a decent run-up, he kicks into the tarmac and charges us, bat raised.

  Another twist, the engine catches.

  The radio blares at us, but at least it’s not The fucking Diamond.

  I stamp the accelerator, feel the car grind and stall, the gears crunching, and pull hard on the steering wheel. The Micra lurches forward and up onto the pavement as Simon swings. There’s a loud crack, and the wing mirror on my side whips into the air.

  “You fuckin’ bastard.”

  “Keep your foot on the pedal,” says Frank.

  I do. Simon throws the bat at the car. It bounces off the bodywork, forcing me to flinch. In the rear view I can see it roll onto the road again.

  Simon makes a move to pick up the bat. Then he straightens up, watching us roar out of there.

  I watch him in the rear view. I only slow down to take the corner at the end of the street.

  Thinking, next time, we keep the engine running.

  3

  Fifteen minutes of silent driving, give or take. But I can tell, the big lad’s sitting there next to me just itching to talk about what happened. Couple of times, I hear the sharp breath of him about to say something, but then he bottles it. Probably thinks I’m going to chuck him out of the car if he tries it on.

  So he waits until we’re closer to his flat.

  “Alright,” he says, “I’ve got to ask—”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Where’s your head?”

  “Still on my shoulders, Frank. Just about.”

  “Nah, I mean it. You can tell us.”

  “I mean it an’ all.” I shift in my seat. Switch on the radio. Some song about truckin’ right, and I try to do the same. But it’s difficult when it feels like my hip’s been fractured. “There’s nothing the matter with me a little quiet won’t fix.”

  “We’ve been quiet,” says Frank, pushing his seat back a few notches. He’s stopped shaking out his hand now, content to cradle it palm-up in his good hand like a wounded bird. A pained look on his boat and blood spattered across his North Face — lucky for him it’s washable.

  He sighs to himself and stares out of the window.

  “Normally,” he says, “you’re fine. Normally, you’d be able to see a bloke with a baseball bat.”

  “I did see him.”

  “Before he started swinging it at us.”

  “I told you. I said, Frank. Bat. How much more specific do you want it?”

  He shakes his head. “You ask me, it’s them pills—”

  “No, not now, don’t start on the fuckin’ pills, Frank.”

  “You ask me, they’re making you slow.”

  “You ask me, you keep it shut, Francis, ’cause I’m sick of fuckin’ hearing it.” I chew the inside of my cheek, keep my eyes on the road.

  A pause.

  Then: “You want to talk about the pills, it’s not the fuckin’ pills, alright? I’m fine on them.”

  “Okay,” he says. But he’s still pouting.

  “Frank, when I don’t take the pills, I’m in pain. How’s that for slow? Can’t move, reckon that’s pretty fuckin’ slow. What d’you think, eh?”

  “I only know what I see, Cal. You don’t look well—”

  “You don’t look like an arsehole, but you sure as fuck sound like one.”

  “Yeah, see? Tetchy.” Frank sucks his teeth. “That’s what I’m talking about right there. Slow and tetchy. There’s me, I got my hand broke—”

  “You just bruised your knuckles, you queen.”

  “Nah, reckon it’s broke, the way I hit him. Hit him hard, y’know?”

  “You’ll heal.”

  He breathes out through his nose. “I don’t want to go back to prison for this.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Something that I’ve been very careful about, you know that.”

  “You still on licence?”

  Frank doesn’t say anything. I glance across at him. He’s looking at his hand.

  “Are you?” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “Well then, you want to look at the bigger picture, mate. That bastard was brandish
ing a baseball bat, right?”

  “Right.”

  “It comes down to it, you were in fear for your life, so you struck out. It was defensive, what you did. Anyone who says the odds were in your favour, they’re just as tapped as you.”

  “I don’t know that he’s alright though, do I?”

  “If he was moaning, Frank, he was breathing. Believe me, I’ve been there, fuckin’ done that. You thank your lucky stars it was just your hand.” I point around the car, checking it off: “New windscreen, new side window, new wing mirror—”

  “Don’ll pay for it.”

  “Oh, you think so? Because what I think is, he’ll laugh at me if I ask him for compensation. You know yourself what Plummer’s like for fuckin’ money. Get him to put his hand in his pocket for our wages, it’s like we’re stealing bread from his kids” mouths. Might as well forget about the incidentals.”

  “Well,” says Frank, “maybe if you’d been a bit more on the ball—”

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Frank doesn’t carry on. His lips bunch as he turns his face to the window. Sulking.

  “You want dropped at your mum’s or yours?”

  Frank grunts. “Mine. Please.”

  He’s quiet for the rest of the journey. I think I hear a “thanks” and a “night” out of him, but I might be wrong. I don’t hold it against him. The lad’s in pain.

  Which is probably why he slams the passenger door too hard.

  I watch him head to his block, then reach for my pills. Swallow two with some bottled water, shake out the stiffness in my neck and take a deep breath. Finally. A little fucking relief. Then I throw the car into gear and head home.

  4

  I’m well into the bottle when the phone rings. Takes some concentration to pick up the receiver. A deep breath before I answer, because I think I know who this is going to be. Only one person I know who disregards the ten o’clock cut-off.

  “Tell me why Frank’s just tried to phone in sick for tomorrow,” says Plummer.

  “Alright, Don? How are you?” I take a drink. “You almost get your head kicked in tonight?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I fuckin’ answered it, didn’t I? Look, you want to send us round to a place where they keep a weapon by the front door, it’d be nice to have a wee bit of warning, eh?”

  “Did you serve the notice?”

  “Is Frank alright? What about Callum? Is he okay?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Those are the questions you should be asking, Don. Should’ve enquired as to the wellbeing of your favourite employees.”

  Plummer sighs. “Did you get the job done or not?”

  “Well, you’ll know that Frank’s tried to call in sick, ’cause he’s talked to you, but I reckon he’ll show up tomorrow anyway. See, thing is, he’s a bit scared because he thinks he did a lad more damage than he was supposed to. Fucked his knuckles on the lad’s face. But I reckon once he gets over the shock, has a good night’s kip, he should be fine. Me, I’ll tell you, I took a serious fuckin’ whack to the side. I’m having trouble walking right, actually. Lot of lingering pain. I think I should be alright, but I need you to understand that I’ll be putting myself on the sick if I’m not.”

  I drain the vodka in my glass.

  “And yes,” I say, “we got the fuckin’ job done.”

  A pause. Then, “Good.”

  “But see if I have to go into battle on your behalf again, you can stick that job up your arse.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it, Don. Circumstantial inflation, know what I mean? The money’s not worth the kickings anymore. And the bastards messed up my car.”

  “Tomorrow’s an easy job, Cal,” he says, stringing out the “easy” like the Caramel bunny.

  “Tonight was supposed to be an easy job, Donald. Students aren’t supposed to put up a fight, are they?”

  “No, they’re not. But how was I supposed to know—”

  “I’m just saying. You never know. But if I get hurt tomorrow, that’s it. Call it a fuckin’ night, because life’s too short to take this many knocks. I don’t heal as fast as I used to.”

  “You say that,” says Plummer. Sounds like he’s smiling. Picture him now: he’s sat back in his large chair, that all-too-familiar self-satisfied grin on his shiny fucking face. “You say that, but you’ll come back, because what else are you going to do, Callum? Go back to private work? Yeah, because that worked out wonderfully for you, didn’t it?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Whatever happened tonight, it’s nothing to worry about. You have yourself a couple more drinks and forget about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Fuck off. Call me a fuckin’ drunk, you wanker—”

  “Don’t do that.” The smile’s gone from his voice now. “Don’t think you can talk to me like that. You want to walk, Callum, by all means walk. And if you want me to take this as something other than the drink talking, you’ll be out on your arse anyway. Loads of people on licence right now who’d kill to have your job. So treat me with some respect, okay?”

  I don’t say anything. Can’t think of anything but swear words.

  The pause translates to Plummer as if I’ve conceded defeat. When he starts talking again, I hang up on him. Takes a few slams to get the receiver back where it’s supposed to be, but I manage it in the end. Then I take the phone off the hook.

  Wait a few seconds, and my mobile starts ringing.

  Mithering bastard.

  I turn off the mobile, drop it onto the couch and pour another vodka.

  Fuck him. Fuck him. Reckons just because he’s paying me, he can talk to me like I’m his fucking slave?

  He wants to talk respect, about time he paid some to me, isn’t it? Fucking hell, I’m the one doing all the donkey work. Me and Frank. Even when I did menial shit at Paulo’s club, the man treated me like a human being. Still looked at me and talked to me like I was a fucking person.

  But Plummer. Pays a man’s wages, thinks he’s got the bastard owned. He wants to have a word with himself.

  Put him on tonight’s job, see how he’d handle it. Bet he’d shit his pants.

  Too right.

  I fetch my Pot Noodle and slurp it sitting on the couch. Grab the remote and turn on the telly. I need a distraction, so I stab the remote until I find something to watch, something loud and obnoxious to smother my mood.

  Finish the Pot Noodle, none the better for it. I light an Embassy, stop surfing when I catch a black-and-white film on ITV.

  Vincent Price is in it, looking like a stretched-out bulldog. He’s goggle-eyed and chewing the scenery like he hasn’t eaten in a month, talking about a mute woman who’s in the room with him. Except he’s talking about her like she’s some kind of specimen or he’s conducting some sort of experiment on her. A touch of the weird to the situation, so I keep watching, even though the film looks familiar. I put it down to the actors and the sets — they re-used everything in the glory days of schlock.

  After a while, Price’s voice becomes narcotic. I settle back on the couch. The vodka, the pills, the nicotine, the fatigue and now Whispering Vince, they’re all delivering blows to knock me out. It’s not long before the television becomes radio, and then the lot drops away.

  Then I don’t know how long it is before the pain starts again.

  5

  “Christ Almighty, what happened to you?”

  “Bad night.” Slouched out on the walkway, hands dug deep into jacket pockets. It’s warm out here, but there’s still that chill against my skin. “Can I come in?”

  Greg nods, leaves the front door open for me as he walks back up the narrow hall. I can make out Cat Stevens singing, “I’m Gonna Get Me A Gun” from the living room. I lean back against the front door until it closes, take a moment to breathe some stillness into my churning gut, then follow him on unsteady legs.
<
br />   It’s taken all my energy to get to my feet, and Greg’s the only person I know who can keep me upright and alive.

  As I head into Greg’s living room, I see the two massive lava lamps he keeps by the windows. The glow’s supposed to soothe his customers, provide a languid lightshow to take the edge off a Jones, but I can’t bring myself to look at them right now. The lava movement matches the way my stomach’s lurching around. And Cat Stevens is doing fuck all to help the situation.

  “Surprised to see you back so soon.”

  Greg drops into a worn-out wingback, leans forward and snorts a chunky line of coke from a CD case. Looks like Cat on the cover — the white shoes and cocky position. It’s the disc that’s in right now: Matthew And Son. Not what I would’ve expected from Greg — certainly not music to get coked up to — but then he’s an odd bloke.

  “I didn’t expect to be back,” I say.

  Gregs sniffs, pulls at his nose. “Difficult to factor in those really bad nights, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  A bad night, that’s a mild way of putting it. Nightmares of a blood-soaked arm reaching out of a scarlet bath and grabbing at me, fingers streaking red across my wrist, digging into flesh, nails tearing at skin. And the cloying smell of the blood, like the inside of a fucking abattoir. That forced me awake. The TV screen was black, but the telly was still on.

  I thought it was, anyway.

  White shapes flashed, nothing I could make out.

  And then there was Vince again, no more whispering, shouting: “Ladies and gentlemen, please do not panic! But scream! Scream for your lives!”

  They did. Women screeching in terror, men doing their version. I was twisted to one side on the couch, the bottle of vodka knocked over on the coffee table.

  A bloke shouted, “It’s over here!”

  Felt like a dream, but then I realised that dreams weren’t this painful. My hip felt swollen and infected, a low pulse beneath the skin. Panic drained the booze out of my system and I found that I couldn’t move my legs. I wanted to scream right along with everyone else, but I couldn’t find my voice, the breath torn out of me, my chest burning. I grabbed at one side of the couch, tried to get up. My leg twitched, jerked a shadow across the carpet, flickering in the dull light from the television.