No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  I glared at Tommy, damning my words he threw back at me. Cheers rang out from the lads up front, imploring Pete to share more of the gory details. The vicar stood before his congregation, his hands held with palms facing the rowdy group in a placating gesture. The man with the black hat sitting before me knocked his pew backward in his rush to get out and confront me. Linda held her chaperone’s arm and shook her head as I drew level.

  ‘Why?’ she mouthed.

  ‘Fuck off, Linda. I didn’t kill the prick.’

  ‘Tall like Ben,’ Pete called out over the din. He kept repeating the same phrase, but he looked at Billy and pointed as he spoke.

  Billy jumped from his seat. ‘You taking the piss? Is he taking the piss?’

  The street lads cheered for Billy. Pete screamed as Billy hobbled toward the pew, his large shoes flapping and his crooked walking stick rose in anger. The vicar worked on getting a tune played, but no one wanted to sing. As I passed the big old boys in black, one of them grabbed me by the arm and pulled me close.

  ‘You got something of ours,’ he snarled. His words grated and ground, each syllable drawn out like the anguished groaning of a spirit. His grip tightened.

  My knives sat in my calf pockets; I hadn’t expected to need them. Not in a church. But the bread-knife sat in my backpack. As I lowered the pack, the organ played a jaunty tune and the vicar clapped and swayed.

  ‘You need to come with us.’

  ‘Piss off.’ I couldn’t get my hand to the knife.

  ‘That isn’t one of your options.’

  Billy Two Guns stood at the podium wrestling with the vicar and cussing Pete. Tommy jostled at my back getting in my way, pushing at me and telling me stuff that meant nothing. Linda stood and pushed her chaperone to get involved. My man still held me, but the madness surrounding us caused him to question his authority. I broke the man’s hold on my arm by rotating my wrist and striking at his chest with the flat of my palm. He stumbled into the oaf behind him and I headed for the podium. Behind me I heard words—Tommy’s reasoning, the men in black threatening and a fist hitting flesh. What did I care?

  The vicar held Billy by both arms, kneeling to talk to him. Pete took an exit stage bloody left as the other man in black grabbed my arm from behind. Both hands held me, but I stomped on his foot and attempted to slam the back of my head into his face. I turned and allowed his roundhouse punch to sail past my nose. Reversing my turn, I planted my knee through his gut and pushed him away.

  ‘Where is the big fat leprous prat?’ I yelled to no one in particular. ‘Pete, you bastard, come and meet your fucking maker.’

  The photographer had moved to the side of the church trying to snap my face, while the coppers tapped their truncheons against the pews. The vicar released Billy’s flailing arms and allowed him to join the fray. He floated across the stage, his cloak shimmering as he held his hands out, inviting me to join him.

  ‘Ben, I’ll take you to Pete,’ he said.

  A man in black grabbed Billy by the throat and shook him before throwing him back into the crowd of baying street folk. Linda’s man grappled with the other man in black. Tommy kept out of the photographer’s view while protecting Linda from the fray. The street lads jumped and dived and punched and cheered as every blow landed.

  The vicar steered me into a side vestibule, shut the door and bolted it top and bottom. He leant against the dark wood and smiled. ‘That went ever so well,’ he said.

  He exhaled a deep breath and moved away from the door. A flask appeared from the folds of his cloak and he sipped before offering me a tug. My body needed alcohol, but I didn’t need to share with the vicar. I paced between the desk and the cupboards beneath the picture of the bearded man. A small barred window sat next to a door with exit glowing above its lintel.

  ‘Vicar, I need to leave. There are police out there thinking they can pin Marvin’s murder on me and two men, wearing big old black hats, who think I killed Marvin. The boy ran from them in the square the night he died and we saw them ratting under bushes in the allotments two nights back. So if you could show me the back exit and tell Pete I’ll be in touch, I’d be ever so grateful.’

  The sound of the ruckus beyond the door increased. Glass smashed and something heavy thudded as it hit the slate floor. I imagined Marvin’s coffin lid dumped on the floor and Marvin rising in ghoulish fashion and demanding quiet as a dead person deserved respect at their funeral. The sound of a whistle caused the vicar to jump. He took another sip from his flask.

  ‘Confession?’ he said.

  ‘Now. You want me to confess? To what? Pete misheard a conversation, that’s all.’

  ‘But there is the issue of Marvin’s bag.’

  ‘What is this about Marvin’s bloody bag? If you all wanted the damn thing, why didn’t you take it from him when he was alive?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want it, but Marvin and I were discussing the roof and the multitude of leaks we suffer.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  He reached out and touched my arm. Through my coat his icy grip chilled my blood. I unpeeled his long thin digits and pushed his hand aside. He dug deep in his pockets and pulled out a scrap of paper, reading its message before proffering the note to me.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said. I was reluctant to take it.

  ‘The young widow’s number.’

  Someone banged hard on the door. ‘Just a minute,’ the vicar said.

  ‘We are the police. Open this door now or we will knock it down.’

  ‘Take it. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You two were close once, weren’t you? Linda knows about the money and my problems with the roof and she’s concerned Marvin might’ve over-burdened you.’

  ‘Linda wants the bag, too?’

  ‘Oh no, she just wants to meet with you, I think. Make sure you’re okay.’

  I nodded and took the piece of paper as the banging on the door became more insistent.

  ‘You need to go. I’ll deal with the police. Just remember my leaky roof. And the children.’

  ‘What bloody children?’ He shrugged and raised his hands in prayer. ‘Vicar, I don’t have any money to help you with your roof. Never have and never will. No, I can’t stress this enough, I don’t give a fuck about your leaky roof and I hate kids. Buy more buckets. Pray to your lord. Preach contraception. And tell those people out there I don’t have any money.’

  The vicar stepped toward the door, his fingers reaching for the bolts. He pointed to the small narrow door behind me. ‘That door will take you to the cemetery. Careful you don’t fall into Marvin’s grave.’

  ‘Vicar.’ I had the exit door open and he had the first bolt to the door to the church undone. ‘Why do you think I have Marvin’s bag?’

  ‘Because he asked me where you lived. He was most insistent on finding you. It makes sense that you’d have the bag.’

  ‘And how do you know about the bag?’

  He smiled before reaching for the second bolt. ‘Everyone knows about the bag.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Trouble at the Poet

  With a drink in my hand, I perched my arse on a stool by the front window of the Old Poet Public House. Across the street, inside the cemetery, two lads leant on shovels by the crooked yew tree dominating the front left corner plot. The ruckus spilling out of the church had spooked the donkey sending the beast and cart clattering across the cobbles toward the town square. As it galloped past the Old Poet’s window, it collided with the next funeral and spread-eagled three interlinked T-Birds’ in somber mood. Wigs and spangles sprawled in the road. The wee white ponies carrying the shiny black hearse panicked into a dainty trot taking them beyond the church. A trail of screaming T-Birds and a vicar in a feather boa and taffeta gave chase. The call of ‘Whoa’ echoed up the street as the tearful attendees attempted to calm the beasts.

  Tilly wandered over and took the stool next to me. She wore a smart black
shirt, with tight black jeans and flat shoes. She blew on a cup of tea, holding the cup in both hands.

  ‘How’d the funeral go?’

  ‘Not so well.’

  ‘Did you get to see Linda?’

  ‘Yeah, she was there.’

  ‘How is she? She still as pretty as the girl you lusted for throughout your sad, tragic, hand on dick youth?’

  I shrugged in response to her question. ‘I didn’t pay that much attention.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  She stood and returned to the bar as the shopping trolley wobbled across the cobbles with the lads holding the coffin in place. The vicar led the procession with Linda and her chaperone next in line. Tommy rested an arm on his brother’s shoulder. The chaps with the black hats ambled behind the procession. A phone sat glued to the taller man’s ear. Ostere’s finest law officers stood by the church gate talking with the photographer as he snapped at the crossing of the two funerals.

  Nab, the landlord’s best mate-come-bouncer, dragged a stool to the window and perched his arse. A dead roll-up clung to his lip and his black skullcap sat to the back of his head. Nab stood around five-eight, with a frame of gristle and sinew. Pale blue pinpoint pupils questioned your existence and dared you to breathe in his presence.

  ‘Hiya, Nab,’ I said, looking away from the procession as it approached the pub. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Cruising and keeping low, Street Boy.’ Nab possessed a high-pitched nasal quality to his voice. Dogs didn’t mind, but it grated on the nerves of most humans. ‘Your mate about to hit the turf?’

  ‘It’s touch and go, I reckon. I can’t see the trolley lasting the distance.’

  As the vicar pulled level with the pub the Black Hats broke off from the procession, dodged two tearful T-Birds and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  ‘Do you see those two men with the stupid black hats,’ I said. Nab nodded with a subtle blink of his eyes. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Their attire is familiar.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘They, Street Boy, are mostly dangerous and fearsome when poked. Walk away is my advice.’

  ‘I might not have that choice. I fear they’re headed here.’

  ‘Then we will greet them appropriately.’

  Nab pushed past the comatose landlord sat hunched over the bar by the hatch and disappeared through the door to the kitchen. I reached into my calf pockets and withdrew two knives and placed them up my sleeves and rested my hands against the wide sill of the window.

  As the two men drew level with the pub I stepped back from the window.

  Walk on by.

  It was a practiced mantra lacking any real potency. Together they turned and peered at the pub. I backed up farther, looking to bury my figure in the gloom. The taller man resumed his conversation on the small black phone and his squat friend remained at the window, brushing his hair and checking the state of his teeth in the reflection. His eyes sat deep and sported a thin pale scar to his chin and a new red cut to his cheek. I liked the scars and hoped he feared receiving more cuts. He joined his mate by the front door and the two men leant against the wall and shared a butt. Before them the lads juggled with the coffin, pushing and pulling a reluctant trolley toward the large wrought iron gates of the cemetery.

  Nab returned with a handgun, primed and tucked in the back of his trousers. Pulling a shotgun from the back of the bar, he chambered a shell and leant it within reach behind the ale pumps. He took a small truncheon from the bottom shelf behind the bar and placed it in his jeans pocket.

  Tilly appeared with a tray of sausage rolls, fairy cakes and little boys with toothpicks. She pushed Nab out from behind the bar.

  ‘What’s going on, Ben?’ she said.

  I ignored her question. She carried the trays to the back tables and placed them between the Vol-au-vents and the cheese and pineapple pieces. I followed and stopped to admire the small make shift stage bordered by fairy lights.

  ‘Big night,’ I said.

  ‘The T-Birds are having their wake here,’ Tilly said as she returned to the bar. ‘Two of the girls got caught up in the bombing the other night. The Drunken Duck took a fair whack from the second bomb. You should hang around because the girls are promising a night of tinsel and tantrums, drama and diamanté’s. They are looking to get two Drag Queens through the pearly gates or else there will be tears. And no, you can’t have a fairy cake.’

  I shrugged and returned to my seat at the window. Four half-naked, buff pallbearers carried the coffin inside the church with a train of T-Birds following. My crew arrived at the cemetery, the procession squeezing through the gates and lined the fresh plot by the yew tree.

  Tilly looked out the window trying to find my point of interest. ‘Why aren’t you with the mourners? You were so keen to see Linda again I thought you’d be there for her, holding her hand and dabbing her eyes.’

  I didn’t remember talking about Linda with Tilly. ‘It all got a bit overwhelming, eh?’ I said. ‘Issues came up and two big old boys didn’t believe the issues were dealt with correctly. Questions remain unanswered and the two men standing out front ...’ I leaned forward to point out the two burly figures slouched against the pub. ‘Are about to rephrase the questions.’

  The two men threw their butts into the cobbled lane and turned to face the Old Poet Public House. The door blew open and banged against the wall and I jumped with a nervous yelp as leaves and litter scuttled through the opening and swirled in the pub entrance. A spark exploded in the open fire behind me and my heart stopped. The street had emptied of Black Hats. I leant my head against the window searching the narrow lane, but came up empty. With my mug in hand, I sat back on the stool and exhaled a loud sigh.

  All cool.

  Tilly exited through the back bar, offering the two men with the wide black hats half a smiled.

  Shit.

  My shoulders hunched over my mug of ale as I watched the men standing at the door peering into the dark pub. The low-beamed ceiling caused them to stoop and hunch their wide shoulders. Nab leant against the bar. He held a coffee in his right hand. They ignored Nab and walked further into the pub, treading the warped floor with practiced ease. The taller man, his phone still in his hand, stopped by the pool table and allowed his fingers to brush the green cloth. He picked up the white ball and slung it against the far cushion.

  His partner stepped past Nab, walking the length of the bar heading for the back of the pub, to the gloom beyond the toilets. Large wax candles bled into each table. He stopped at the buffet table and shoved a large handful of little boys into his mouth removing the toothpicks before he chewed. The mouth remained open, the churning food audible at the front of the pub. He turned back to the bar as he swallowed his snack and wiped his mouth with a serviette from the table. A belch erupted as he rubbed at his stomach, stretched his back and dropped the serviette on the floor.

  I gazed out the window at the ceremony taking place by Marvin’s gravesite and ignored the men.

  Nab broke the silence. ‘You looking for a drink or you just come to graze?’

  The man playing with the pool ball sat back against the table rubbing two balls together in his right hand. ‘Looking for information.’

  ‘I’m good for that,’ Nab said.

  ‘Don’t think you can help us.’

  ‘Try me.’ Nab’s speech slowed. He calmed his breathing. For those familiar with Nab and his ways, his actions spelt danger.

  Linda threw a handful of earth into the gravesite. Pete stood with a spade in hand, ready to bury the coffin. I turned to face the bar, keeping both men in sight.

  ‘We’re looking for a bag?’ he scraped two pool balls against each other in one large dirty hand. ‘It’s a big canvas bag with a mate in blue.’

  Nab laughed. ‘We don’t do bags.’

  The second man stepped out of the gloom and stopped in the mucky puddle by the men’s toilet. His arms hung loose at his sides, his fingers flexing and his
neck rocking from side to side. The man to my right pushed his body free from the table and faced me, his hands held out front, palms up as if looking for hairs.

  I looked at Nab. He looked at me. ‘Am I not getting the point, Street Boy?’ he said. I shrugged. ‘You gentlemen need to be leaving.’

  Nab’s hands hung loose and his voice sounded strained. Nab’s mood had entered the red zone and the two men in the black hats stood in the target area. The man by the pool table tossed the ball to the end of the table, the ball bouncing hard before dropping into the left top pocket. He stepped away from the table and brought both hands up, inspecting his bitten nails. His knuckles were red and his hands dirt worn. His mate stepped toward the bar. The pool man stared at me shortening the gap between us, while his mate concentrated on Nab. They wore snarls and grumbled with low growls.

  My hand touched the handles of my knives. They sat at the back of my wrists hidden from view. Again I looked at Nab and he nodded.

  Five—I flexed my neck.

  Four—Get balanced.

  Three—I focused on the small pearl buttons decorating the white shirt of my man.

  Two—Inhale.

  One—I targeted my spot and exhaled.

  On Go, we both kicked.

  Nab targeted his man’s groin and I took my man’s standing knee. As the joint buckled, I swung my right elbow into his jaw and smiled at the awesome sound of his mandible snapping. My man fell hard to the floor his right leg unable to support his weight. Nab’s man looked sick. Nab pistol-whipped his nose and blood poured from the large body collapsed against the bar.

  Tilly entered the bar buttoning her coat. She pushed the Landlord forward so she could exit the back bar. ‘I’m not cleaning that mess. I’m picking up my kid.’ She threw me the keys to her house. ‘We’re going for dinner at his gran’s. We won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon. Get your stuff out of my house. Do you hear me? I want it out.’

  I looked at Nab and laughed. ‘You breaking up with me?’

  As soon as I said the words I regretted each damn syllable.

  Tilly stepped up to me, all five foot looking at me with her black eyes and I feared for my testicles. ‘You are a foolish soul aren’t you?’ she said. ‘In what world were you and I a couple?’