Heroes Don't Travel

by Roo I MacLeod

  Ben turned to Tommy and pointed up the hill. Lights shone amongst the black fog. ‘Go and find us a hotel.’

  ‘Don’t forget to give him the pigeons.’

  Ben looked into the back of the jeep at the long boxes stacked against the back hatch. Tommy caught Loubie as she stumbled into Ben holding her phone so he could see the blank screen.

  ‘Battery’s dead. Well dead, for sure.’ She dropped the phone inside her combat trousers. ‘Wynona said what pub it was, didn’t she? I need a drink. Let’s get a drink. Come on, Benjamin, come and buy a girl a drink.’

  Ben shook his head to her statement. ‘No one calls me by that name. Girls wanting me to buy them a drink stand no chance addressing me by that name, eh?

  ‘And no, I don’t think she gave us the name of the pub.’

  ‘Dead right, she did.’

  ‘Good, so which pub?’ Ben asked. ‘My guess is you don’t need to be entering it.’

  Tommy held Loubie steady. ‘It smells here, it does, Tommy,’ she said. ‘It smells like a fart. That fart before you need to pooh. Really, really need to pooh. Do you know the fart I mean? Sometimes you’re not even sure if it’s going to be a fart.’

  She giggled as she leant into Tommy, nudging his arm over her shoulder. Tommy cuddled the girl close while sucking hard on his inhaler.

  A mix of diesel, coal and something else, possibly flatulence, dominated the town.

  ‘So you don’t know the name of the pub?’ Tommy said. ‘We’ve come all this way, but we don’t know where to find the girl.’

  They rested against the jeep facing the industrial site stretching out to the horizon. Tall, conical brick structures dotted the landscape below the jeep. Slag heaps and massive wheels drove conveyor belts of coal dug from the depths of the earth. Donkeys toiled, pulling old, rickety wooden carts laden with the black stuff to the Pot banks. A loud, constant throbbing noise shook the ground.

  ‘Welcome to hell,’ Loubie said. She had hold of Tommy’s arm. ‘We need to find electric for my phone, for sure.’

  ‘Go,’ Ben said again.’ Find a Hotel. I’ll meet you up the top of the hill.’ They stared into the black. ‘Somewhere up there, eh?’

  Tommy helped Loubie around a table and chairs. Placards declared the end to Chelsea Mining Corporations exploitation of its workers. Loubie stopped and broke away from Tommy’s grip.

  ‘Benjamin,’ she called. ‘Don’t forget the pigeons.’

  Tommy reclaimed the girl, helping her bypass a gaggle of protesters. Twice they stopped for Tommy to cough, spit and suck on his inhaler. Ben lost sight of them as the smog, mist and gloom swallowed their bodies.

  Two small miners appeared at Ben’s elbow, causing him to jump when the angry one grabbed him.

  ‘This is Bob.’

  He held out a hand. ‘Well met,’ he said. ‘What news from the Projects?’

  ‘Jackie don’t talk to me, but when I left I heard they were training for an assault on the armies barracks. He wanted me to ask if you required any help with this mining thing.’ Ben smiled and offered a knowing wink. ‘What Jackie means is, he’s going to ask you for a favor, but diplomacy suggest he reciprocate. He’s hoping you’ll feel obligated.’

  Bob smiled and turned to face the mines. He pointed at the second pit wheel. Children manned the donkeys pulling the carts loaded with coal.

  ‘We have tunneled into the main shaft of that mine and plan to blow it tomorrow night. We have prevented them from running the Henwell Colliery, but tomorrow will be big. Tomorrow we will bring Chelsea Mining Corp to its knees. We expect the army to back the Mining Corporation, but we’re ready for them. We’ve seen an influx of children recruits and the orphanage up by Black Hole Colliery is overflowing with the little tykes.’

  ‘That’s children I can see down there.’

  ‘Well, yes. We’ve gone on strike so they’re bussing children in from all over the country and the continent. Kids are good for mining. Mining isn’t good for kids. But the tunnels we work you need to be small.’

  ‘But if you’re going to blow the mines, isn’t there danger to the children?’

  ‘Yes, but we will send out warnings. And we will blow at change of shift. But that mine blows no ifs.

  ‘There is a small squadron bivouacked down on the Ostere Road. If Jackie’s offering help, we could do with them being attacked tomorrow night. Now we know he’s on board, I’ll get word down to him straight away. An attack on that barracks will help us fight the soldiers here.’

  Ben showed Bob the crates in the back of the jeep.

  ‘Right on.’ He whistled and small people ran from the dark to carry the crates away.

  ‘My friends have gone looking for a hotel, but we’re here on a job and I was wondering if you could help us.’

  ‘We’re sort of in the middle of something important here, but I’m heading up town if that helps, yeah?’

  ‘We were given the name of a pub to find this girl, but we can’t remember its name. We don’t know where to start, so could you give us a tour? Point out the pubs, clientele sort of thing, and maybe we’ll be able to find her. Set us in the right direction, eh?’

  ‘That I can do.’

  Loubie and Tommy hadn’t made it far up the hill. Tommy stood outside a hotel sucking on his inhaler like it was an oxygen supply and Loubie had fallen in an awkward heap on the dirt path and was trying to roll a cigarette.

  ‘They don’t like the name Smith up here,’ Tommy gasped.

  ‘How can they not like the name Smith? Why…? What’s that got to do with you getting a room?’

  ‘I went to book in under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but he said he wasn’t having no Smiths in his hotel.’

  Ben turned to Bob and laughed. ‘Why didn’t you use your name?’

  ‘I don’t know. Me and Loubie decided we probably shouldn’t use our real names, you know. Serious Ben, they reckon Smith is a Gypsy name and they don’t serve Gypsies. They suggested we ask at the Diggers for a place to stay.’

  Bob nodded to Tommy’s words. ‘Up here all the Gypsies use Smith as an alias. It’s a Gypsy in-joke.’

  Bob helped Tommy pull Loubie to her feet. ‘Is this girl you’re looking for a gypsy?’

  ‘The boy she ran with is a Gypsy,’ Ben said. ‘There’s talk of her dad being second generation Gypsy, so Gypsies is what we’re looking for, I guess.’

  Miners stomped up the hill singing and yelling with the beat of their boots. Their helmets struggled to light a path amongst the black fog. A soft tune rumbled from Loubie’s chest, her feet trying to dance to the rhythm of the miners. One of them linked arms and sent her flying across the street.

  ‘There’s a lot of you,’ Ben said.

  ‘Burrowers they call us. We make up most of the population in town center. You’ve got yer Potters.’ He pointed to a small group of slender folk gliding on the footpath opposite. Their chatter was soft and tuneful. Long cloaks covered their bodies and their hair was silken long. ‘They work the pot banks and the ceramic factories. Yer little dark friend be better dancing with them. Most of the potters have the darker skin.’

  ‘She’s a bit small for a potter,’ Ben said.

  ‘Aye, that be the truth. She do well to keep out of the Burrower hostelry. They be liking her a lot.’ Bob jigged across the cobbles and linked arms with Loubie. ‘But don’t be going to the Diggers for a kip. I wouldn’t want to stay there.’ Loubie and Bob performed a clumsy whirl. ‘They fight too much at the Diggers hostelry.’

  The caustic Sulphur taste in the air lessened as they climbed the hill, but the smog remained thick and humid. Ben noticed a rattle to his inhalations and a wheeze each time he exhaled. At the crest of the hill, steam exited grilled vents in the road. The smog swirled, the red glare and street lamps struggling to illuminate the dark afternoon.

  The elegant forms of the Potters kept to the right of the pedestrianized zone. Long, languid steps moved silently, their chatter sing-song. Their pale clothing shimme
red in the gloom. The Burrowers tried to hog the left side, but overflowed onto the cobbled road. They wore tin hats with their lamps highlighting the thick smog. They clomped and stomped, bustled and blundered, and jeered at the Potters. Ben and Tommy kept to the middle of the road, keeping Loubie upright. Bob led the way, waving at burrowers, greeting door staff, and head-butting helmets.

  Barn-like hostelries sucked the squat men into the dark, loud interiors. Walls bounced from a throbbing beat. Lights flashed as the Burrowers head-butted to the fast-paced rhythm.

  ‘You’re not going to find your girl in any of these bars. You won’t find any girls in these bars.’

  Loubie linked arms, leaning into Tommy as he led her wide of a gaggle of short men urinating into the deep gutter running the length of the walkway.

  ‘Guys,’ Bob yelled. ‘I got guests.’ They ducked their heads to Bob and turned to pee on the footpath.

  The left side of the street turned from boozers to brothels. The remaining burrowers offered shekels to taste the delights of the sad-looking potter girls. They sat on wooden counters beneath corrugated roofs, smirking to hide their blackened teeth. Wrinkled, saggy arms pointed at stained mattresses and offered lewd enticements.

  ‘Don’t be looking in there,’ Bob said. ‘If she’s in there her dad won’t want her back.’

  The traffic thinned with the odd drunken body walking in circles. Bob pointed to a corner building, its frosted windows bright in the afternoon. ‘Listen guys, I got to go,’ he said. ‘There’s only two bars left. On your right is the Saggermakers’ bar which is the only Potter bar in town. But down the alley opposite you’ll find Gypsies. Lots of Gypsies. If she’s hanging out with a Gypsy, then she might be in there. But if she’s fallen out with them, then she might be in the Potters’ bar. If she’s not in either bar then come and get me out of the boozer down the hill.’

  He pointed to an alley with bodies curled against walls. Their helmets glowed in the dark. A swing sign squeaked, the image of a mole digging its burrow lit by a bright light.

  ‘That’s my boozer,’ he said. ‘It be quiet, no thrashing or bashing in there. And there’s a couple of ice-cold frothies waiting to be sampled. A bit of union talk be going on. Then my man, my runner is off to help guide the Projects through to give it to the Man. Good luck. And thanks for the pigeons. They’re in the sky as we speak. Tomorrow is going to be a good day.’

  Bob scattered two Potters, their heads turned away from the brothel, having no wish to witness their fallen sisters at work. The soft tunes and subdued lighting splashed onto the street as the door to the Saggermakers’ opened and the Potters entered with arms held out wide.

  Ben slowed his step. ‘That’s the town. You two do the Saggermakers.’

  Loubie slumbered against Tommy’s body. Ben lifted her head and she smiled. ‘You all right, Lou?’ She nodded her head. ‘Sit her down, Tommy, and get something into her that isn’t alcohol.’

  Ben turned to face the narrow lane opposite the Saggermakers. Broken cobbles and a mountain of rubbish lay stacked against the remains of an old factory. Two girls in short skirts, low-cut tops and stilettos stood in the lane. Snarls ground from their lips. Fists held each other’s hair as cussing and tussling ensued. Above their heads a small swing sign showed a man with a spade.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gypsies Like to Fight

  Ben stood at the bar watching the bloodied torsos heaving as two combatants battled for breath. The crowd egged the two men to fight, pushing them together each time they stepped apart. The younger, slimmer boxer appeared in better shape, but his face and chest wore deep splashes of red. His rotund foe squinted through puffy eyes, blinking at the blood seeping from a deep cut across his eyebrow.

  A band played in the room beyond the bar. Strident chords clashed against the cheers for the fighters. Scantily clad girls with untidy dreads danced on the tables and pairs of burrowers linked arms, bashing their heads to the syncopated beat.

  Ben stepped toward the bright light over the bar, cupping his hand to his ear trying to hear the barmaids words. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I heard you, right.’

  The girl laughed and pointed at the two men fighting. ‘It’s the rules. It’s a Gypsy pub and Gypsies like to fight.’

  ‘Yeah, but you said I have to fight. Can’t I just watch?’ He pointed behind her back at the band playing in the other bar. ‘Or sit in there. I really don’t want to be fighting.’

  She turned to the barman. ‘Tell him.’

  He held a baseball bat and stood next to a shotgun. He wore an ill-fitting singlet and tight jeans. Tattoos covered his arms, neck, and chest. ‘Tis the rules, Duck.’

  Ben turned to the men, cringing as the fat bloke took a deep strike to his gut. ‘Can I get a drink?’ he asked the girl.

  She smiled and nodded. ‘Of course you can.’ She pulled hard on the hand pump, slopping beer into a mug. ‘You could be in luck, but for sure, Duck.’

  ‘Why?’ He’d expected a joke, but she nodded toward the fighters.

  ‘That Francis,’ she said pointing at the slim man. ‘He’s been up fighting since lunch and he’s knackered. The bloke he’s fighting, old fat Roger, is shite. If you can hold your hands up and throw a punch, you got a serious chance of not getting hurt.’

  They watched the two bloody, bare chested men circling the floor. Low slung tight jeans restricted their gait. Roger held his fists close to his chin, while the young lad, Francis, had dropped his arms by his sides. A mop of curly hair stuck in ringlets to Francis’ head. His competitor, a big man, ponderous in movement, owned a wobbling gut. With each step, the barrel of lard shuddered and absorbed any punches with a loud wet slap. His fists, unlike Francis’, lacked the red and the blood and the calluses.

  ‘What are the rules?’

  Again she laughed. ‘No rules, but don’t be going at them with a weapon. They don’t like that. Knives, guns, we got plenty of them and you won’t leave here alive.’

  ‘You not be carrying,’ the barman said.

  Ben’s hesitation caused the girl to look at the barman. ‘You can’t go into a fight carrying. Please don’t go into the fight carrying. They be killing you for sure.’

  ‘What you want me to do?’

  ‘Give me your coat and wrap all weapons up in it and pass it over the bar. Do it slow and sort of inconspicuous like.’

  Ben removed his coat, turned his back to the bar and took the hunting knife, switchblade and rusty cutthroat from his calf pockets and wrapped them tight in his coat. He smiled at the girl as he passed the coat across the bar. ‘I’ll be wanting that back when I leave, eh?’

  Ben retreated to the corner by the jukebox. Three girls slouched against the bright machine reading through its offerings. They turned to look at Ben and smiled. A tall girl, fair skinned with windswept blond tresses mixed with colored, knotted strands, clinked her bottle against Ben’s mug.

  ‘Dare mourning de deaf of Bright Star,’ she said.

  Ben laughed as he remembered Griff telling him the rules when confronted by a Gypsy girl.

  Rule one with Gypsy girls: Don’t look at them, not even if they talk to you.

  Rule two: Don’t talk to a Gypsy girl, no way,

  And Rule three: Definitely no touching.

  She nodded as Ben contemplated his response. He knew he shouldn’t look, but deep blue eyes stared at him, and they demanded a response.

  ‘What’s a Bright Star?’

  ‘A Dawg.’ She nodded to emphasize the seriousness of the Dawg’s death.

  ‘Oh. Well that’s sweet.’

  Ben raised his glass to Bright Star, extracted his arm from the girl, and returned to the bar.

  ‘Good move,’ the girl tending bar said. ‘You don’t want to be chatting with a Gypsy girl. They’ll all want to fight you.’

  ‘This is all about a dog,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, right, like this doesn’t happen most nights. Alcohol plus Gypsy equals fighting. But yeah, one of
their lurches got thumped by a hare. Who’d have thought? And they all got pissed with the hare because not one of them could hit it. Twenty rifles and not one hit, Duck. You got to laugh.’

  The rotund man labored at his sport. Sweat smeared with blood decorated his cheeks and forehead. His chest heaved as his lungs sucked hard at the sour, humid air. Long, thin strands of hair hung down his back and stuck to his bloodied shoulders.

  Francis stepped forward and jabbed at his chin, whipping his head backward. As his hands covered his face, Francis slapped hard at his ribs. He paused, breathed and waited for the arms to drop.

  The fat man looked at Francis with sad, lost eyes. He didn’t want to lose, but he lacked oomph. Francis offered a couple more jabs to the nose and this time the man didn’t bother to defend. His nose streamed blood and his face turned to a lighter shade of dead. Frances feinted, dropped his shoulder, and the man closed his eyes. ‘Too easy,’ Francis muttered. He jabbed, jabbed and slapped him with a wide swinging roundhouse to the side of the head.

  The man stumbled into tables. Cheers erupted and roars of encouragement greeted his drunken fall. The music stopped next door as punters rushed to the counter and stared through the clutter of bottles at the fighters, cheering for Roger to fight on. The crowd pushed the fat fighter back onto the floor. He tottered and swayed, desperate for an exit, but walked into a jab. Francis followed with a blow to his abdomen, digging into serious fat, searching for his diaphragm. As the man dropped to his knees, Francis met his chin with an upper cut dug deep from his boots. The head snapped backward and he bounced against a table, tipping it as he fell to the floor.

  An old boy, withered and shirtless, stuck a bucket beneath the nose of the vanquished, demanding he draw a ticket. The new number received a raucous cheer and a small wiry chap stepped forward. He ducked and dived and punched at the air with cocky confidence.

  Many hands helped clear the fallen man from the floor and a mop washed the blood into the worn boards. The defeated man tottered toward Ben, walking the wobbly road of the punch-drunk. Bloodied hands gripped the bar, trying to steady his gait. He wiped his face with a bloodied towel and turned to Ben, struggling to focus.