We Can Be Heroes

by Catherine Bruton

  ‘Course I do,’ I said.

  She sighed and looked like she was going to cry again. ‘I’ve let you down.’

  ‘You haven’t, Mum.’

  She started crying properly then. I put down my schoolbag and went to sit next to her.

  ‘I’ve tried to give you a normal life,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been brilliant. The best mum in the world.’

  ‘I didn’t think you wanted to go raking over the past.’

  ‘I don’t, honest.’

  ‘Because if you want to see this counsellor then of course you can.’

  ‘I don’t, Mum. I don’t even know why the school said that.’

  ‘Maybe you said something to one of the teachers? Or maybe this is to do with Gary?’ she asks. ‘Because I’d understand if you were finding it hard.’

  ‘I’m really not. I like Gary,’ I said. ‘Everything’s OK, honestly.’

  ‘I thought we were doing so well. I just don’t know if I can –’ and then she started to cry again.

  And she just went on crying like that for what seemed like hours. I kept trying to tell her nothing was wrong, but she just cried and cried until I thought she’d never stop.

  I wanted to call Gary, but she wouldn’t let me. ‘I don’t want him seeing me like this,’ she said.

  ‘But he’d want to help.’

  ‘No, this is just us,’ she said. ‘You and me. We can deal with it, can’t we?’

  ‘Course, Mum,’ I said.

  But she didn’t stop crying. Then, or for about a week afterwards. And pretty soon after that, she started doing her stuff again. The stuff which meant she wasn’t OK. And I wasn’t sure we could cope with it on our own. Not really.

  I finally persuade Priti to take a break from the 9/11 research and she persuades me that Granny won’t mind us raiding the biscuit barrel. So we sit eating biscuits in the kitchen.

  ‘Jed reckons Shakeel’s going to blow loads of white people up,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ Priti looks up from licking the sticky middle bit out of her custard cream.

  ‘He reckons Shakeel is making a bomb not a radio and that he’s actually a suicide bomber.’

  ‘Why would he want to do something stupid like that?’

  ‘He reckons all Muslims see Britain and America as the enemies of Islam,’ I say, repeating something he’d said last night.

  ‘Yeah, I get all that stuff about Holy War. But why would Shakeel want to do it?’

  ‘You said he was religious,’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah, he’s well into the mosque and that. But he wouldn’t kill anyone. He’s too much of a wimp.’

  ‘He’s got all that electrical equipment up there. I suppose it could be for building a bomb.’

  ‘No, Shakeel is way too boring to be a terrorist.’ She goes back to licking her biscuit, lapping up the cream filling like a cat.

  ‘Jed says it’s the quiet ones you have to watch,’ I say. ‘His dad knows all about it apparently.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? How?’

  I hesitate. ‘I suppose because he used to be in the army.’

  ‘Yeah, and what does he do now?’

  ‘He’s a mechanic.’

  Priti laughs. ‘I knew he was blagging.’

  ‘Yeah, but Jed reckons that’s just a cover and he’s really still working for army intelligence.’

  ‘Undercover?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Priti looks vaguely impressed.

  ‘Jed says the army only pretended to sack him so no one would know he had gone underground.’ Then I add, ‘But you know what Jed’s like. He might just be making it up.’

  Priti ignores the last bit. ‘So he’s, like, bomb squad or something?’ she says, perking up suddenly.

  ‘Maybe. But only if you believe Jed.’

  ‘And he’s on to Shakeel?’

  ‘Jed didn’t say that exactly.’

  ‘Cos if the bomb squad is on to him, he must be up to something.’ She wriggles excitedly on her chair.

  ‘I don’t think Jed said the bomb squad exactly.’

  But Priti is clearly no longer listening. ‘I reckon it’d be pretty cool if Shakeel was building a bomb!’ she says with a big grin on her face.

  ‘It was just something Jed said.’

  ‘I wonder if he’d let us help,’ she says excitedly. ‘It’d be so cool!’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say.

  ‘Of course, we can’t let him actually blow himself up. I’m not having him do a Twin Towers on me,’ she adds, glancing at me. ‘I mean, he’s the only half decent sibling I’ve got. We have to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘How are we meant to do that exactly?’

  ‘We’ll go undercover too: spy on him, find out what he’s up to.’

  I have an image of us both in trench coats peering through giant magnifying glasses.

  ‘We can pass on all the information to Jed’s dad in the bomb squad, then when they catch him, we’ll get medals,’ says Priti happily. ‘We can be heroes!’

  ‘We’re not even sure Uncle Ian is in the bomb squad. He could be doing something else.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I shrug. ‘Mending cars, like he says he is?’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Priti who has now licked off all the cream filling and is eating the rest of her biscuit in little tiny bites all round the edge. ‘We can be the moles – and turn Shakeel in before he does anything stupid.’

  ‘And what happens if the bomb squad or the police or whoever actually catch him? He’ll be in massive trouble.’

  ‘If he hasn’t actually blown anything up, they can’t be that mad at him, can they?’

  ‘My mum says it’s the thought that counts.’ An image of my mum pops into my brain and I can’t make it go away.

  ‘Thinking about bombs isn’t going to do anyone any harm, is it?’ says Priti. ‘It’s only if you actually press the button that things go boom, innit?’ I’ve noticed that when Priti gets excited, she sometimes starts speaking like a gangsta rapper.

  ‘I don’t think that’s how it works. We could get him in loads of trouble,’ I say. ‘And us too!’

  ‘Then we’ll get him a fake passport and he can escape somewhere far away. We’ll still get medals because of all the people we’ll save, and Shakeel will be sunning it on a beach with loads of ladyboys.’

  I want to ask her what ladyboys are, but I know if I do, we’ll never finish the conversation.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask him if he’s building a bomb?’ I say.

  ‘He’ll just go underground if we blow his cover,’ says Priti, like she does this sort of thing all the time. ‘Besides, it’ll be no fun! And I’ve always wanted to be a spy!’

  And I know it’s probably a load of rubbish, but when Priti gets excited about something, it’s hard not to get carried along too. And I have this picture in my head of Shakeel dressed in white robes, riding a paper aeroplane with a bomb strapped to his torso. And laughing.

  So I go along with it. Because it’s only a game, so what harm can it do?

  When Jed comes back, he’s wearing a new Liverpool football top and is in a weird mood.

  ‘Nice top,’ I say. ‘Did Granny get it for you?’

  ‘Of course, dumbo! Who else would it be?’ he replies quickly.

  I ask him if his appointment was OK and he tells me to mind my own business. Then he flops on to the sofa and pretends to be watching the TV, but I can tell he isn’t really.

  When Granny comes in a minute or two later, Grandad asks her, ‘Good?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very,’ she replies in an ultra-cheerful voice.

  ‘The usual NHS fob-off then!’ says Grandad.

  ‘No, no,’ says Granny. ‘He was very good. Very helpful. We have another appointment to see him up at the hospital again, don’t we, Jed?’

  Jed just grunts.

  ‘In about six months’ time, I’ll bet,’ says Grandad.

  ‘Next week,’ says
Granny, blushing slightly as she says it.

  ‘Fine,’ says Grandad. He seems almost disappointed at not having something to moan about. After that, he gets back on with watching his daytime quiz show.

  As I help Granny with her coat and bag, I ask if she has any binoculars. She looks a bit flustered, like she hasn’t heard me at first, so I say it again.

  ‘Sorry, dear,’ she says. ‘I was miles away. I think I’ve got a pair that used to belong to your dad.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. Then, ‘That’d be good.’

  So she goes off and gets them. It’s a nice pair, in a leather case with my dad’s name written inside the flap. I try to imagine him using them, but no image comes into my head.

  ‘He used to take them to the cricket,’ she says. ‘He’d be happy for you to have them.’

  She gives a sad smile and I don’t really know what to say, so I just take them and say, ‘Thanks, Granny.’

  Then I go up to my room – or Jed’s room with a spare bed for me, which is what it feels like these days – and sit on the windowsill to try them out. I twiddle with the focus a bit until I can see clearly then look out at the cul-de-sac. It’s a bit weird holding them, knowing the last person to use them was my dad. Weird, but sort of nice.

  Little Stevie from next door is out on her bike again, going round and round in circles. She always seems to be out playing on her own, while her mum sits and smokes in front of the TV by the window. Like my grandad, except for the smoking bit.

  Stevie reminds me a bit of Blythe, who is a bit crazy and silly and is always hugging me and being annoying, but I kind of miss her. I wonder if I should do her one of the cartoons she likes and send it to her, but then I remember that she’s away with her mum all summer, so she probably wouldn’t get it anyway.

  ‘What you looking at?’ Jed is right behind me when he says this. I must have been deep into my daydream because you can usually hear him coming five minutes before he arrives.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Give me a go,’ he says, grabbing the binoculars. He’s up beside me now on the windowsill. He always moves so quickly that, when I was little, I used to think he had superpowers. I imagine him now with a cape and a superhero suit, whizzing through the clouds, one hand punching the air.

  ‘You been keeping an eye on the Unabomber?’ He jerks his thumb at the Muhammed house across the road.

  ‘You can’t see his room from here.’

  ‘Shame,’ says Jed. ‘Reckon we need to get inside. Snoop around a bit. I bet he’s got stuff up there. Information about his terror cell and that. Bet you don’t even know what a terror cell is, do you?’

  ‘Course I do,’ I say.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Like a club for terrorists,’ I reply, repeating a phrase Priti used earlier.

  ‘Exactly. He won’t be operating on his own, will he? There’ll be loads of them in on it. You said they were going to Pakistan, didn’t you? They’ve probably got links to a terror network over there. What we need to do is infiltrate their cell then bring it down.’

  ‘And how exactly do we find out who’s in the cell?’ I say.

  ‘We’ll have to hack into his computer and bug his phone and go through all his things looking for clues. Should be cool!’

  He’s obviously not going to give up the binoculars, so I slide off the windowsill on to the bed.

  ‘Jed,’ I say after a moment. ‘Are you sick?’

  He pulls a stupid face. ‘Do I look sick to you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. Because he doesn’t. Not really.

  ‘Why you asking a stupid question like that then?’

  ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, quit wondering. Are you any good at computer hacking?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Bugging devices?’

  ‘Can’t we just ask your dad?’

  Jed hesitates before saying, ‘What?’

  ‘You said he was into all that stuff. Counterterrorism and that?’

  Jed hesitates. ‘Yeah, he is.’

  ‘So he’d have all that surveillance equipment, wouldn’t he?’

  Jed pauses again. ‘We can’t bother him until we’ve got some concrete intel on the suspect.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the mean time, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Should be great!’

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  THINGS I’D LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT JED

  1. Why is he called Jed when his real name is Geoffrey (spelt with a ‘g’)?

  2. Why does he talk so loud?

  3. Why will he only eat white bread and nothing that’s green or orange?

  4. Why doesn’t he get a haircut?

  5. Why does he think his dad’s so great?

  6. Why does he think his mum’s so awful?

  7. Why doesn’t he ever see his mum?

  8. What are the appointments about and why can’t he tell his dad or Grandad about them?

  9. Is he ill and, if so, why doesn’t he look ill?

  10. What is he dreaming about when he cries in his sleep?

  JULY 17TH

  ‘We need to sneak into Shakeel’s room and look for incriminating evidence,’ Priti says.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said!’ Jed agrees.

  We’re all sitting in the tree house, keeping lookout for Zara and taking turns with the binoculars to spy on Shakeel.

  ‘You really think he’s a suicide bomber?’ I say.

  ‘You can just bet that if he is then the day he decides to do his bombing Mum will say he has to look after me and then it’ll be yours truly being blown to smithereens.’ Priti does a funny little bounce and pulls a face which I think is supposed to be her being blown up.

  Jed laughs, but I don’t.

  ‘I wonder if Ameenah knows about it,’ Priti goes on.

  ‘Who’s Ameenah?’ asks Jed. It’s meant to be my turn to use the binoculars, but he shows no sign of handing them over. He’s been staring for ages at the copse where Zara and Tyreese are hanging out.

  ‘Shakeel’s fiancée. They’re getting married in a few weeks.’

  ‘She’s probably part of the cell then,’ says Jed without taking his eyes off the copse.

  ‘But if he’s getting married in a few weeks, why would he blow himself up?’ I ask. ‘My mum says her wedding day was the happiest day of her life.’

  ‘My dad says it was the worst mistake of his!’ says Jed.

  ‘I reckon it’s an excuse to get out of all the wedding stuff,’ says Priti. ‘We go well overboard on weddings. Loads of parties that go on all week – it’s dead boring.’

  ‘What about the wedding night?’ says Jed. ‘He won’t want to miss that!’

  ‘Eugh! ’ says Priti. ‘You are sick. That’s my brother you’re talking about.’

  ‘So you reckon he’s done it with this Ameenah already then?’ says Jed.

  ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ says Priti, pulling a face. ‘But, knowing Shakeel, probably not.’

  ‘Why? Is she a moose?’ asks Jed.

  ‘She’s all right. Dresses a bit boring, but she’s not a real minger.’

  ‘So he’ll wanna wait till after his big night before he blows himself up then?’ says Jed. ‘When’s the wedding?’

  ‘Beginning of August,’ says Priti.

  ‘That’s only a couple of weeks away,’ I say.

  ‘So we’d better keep an eye on him then,’ says Jed.

  When we go back over to Granny’s for lunch, I find another card from Gary. This one has a picture of a potato decorated to look like Darth Vader and on the back it says, The force connects all living things – even me and you. Feel the force, Ben! It sounds like the sort of thing my mum would say which makes me feel really sad. And it’s also a bit like Gary’s pretending to be my dad (cos everyone knows Darth Vader is actually Luke’s father) which is a bit weird too. Jed asks me to show it to him, but Granny says I don’t have to talk about it if I don’t want t
o. So I don’t.

  After lunch, Jed and Grandad clear off pretty quickly, so it’s just me and Granny left to clear up as usual.

  ‘Granny,’ I say as she leans over me to pick up the salt and pepper pots. ‘Have you heard from my mum?’

  She stops what she’s doing, so she’s standing there, holding the two little ceramic pots shaped like chickens, and it’s like she hasn’t heard me because she doesn’t answer for ages. I’m about to ask her again when she says simply, ‘No, not yet, dear.’ And then it’s as if she suddenly remembers what she was doing and busies herself again tidying away.

  ‘It’s worse than before, isn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘A bit.’ Granny turns to the cupboards and stops again, like she can’t remember which one the salt and pepper go in.

  ‘Is she going to die?’ I ask, keeping my voice very quiet. I’m staring at the painted feathers on the chickens, tracing the patterns of colour with my eyes.

  ‘No, dear.’ She turns round quickly to face me. ‘No, of course not. They won’t let her.’ She looks really upset.

  ‘Sorry, Granny,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ she says. Then she sits down next to me again and puts her hand on mine. ‘Now go ahead, ask me whatever you like,’ she says, trying to look cheery again.

  But I just say, ‘No, it’s OK, thank you.’ And then, ‘I know she’ll be better soon anyway, so I’m not worried about her.’ And I smile and look at the chicken pots and try to imagine them as real chickens, only I can’t.

  And Granny just smiles and pats my hand. And that’s the end of the conversation.

  It’s Zara’s turn to keep an eye on Priti this afternoon, but she tries to palm it off on Shakeel.

  ‘Give me a break, Shakeel! I’m supposed to be meeting some friends.’

  ‘I have things to do too, little sister.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Making an improvised explosive!’ Jed whispers in my ear.

  ‘All you do is study and sit and fiddle with your radios. It’s no skin off your nose to keep an eye on the rug rats.’

  ‘I have people to meet,’ he replies.

  ‘What people?’

  ‘That’s no concern of yours.’

  Jed mutters the words ‘terror cell’.