We Can Be Heroes

by Catherine Bruton

  ‘Yeah, he looks like the type,’ says Stevie’s dad, his face red with alcohol.

  ‘They all look the type,’ says Uncle Ian. He takes a swig of his beer. ‘I’m surprised you can stand to see your street overrun with this lot. Can’t stand the sight of them, me, and I’ve heard the stink of curry brings the house prices down by ten per cent.’

  He grins like what he’s said is really funny.

  ‘There’s no way he’s actually bomb squad,’ Priti whispers in my direction. ‘I mean, he’s not exactly deep cover, is he?’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s going to blow us all up today?’ Jed says. Priti snorts. Jed ignores her. ‘With all these people here?’

  I glance at Priti, who just rolls her eyes.

  ‘It’d be all too easy to hide a bomb under that poncy robe,’ says Stevie’s mum, pulling on a cigarette and glaring at Priti.

  ‘Yeah, I thought the bride was supposed to be the one in the white dress!’ says Mr Sanders, winking at me.

  ‘Nah, it won’t be today. There are too many of his own kind here,’ says Uncle Ian in a serious tone now. ‘It’s good, honest white folks he wants to kill.’

  ‘Not you then!’ whispers Priti under her breath.

  ‘You got something to say, little memsahib?’ says Uncle Ian.

  ‘No,’ says Priti, who has her hands on her hips and a defiant look on her face.

  ‘Cos the terrorist – he’s your brother, right?’

  ‘One man’s terrorist, another man’s freedom fighter!’ says Priti.

  ‘You say tomato and I say . . .’ He hesitates. ‘I say, shut your little black mouth or I’ll . . .’

  ‘What exactly will you do to me in full view of two hundred of my closest friends and family?’ Priti cuts in. ‘Or perhaps you’ll just blow us all up? That’s what you ethnic minorities do, isn’t it?’

  Stevie’s dad laughs at this, but none of the others join in.

  I feel as if I should say or do something, but I don’t. Instead, I imagine Uncle Ian blowing himself to smithereens.

  Boom!

  ‘She’s got a right gob on her that one,’ I hear Mrs Sanders mutter.

  ‘I’d love to blow up the piggin’ lot of you!’ says Uncle Ian.

  ‘Dad!’ says Jed quietly.

  ‘I’m sure my brother can lend you some explosives,’ says Priti. ‘I can ask him if you like?’

  ‘Smart-arse little Muslim, aren’t you?’ says Uncle Ian. ‘Just make sure you don’t get your clever little butt kicked when your curry-house friends aren’t around to take care of you, you know what I’m saying, kid?’

  ‘Are you threatening me, mister?’ says Priti.

  ‘I’m not Supernanny. I don’t bother with warnings. Just remember that.’

  Then he turns to Jed whose face is flecked red and white, puts an arm round him and says, ‘You’ve done good work here, kid! Get in with the natives to keep an eye on the terror suspect – nice tactic. I like it.’

  Then he shoves his can of beer into my hand. ‘Here, have this, daddy’s boy. I’m dying for a slash.’

  I feel my fist forming into a ball by my side. I imagine a giant boxing glove knocking him out cold.

  Thwack!

  But I don’t say anything. Uncle Ian laughs and slaps me hard on the shoulder so that the beer spills all over the front of my trousers. Then he staggers off in the direction of our house. I watch him go, and in that moment, I can’t decide who I hate more: him or me.

  ‘Come on!’ says Jed.

  For once Priti doesn’t argue and I’m too angry to. So, armed with what turns out to be nearly a full can of beer, which Jed grabs off me and hides not very successfully under his T-shirt, the three of us head off in the direction of the tree house for ‘a bender’.

  ‘Thanks for standing up for me, you two,’ says Priti crossly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. Jed says nothing.

  ‘Is your dad always so delightful?’ Priti asks.

  ‘He’s only doing his job,’ says Jed, not looking at her.

  ‘So did he miss out on the Charm Offensive section of his James Bond training?’ says Priti. ‘Or is harassing little girls part of the MI6 handbook these days?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have answered him back,’ says Jed. ‘He hates that.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Cos what happened back there was definitely my fault!’

  But Jed doesn’t have a chance to answer because suddenly there’s a deafening roar of engines and the screech of brakes. A biker gang are at the bottom of the road, blocking the entrance to the cul-de-sac: five or six of them on gleaming motorbikes, red and black and silver, glistening in the sun.

  All the people at the party turn around to look at them and the talk and laughter fade away until all that can be heard is the tinny sound of the singer over the speakers and the hum of the bikes’ engines. Then the biker in the middle takes off his helmet and we can all see that it’s Tyreese.

  I glance over to where Mik and Shakeel are standing, next to the curry van. Mik makes an angry movement like he’s about to go and confront them, but Shakeel puts a restraining hand on his arm.

  The bikers only stay a minute, less than that probably, although it feels like loads more. Then they rev up their bikes, turn around and leave.

  Uncle Ian is the first person to say anything. Emerging from our house, he gives a cheer and shouts like he’s at a football match. ‘Come on, England!’

  From the Sanders’ drive comes an answering cry of, ‘Eng-er-land! Eng-er-land!’ from Mr Sanders.

  Everyone else is frozen, like a game of musical statues.

  I think everyone is hoping it won’t all kick off.

  And it doesn’t. Less than a minute after the bikers have gone, the Sanders and Uncle Ian start laughing and someone turns the music up and people start talking again, but it’s not the happy buzz of chat it was previously.

  ‘So much for keeping a low profile!’ Priti hisses at Jed.

  ‘What the hell do you know about counter-intelligence anyway?’ says Jed.

  ‘More than your dad, I reckon,’ says Priti.

  Just then Zara appears and grabs Priti.

  ‘Keep lookout for me, will you?’ she hisses, looking around her nervously.

  ‘Please tell me you’re only hooking up with that idiot to tell him he’s dumped?’

  ‘Will you keep a lookout or what?’ she says, not answering the question.

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Same as usual.’

  ‘You’ll have to make it worth our while if we’re going to be stuck up a tree while there’s a party going on!’ says Priti.

  ‘What do you want then?’ Zara says impatiently, glancing at her phone.

  Priti thinks for a moment. ‘I want your pink ankle bracelet and that new toe ring. AND I want your old handset – with a new top-up card.’

  ‘And who are you gonna call?’ says Zara. ‘Ghostbusters?’

  ‘Close,’ Priti grins.

  ‘You haven’t got any mates apart from these two losers!’ She smirks at Jed, who can’t come up with a quick enough comeback.

  ‘Then it’s no deal,’ says Priti, crossing her arms to show she’s not budging (although we all know she’s dead easy to bribe).

  Zara looks well cross. Her mobile beeps and she glances at it. ‘OK, fine,’ she says quickly.

  ‘What do we get?’ Jed asks.

  ‘A slap in the gob!’ is Zara’s response.

  ‘Then we’ll just go and tell your mum and dad, shall we?’

  ‘If you’re after another snog, you can have one,’ says Zara. Jed grins. ‘But if you think I’m kissing you here in front of everyone, you are off your rocker.’

  The smile fades on Jed’s face. ‘When then?’ he asks.

  ‘Later, all right?’

  ‘You’d better not be messing because I’ve got pictures on my phone that your parents would love to see,’ says Jed.

  Me and Priti exchange glances, not sure if he’s bluffing.
/>   Zara isn’t sure either, but she says, ‘Yeah, right!’

  ‘Don’t believe me then,’ says Jed with a big grin on his face, hand still stuffed up his T-shirt holding the beer, so he looks a bit lopsided. ‘But what if I’m telling the truth?’

  ‘Just get up that tree, you little perv,’ says Zara. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you later.’

  Jed seems happy enough with this response and he blows Zara a kiss as we head off in the direction of the garden. She just holds her fingers up to her forehead in a ‘W’ sign, which Jed reckons means ‘Whatever!’ although Priti says she thinks it’s something else!

  So the three of us end up in the tree house drinking warm beer while everyone else is partying in the culde-sac.

  ‘Have you really got pictures of Zara and Tyreese?’ I ask.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’ says Jed.

  ‘I bet he has too,’ says Priti. ‘He’s a peeping Tom!’

  ‘I like to think I’m more like the paparazzi,’ Jed grins.

  From our vantage point we can see the bikers in the park, their motorcycles parked up against the swings. When Zara appears, they all start to whistle and catcall, but she just stands, hands on hips, and stares them down and that makes them shut up.

  Then she goes right up to Tyreese, whispers something to him then turns and walks off in the direction of the woods. Her hips are swinging and she doesn’t look back. Tyreese hesitates for a moment before getting off his bike to follow her. The other lads call after him, but he just ignores them. He looks a bit sheepish and it occurs to me for the first time that he might actually really like Zara.

  While he and Zara are off in the woods doing whatever they do (Jed reckons they’ve made up – Priti doesn’t, and she also refuses to discuss what they might be doing if they have made up) we take turns to sip the beer, which tastes warm and bitter. Jed says it’s called ‘wife beater’, ‘Cos it makes you want to beat up your wife!’ He laughs.

  ‘Is that why your dad likes it then?’ asks Priti.

  ‘What you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if he ever hit your mum,’ Priti shrugs. ‘Maybe that’s why she left him?’

  ‘Don’t be soft. My dad never did anything to her.’

  ‘Which is exactly what you would say,’ says Priti.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ says Jed, his face red, just like his dad’s when he was shouting at Priti. ‘My mum is the evil cow, not my dad.’

  ‘If you say so,’ says Priti.

  ‘I do,’ says Jed. ‘So just shut up, all right.’

  Priti just grins and that makes Jed all the more angry, but he doesn’t say anything after that and neither does Priti. We all sit and watch in silence as bikers hang off the climbing frame and try to do headstands on the swings. They look like big overgrown kids or monkeys – far less frightening mucking around off their bikes than on them.

  ‘Do you reckon they really did knife that boy?’ I ask after a bit.

  ‘Probably,’ says Priti. ‘Tyreese hates Asians.’

  ‘So does my dad, but he doesn’t go around stabbing them, does he?’ Jed says. ‘But then he doesn’t go round doing them either!’

  ‘No, it’s just you who wants to do that!’ Priti retorts.

  ‘I don’t want to do any Paki,’ says Jed.

  ‘Yeah, you do. You want to do my sister. Don’t try to deny it – it’s obvious.’ Then Priti starts to do an impression of Jed. ‘Can I have a kiss, Zara? I’ll keep quiet if you let me, Zara.’ She flops her head around just like Jed does. Jed looks as if he might explode.

  Fortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to because just then a gang of kids come running along the alleyway below, shouting and screaming as they emerge into the park. Young kids from the wedding, playing a game of tag. Little Stevie is with them, running at the back, her arms outstretched like she’s flying, a broad grin on her face.

  ‘Looks like that kid has finally found some friends,’ says Priti.

  ‘What if their parents come looking for them?’ I say. ‘We need to warn Zara.’

  ‘Good point,’ says Priti, suddenly serious.

  We all start scrambling down the tree and Priti sticks two fingers in her mouth and gives out a high-pitched whistle intended for Zara.

  ‘D’you reckon she heard that?’ she asks. ‘Can’t have the mosque gossips catch her snogging a racist thug on her brother’s wedding day.’

  ‘D’you reckon that’s what they’re doing?’ says Jed.

  ‘Whatever she’s doing, we’d better go get her.’

  But just then a couple of the little kids’ mums appear, looking for their children.

  The kids are running around the playground now, oblivious to the bikers, who for some reason don’t seem to scare them. But the women in their saris are scared and they hang back, calling to the children. The bikers start to shout and jeer at them, but the kids take no notice and keep running around.

  Me and Jed and Priti jump down over the fence into the park, but we can’t go running off to the woods without one of the women noticing, so we just stand there, watching, hoping Zara won’t choose this particular moment to re-emerge.

  Priti whistles again, twice this time. ‘I hope she knows that means “stay where you are”,’ she says.

  The mothers keep calling to the children, but they take no notice. Eventually, two of the women have to go into the playground to get them and the bikers crowd close to them, jostling and heckling, laughing loud like hyenas.

  With the bikers following them, the women hurriedly round up the kids – all except Stevie whose mum is probably still drinking with Uncle Ian. Now the children are starting to look a bit frightened too. The bikers don’t actually touch them, but they kick up dust and take turns in blocking their way out.

  A bottle smashes and one of the children lets off a scream as glass shards fly.

  ‘We should go,’ says Jed.

  ‘We can’t. We promised Zara,’ hisses Priti.

  The women and children head for the exit, the bikers still following them. More flying glass as another bottle is thrown on to the tarmac path, right in front of the women. The glass shards explode like a bomb, narrowly missing the kids’ faces. A third bottle shatters against the fence. The bikers laugh. A couple of the children have started crying.

  One of women sees us and says something to Priti in Punjabi. She replies in English. ‘It’s OK. My mum lets me come here!’

  The woman says something else. Priti mutters something then raises an eyebrow at us. ‘OK, let’s go,’ she says.

  ‘But Zara . . .’ I say, glancing in the direction of the trees.

  ‘We’ve got no choice,’ says Priti. ‘They’re going to tell Shakeel if we don’t come.’

  As the women crowd hastily into the alleyway, the bikers fall back, laughing and whooping and throwing more bottles. We get dragged along with the kids and the mums and the last thing I see as I turn to leave is little Stevie. She’s been left behind – I guess her mum and dad don’t mind her being in the park, or at least they haven’t come looking for her – and she’s standing in the middle of the tarmac bit with her arms aloft spinning round and round and round. She hardly seems to have noticed the bikers at all.

  ‘Do you think we should get her to come with us?’ I say.

  Priti shrugs and Jed says, ‘Nah. She’ll be OK. They won’t bother with a white kid.’

  Still, I feel a bit bad about leaving Stevie, but the bikers are jeering louder than ever, catcalling and smashing glass, and Priti is dragging us away.

  As we head down the alleyway, I glance back and see little Stevie, still spinning windmills on the tarmac.

  Uncle Ian is in the alleyway. He’s arguing with someone – we can hear raised voices – but the mums and kids are pushing past him, so we can’t see who it is at first. It’s only when we’re nearly upon them that we see it’s Auntie Karen.

  She turns to look at us at about the same time we spot her.

&n
bsp; ‘Jed,’ she says, stretching her arms out to him. ‘Baby!’

  But the minute he sees her, Jed turns on his heels and runs back down the alley, in the direction of the park. Back towards the bikers.

  ‘Please, baby, come back!’ shouts Auntie Karen. ‘Jed – darling. I just needed to see you!’ Her eyes are red and puffy and her make-up is smudged like she’s been crying. Uncle Ian grabs hold of her so she can’t run after him. Me and Priti stand frozen to the spot, not sure what to do.

  ‘You see!’ Uncle Ian is shouting at her. ‘He wants nothing to do with you. Stop stalking him.’

  ‘I only came to look at him, Ian.’ She’s turning to him now, pleading. Even with black streaks down her face she’s still very pretty. ‘I need him to know that I still care, that I haven’t given up on him even if he’s given up on me.’

  ‘You’re stalking him. That’s what the police will say. Harassing him.’

  ‘I wasn’t even going to talk to him. I was just going to stay here and watch. Ian, please. A son needs his mother.’ She looks desperate, but not mad – I half expected her to seem crazy, but she doesn’t. Just sad, that’s all.

  ‘Not a mother like you.’ Uncle Ian still has hold of her even though she’s stopped struggling.

  ‘What did I ever do to him?’ she asks. ‘I know I hurt you, but I never hurt him.’

  He shoves her away when she says this – like she’s spat on him or something. ‘Just get out of here before I call the police.’

  ‘And say what?’ She’s calmer now and it’s Uncle Ian who looks mad. ‘That I turned up for a rendezvous with my son on the day specified by the court? That you are flouting a contact order? That you are indoctrinating our son? Emotional abuse they call it – in the US people have lost custody over it. I know what you’re doing and soon the judges will too, and then you’ll be the one begging me for contact.’

  ‘Just get out of here, you twisted old witch,’ says Uncle Ian quietly, but with a dangerous look in his eye. ‘I’m going to find my son. If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll call the police.’

  Then he pushes past her and goes off towards the park.

  Me and Priti are left standing there with Auntie Karen, not knowing what to say or do.

  After a moment, she says to us, ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that.’