No More Heroes

by Stephen Thompson

  Dave and I made sure to sit as far away from Trevor as possible, but such was the layout of the pub that we couldn’t completely avoid seeing him or vice versa. Trevor and I spent a lot of time giving each other dirty looks. Dave did his best to occupy my attention, but no matter what topic of conversation he tried to interest me in – Champions League football, the latest gossip about the other staff at Blockbuster, the parlous state of the rental film industry in the age of illegal downloads – I just kept eyeballing Trevor. In the end Dave got frustrated. ‘Just ignore him, will ya? The bloke’s a waste of space.’ I downed the last of my Guinness and said, ‘You’re right. Same again?’ Dave nodded and I went off to the bar. While Sabina pulled the pints, I couldn’t help myself and shot a quick glance in Trevor’s direction. He noticed, gave me the finger, then he and his mate started chuckling like a couple of five-year-olds. I don’t know why it should have happened then, and not on some previous occasion, but something in me snapped and I strode over to where Trevor was sitting and said, ‘You got something to wanna say to me?’ His friend said, ‘Look, let’s all calm down, eh?’ Trevor then stood up. We were practically standing nose-to-nose. I could smell the booze on his breath. In weight and height, we were about the perfect match. For a few moments neither of us spoke, and then he said, ‘Why don’t you fuck off back to where you came from?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard. You’re not welcome round here.’

  ‘And yet I’ve just been given the key to the town. It’s hanging above the bed in your ex-wife’s bedroom.’

  His nostrils flared. ‘I’m warning you, don’t push me.’

  ‘Or else what?’ He clenched his fists and stared at me. He was all ready to go but then seemed to have a change of heart.

  ‘Your problem is you’re blind. You can’t see what’s right in front of your nose. You can’t see that Rhona’s only using you to get back at me. I could have her back like that…’ he snapped his fingers, ‘…but she can go and do one. If it wasn’t for Sky I wouldn’t go anywhere near that filthy slag.’

  I punched him flush on the jaw. He staggered backwards like a man who’d had one too many and fell flat on his back. Sabina screamed from behind the counter, which alerted everyone else in the pub to what was happening. Dave came rushing to my side. I knew that if it kicked off he’d probably come up short, but having him next to me was reassuring all the same. I stood waiting for Trevor’s friend to do something but, obviously afraid, he backed away and started trying to revive his still prone friend. Trevor swore, brushed him aside and staggered to his feet, holding his jaw. He then tried to come at me but this time his friend held on to him and simply refused to let go, as if he feared for Trevor’s life. Dave and I stood and waited to see what would happen next.

  By now a handful of other drinkers had gathered around and one woman said to me, ‘Go on now, leave it. It’s over.’ Like an adult who steps in to separate two warring kids, her words brought matters to a close. I said to Dave, ‘Told you there was a bad smell in here. Can we go now?’ He didn’t need another invitation. We turned and walked away. Just as we were about to leave Trevor shouted, ‘This isn’t over you black cunt!’ I immediately turned around, ready to do some serious damage now, and it took the combined force of Dave and the other customers to prevent me from having my way. Trevor was standing a few tantalising feet away, leering at me, satisfied with himself for having evened the score, if only verbally. I wanted to smash his teeth down his throat, but in the end I wriggled free of my captors and stepped outside. I gulped down a few quick draughts of the humid night air and then, accompanied by a very concerned-looking Dave, set off home.

  I walked Dave to his flat, which took me completely out of my way. When I finally got in it was after midnight and I went straight to bed. I needn’t have bothered. Sleep just wouldn’t come. I couldn’t stop thinking about Trevor and what I wanted to do to him but after a while my anger burned out and I began to reflect on why I had gone to the pub in the first place. I had done it. I was leaving Blockbuster. I had taken the big step. The money I was set to receive from the paper had been the deciding factor but I hadn’t mentioned that to Dave out of respect for his situation. He didn’t need to hear that I was getting almost five times his annual salary in one go and could afford the luxury of taking a few months off work before deciding my next move. In the pub earlier he’d asked me how I intended to cope for money while looking for a new job and, jokingly, I’d said, ‘I’m gonna sponge off you, of course.’

  Still unable to sleep, I got out of bed and went into the living room and put the TV on. Flicking through the channels I settled on a cop thriller. It held my interest for about twenty minutes and then I got bored and switched it off. I fell asleep, still on the sofa, around two a.m. I had my usual nightmare. I saw Stuart lying on the tracks. After sawing both his legs off he handed me the saw and invited me to do the same with mine, laughing at me and calling me a coward when I start to run away. Next I saw myself in the bombed out carriage, surrounded by cadavers, maggots squirming from their eyes. One of them, who sometimes looked like Latonya and at other times like Theodore, was pointing a crossbow at me, getting ready to fire. I had to keep dodging and ducking, waiting for the moment when I was hit, but it never came. I woke up, as I always did at that point, gasping for breath, my heart hammering in my chest. I sat up, looked around. The front room was in darkness. Convinced I could see shapes lurking in the corners, I got up and switched on the light and felt silly when I saw that there was nothing in the room but the usual items: the broken down sofa and the matching armchair, the knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, the torn paper shade covering the lightbulb, the TV in its plywood cabinet. I decided to go back to bed, thinking that a change of rooms might bring about a change in my mood. The opposite happened.

  While lying in bed, with the radio on as a distraction, the visions started. Just as they had at the reception, and later at Rhona’s, they suddenly flashed into my mind. The oppressively dark room. The horrible smell. Mitch and Benjy with no clothes on. Mitch desperate to attack me but wary of the gun in my hand. Benjy looking scared and unsure what to do. These visions, coming so soon after the nightmare, gave me violent convulsions. Thinking I was about to die, I had to get up and walk around to try to rid myself of the terrors. I paced about the house for more than an hour, going from room to room, my senses heightened, my nerves shredded, paranoid and jittery. I’d never felt more alone in my life. I almost called Rhona, but didn’t want to disturb her ahead of her shift at the surgery, which was only a few hours away. I would have called Theodore but I had burdened him so much over the years with my problems I just didn’t have the heart to weigh him down further. The poor guy deserved a break. That only left Dave. I knew he would have been happy and flattered that I had turned to him in a crisis yet I didn’t because my ego wouldn’t allow it. He had just seen me lay out Trevor. I couldn’t then call him to say I was feeling scared and jumping at my own shadow.

  Around five o’clock the birds started cheeping. Never had I heard a more soothing sound. The dawn broke soon after that, the half-light seeping in through the uncovered window in the kitchen, where I happened to be at the time. Feeling better, I went back to bed and fell asleep quite quickly. Only to be woken up a few hours later by the sound of my mobile ringing. It was Dave, calling to remind me that I was supposed to have opened the store that morning. He had turned up for his shift expecting to find me and had had to open up himself. Several customers had already called up to complain about the store being closed and he was not happy to have spent the first hour of his shift apologising to people for my oversight. I was annoyed with him. He seemed to have forgotten the night before and the fact that it may have had something to do with my no-show. But then that was one of the things I liked about him: he was conscientious almost to a fault.

  In all the time he and I worked together I couldn’t remember him ever missing a shift. ‘Sorry, homes,’ I said, ‘completely forgot.’
He accepted my apology, but added sarcastically, ‘I don’t know if you’re trying to make me sack you, but if you are, it won’t happen. I expect you to work out your two weeks’ notice. And get your arse here asap, will ya? The price changes happen today remember? We’ve got a lot of stickering to do, my friend. And in case you’d forgotten, the ice-cream gets delivered later on and there’s no way I’m putting that shit away by myself. And don’t even get me started on the cleaning. You seen the state of the place recently? In fact, when was the last time you got the hoover out, Simon?’ I was about to say that I never did the hoovering as no-one else seemed to bother, but then I remembered that he was only joking and that I would soon be out of there. And so I allowed him to prattle on till finally I could take no more and said, ‘OK, OK, don’t get your G-string in a twist. I’ll be there shortly.’

  * * *

  ‘So, tell me, how much d’you need to buy Trevor out?’ Rhona bit her lip and looked at me uncertainly. Despite all her questions, I hadn’t told her how much I was getting for my story because as far as I was concerned the sum was obscene and I was embarrassed to mention it. ‘At least ten g’s,’ she said, her voice heavy with regret, ‘but I’ll take whatever you can afford. Even a quarter of that would help, actually.’

  We were sitting on the sofa-bed in the extension, sharing a beer, the door open to let in a bit of the cool evening air. Her back garden, a narrow patch of grass dotted with clumps of dandelion, was alive with bugs. I had not long finished my shift and had brought round a couple of games for her – the latest versions of Assassin’s Creed and Modern Warfare – which were still lying on the table where I had put them, still in their Blockbuster plastic bag.

  ‘You can have the ten grand.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Come again?’

  I took a sip from my glass of ice-cold beer.

  ‘I said you can have the money. Just as soon as I have it, of course.’

  She stood up and came over and sat on my lap. As usual in that situation I became nervous.

  Unlike Rhona, I was always worried about being interrupted by Sky, who at that moment was in the front room watching Eastenders with the volume turned up way too high. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting her to appear. I had never liked showing affection to Rhona in front of her. The funny thing was Sky didn’t mind, and certainly Rhona didn’t, but all the same there was something about it that made me uneasy. She kissed me and said, ‘You really mean it?’ I held her round her waist, shifting her weight slightly so as not to impede my hard on. ‘Of course I mean it, woman. And I was thinking, if it’s alright with you that is, I was thinking of putting a little something into an account for Sky: you know, for when she turns eighteen? What do you reckon?’ Rhona smiled, put her arms around my neck and kissed me again. I was getting more and more turned on. But for the thought of Sky, I would have taken her right there in the extension. At last we broke for some air and Rhona said, ‘Now come on, Simon. All joking aside. Exactly how much is the paper paying you?’ I laughed. ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out.’

  * * *

  The photographer showed up equipped with everything except his manners. His sullen, can’t-be-arsed attitude was the complete opposite of Susie Lowencrantz’s hard-nosed professionalism. I had the feeling he thought he was some kind of artist who should be taking pictures for an exhibition rather than for newspapers. Long-haired, pale-faced and hollow-cheeked, he was wearing a washed-out black T-shirt, black skinny jeans and a pair of battered red Converse. But for his age – he must have been fifty if he was a day – he could have passed for an indie-rocker. I made it clear to him right from the off that I wouldn’t pose for any pictures that made me look like a thug. ‘And how do you propose we do that?’ he asked, which was either an innocent remark or an attempt to insult me.

  I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Well, for one thing, I intend to be smiling in all the photos. So if that’s a problem for you, we might as well end this right now.’

  He didn’t have a problem with me smiling, but warned that it might not reflect the serious nature of the article. I said, ‘That’s not my problem,’ and then quickly added, ‘and another thing, no pictures of me standing next to run-down council estates or walls covered in graffiti. In fact, I think we should get out into the countryside for the shoot. We could take your car.’

  I was really laying down the law, and I could see that he was having to grit his teeth to avoid giving me a piece of his mind, but in the end he agreed to my suggestion. Once we were out in the countryside, and once we had agreed on a location – a shaded patch of grass beside a stream filled with shiny pebbles – we both relaxed and I started to enjoy the photo-shoot. I felt like quite the star. At one point an elderly couple driving by stopped their car in the middle of the road to see what was happening. ‘Who’s this black man having his photo taken? Must be somebody.’ It amused me to see their puzzled faces. At that moment I believe I finally understood the attraction of fame. I had to admit it to myself, I was starting to enjoy all the attention.

  * * *

  When I received my cheque, minus Richard’s commission, I stared at it for ages. It had my name on it, yet I couldn’t escape the feeling it had been sent to me by mistake. As if I feared getting a call to confirm the mistake, I hot-footed it into town to deposit the money into my near-empty Barclays account. When I approached her cubicle, Maureen, the bespectacled, middle-aged cashier, said, ‘Morning, Mr Weekes. How are you today?’

  I did my best not to stare at her ample bosom. ‘I’m good, thanks. And you?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble, as they say.’

  I handed her the cheque. When she saw the amount her eyes widened momentarily, but she quickly composed herself, processed the cheque, stamped it, filed it away, gave me a receipt and said, ‘Now don’t you go spending that all at once.’ She winked at me over her quarter-moon glasses then looked past me to the next person in the queue. ‘Can I help?’

  I walked towards the exit and was about to step outside when, from a side door, I saw the branch manager, Geoff Walker, approaching me fast. I stopped to wait for him. The bank had no air-conditioning and it was a hot late summer’s afternoon, yet Walker was wearing a creased, grey, pinstripe suit and a tie. The heat had turned his face a crablike pink and there was a bead of sweat on his tall forehead and another across his thin top lip. He extended his bony, blue-veined hand and said, ‘Mr Weekes, good to see you.’ I shook his hand. It was sweaty. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked. He shrugged and had a quick look around, as though fearing he might be overheard.

  ‘Got a few minutes?’ I didn’t, as it happened. I had a train to catch. ‘Not really. Why?’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially and said, ‘Well, when you have a bit of time pop in and see me. I’d like to talk to you about some of the ways you might like to invest your money. In all conscience, I couldn’t allow you to have such a sum sitting in a current account doing nothing for you.’ I thought that was priceless. ‘You mean doing nothing for the bank.’ He flushed even redder than before. He was about to say something, no doubt in his defence, but I interrupted him. ‘Look, I’m off to London just now, be gone a couple of days, max. I promise I’ll drop by when I get back.’ He flashed me a crooked grin, we shook hands again and I turned and walked away. When I got outside, I looked back to make sure Walker wasn’t watching then wiped my palm on my jeans.

  The unreliability of my old Golf, coupled with the hassle of having to find somewhere to park, put me off the idea of driving to London. That was half the reason. The other half was my desire to conquer my fear of getting on a train again. And it was very much fear. Just the idea of it set my heart racing. The train journey to London was going to be bad enough, but how would I feel about getting the tube from Kings Cross to Ladbroke Grove?

  As it turned out, the train ride to London was not as bad as I had feared. The views into London – flat green fields, undulating hills, big blue skies – worked on me like a balm. Af
ter a panicky quarter of an hour or so, I managed to relax and passed the four-hour trip in contemplation of what it would be like to spend a bit of time with my brother. I missed him. I needed him like never before. With our parents now out of the picture, he was all the family I had left.

  If the train ride into London had been manageable, then getting on the tube proved to be a severe test of my mettle. As I stood at the top of the escalator on my way to catch the Hammersmith and City Line I was not just afraid, I was terrified. People pushed past me, giving me dirty looks. On the journey into London I had been steeling myself for the moment; now that it had arrived, I didn’t think I could go through with it. I tried to think rationally. Nothing was going to happen to me. I wasn’t going to be blown up. And yet my knees were shaking. I dilly-dallied like this for several minutes until, suddenly, I found myself being swept on to the escalator by a huge throng of commuters.

  Instinctively I stepped to the right to avoid the moving traffic, gripping the handrail for all I was worth. I took several deep breaths to try to open my lungs, but so hot and acrid was the air that I started to hyperventilate. The distance from top to bottom couldn’t have been more than thirty metres but if felt twice as long. To ease my anxiety, I glanced occasionally at the ads on the wall, but all the while I was conscious of going down, ever down, as if I was heading into the very depths of hell.

  As soon as I reached the bottom I jumped off the escalator and stood to one side to avoid being stampeded, still unsure whether to continue my journey. With my back against the wall, I felt a blast of cool air caused by a train entering a tunnel. I was glad for it. It helped my breathing a little, even if it did nothing for my shakes. I started talking to myself: ‘If you can make it on to the train, you’ll be fine.’ I set out along the tunnel towards the platform. By the time I got there I was a bundle of nerves. I slumped down on the first bench I came across, practically falling into the lap of a young American couple who, not surprisingly, immediately stood up and moved some distance away from me. From the electronic timetable I saw that my train wasn’t due for another seven minutes. In my current state that was an eternity. I gritted my teeth, determined not to buckle under the pressure.