No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  “Hang on a second, should I be taking notes?”

  “Yeah, there’ll be a test later, so pay attention. A line of speedballs down the right side there, then the heavy bags and super heavy bags next to them. I’m talking all the good stuff too, Callum. Brand name stuff, no expense spared.” He turns to the back of the club, and now he’s a stewardess pointing out the emergency exits. “Custom-built fuck-off huge locker where we’ll put the hook and jab pads, headgear, ropes, all that. And the changing rooms, all new lockers in there, new benches—”

  “This is all coming straight out of the catalogue?”

  “Thought I might as well start fresh.”

  “Sounds pricey.”

  Paulo’s smile stays on his face, but he lets out a long breath. “You would not believe.”

  “And you can afford this?”

  He walks back to me, swirls his coffee around the bottom of his cup, then takes another drink. “Mostly. Sold a bit of gear second-hand, got some grant applications sorted, a few more pending. Looking to turn this place into more what Shapiro’s got in the States, like a place we can hold local amateur smokers, all that.”

  “So it’s on tick.”

  “Hey, the press get interested, I was hoping to raise a little more cash at the opening.”

  “You’re a registered charity now, are you?”

  He pulls a flyer from his arse pocket, hands it to me. Looks like one of the lads who used to come into the club did it — Sean. Kid’s an art geek, doing a foundation course at college, got a thing about a bloke called Richard Hamilton. And Sean’s taken a liberty with The Smiths, plastered them in pieces across the flyer. I don’t know that it’s going to get many people round, but it’s eye-catching, I’ll give him that.

  “You had any bites yet?”

  “Nah,” says Paulo. “The Evening News are a bunch of bastards.”

  “The ENS thing.”

  Paulo pulls a face. “Try to do a bit of good, inject a little pride back into the community and who gets his picture in the paper? Jeffrey fuckin’ Briggs.”

  “He’s a local personality.”

  Paulo stares at me. I smile.

  “Good,” he says. “For a second there, I thought you were serious. Now you’re going to turn up, aren’t you?”

  “If there’s a hedgehog, I’m there.”

  “I think we can do better than a hedgehog, Cal.”

  “A wine box?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Push the boat out, we’ll have both.”

  I push the flyer into my back pocket. “Then I might pop by.”

  “You better. I don’t want to be standing around here on my lonesome.”

  I slap Paulo’s shoulder. “I’m sure everything’ll work out fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  There’s a pause. Paulo seems to be watching his feet. The bloke looks funny, like he’s got something to say, but he hasn’t worked out what it is yet. There’s tension in his face, so much I think he’s going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t spit it out soon enough. I’m about to tell him that when he beats me to it.

  “Look,” he says, “when we’re open again, d’you think you’ll come back?”

  “To work?”

  He looks up, regards me. “Yeah. Why, do you need the work now?”

  I think about Plummer, what I told him last night. I did promise to chuck the job if I got hurt again. And it’s really only a matter of time before that happens. “I might soon. But it’s no big deal.”

  “You don’t like Don Plummer,” he says.

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. I mean, he’s a prick, but that’s not the reason I’m thinking about it. I’d rather get paid less and not have to knock heads, to be honest. Why, what d’you need sweeping?”

  Paulo laughs. “I’m not saying come back as a fuckin’ caretaker, Cal. Your licence is up, isn’t it? You don’t need to do that anymore. I’ll put you on the listed staff, dole you out a steady wage for the lean times, but if you wanted to do the PI thing, you could work out the back office. When you’re doing well, I’d expect a little back as rent, something like that—”

  I shake my head, smile. “You going to get me a frosted-glass door with my name on it, Paulo?”

  “I can arrange it if you want.”

  “I’m joking, mate.”

  “I’m not. Here, c’mon.” Paulo jerks his head towards the back of the club. “I want to show you something.”

  8

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Like the rest of the club, the back office is empty but freshly painted. The window overlooking the bins is open, and the breeze swirls dust and lint across the floor. I never realised how much space there was back here until now.

  When I look at Paulo, he’s grinning.

  “I reckon, if you wanted to go back at it, a PI should have a proper office,” he says. “Somewhere to meet clients and that.”

  I rub my nose. That new paint smell’s starting to get to me; I can taste emulsion on the back of my tongue. But I’m still looking around my brand new office, or the ghost of it. “Paulo, you know I’m not serious about the PI stuff.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “I was at the time, but I don’t think so now. You have some time away from something, it gives you a chance to see it for what it is. And I honestly don’t think I want to go back there, mate.”

  “Right.” He looks serious. “What’s stopping you?”

  “What, you mean apart from the fact that I’m no good at it?”

  Paulo narrows his eyes and points at me. “It’s the fuckin’ Liam thing, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Shake my head. “Not just that—”

  “What happened in Los Angeles wasn’t your fault, Callum.”

  “I know.”

  “You did the best you could. Couldn’t have foreseen any of that shite.”

  “I could’ve rolled with it better.”

  Paulo moves closer. “Here, sometimes you kick, sometimes you get a kicking. Doesn’t stop it from hurting, but there you go. Liam’s a tough kid and he’s not daft. He came round here, told me his side of things—”

  “You saw him?”

  “Course I did. He’s coming back to the club when it opens.”

  I nod. “How is he?”

  “He’s good. Helping me out with this lad who could be a decent little fighter if he manages to keep his hands off the fucking wraps and his head on straight. I mean, I know you don’t like working with them, especially the newer lads, and that’s fine. Not everyone’s cup of tea, is it?” He takes a deep breath, holds up his hands. “But I’m saying, look, you want to come back, work legit, get yourself licensed and everything, you can come back to a new office. I’m not saying I’m going to stretch to an antique desk and a busty secretary, but at least you won’t be working out of a broom cupboard.”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “All I’m asking is you give it a proper think before you make your decision, okay?”

  I smile at Paulo. He’s still got his serious face on.

  “What?” he says.

  “Admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You miss having me around, you soppy old get.”

  Paulo snorts and moves out of the office. “Yeah, that’d be right. I’m just offering you the job because I know you’ll think about it and turn it down. Your type, Cal, you’ll always say no to a good thing. Rather crawl through shite and broken glass than take a fuckin’ favour.”

  “Plus, you’ll be able to get someone prettier in here.”

  “Too right.”

  “Let me think about it, mate.”

  I follow him out into the gym. Paulo stops in the middle of the room. He appears to be watching a fat bloke on top of a stepladder. The fat bloke’s busy slapping a brush full of white paint against the wall.

  “You know what?” says Paulo. “I never thought I’d say this, but the
best thing that ever happened to this place was Mo Tiernan.”

  “Don’t say that too loud, eh?”

  Paulo shrugs. “He’s gone, Cal. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the twat for ages.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything, He’s probably just laying low.”

  “And he doesn’t have any buyers here, so there’s no reason for him to come back. Besides, I reckon that beating you gave him finally sorted his head out.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t heard anything?”

  “He’s long gone, Callum. Trust us on this.” Paulo turns and stares at me. “Don’t go looking for trouble when there’s nowt to find, alright? Some things you need to take at face value.”

  I nod. He’s right. I need to stop chasing Mo Tiernan. Christ, if he’s managed to forgive the bastard for what he did to this place, then I should too.

  “Give it a couple of weeks,” he says. “We’ll be bigger and better than ever.”

  And even though I can’t quite see what he’s seeing, I can’t disagree with him either. There’s the infinite potential of a blank slate with the Lads’ Club, and Paulo’s forever the kind of optimist who’ll more than likely get it done. I have to admit, it’s kind of contagious. I look around these bare walls, this empty space, and I can almost see it filled with all the crap Paulo was raving about, just about see the place become everything he wants it to be. But I can’t picture myself here for some reason.

  Maybe because this place is a nice dream, but it’s not mine.

  “I’ve got to go, mate. Look, give me a ring when you get the opening sorted.”

  “You’ve got the flyer. It’s all on there.”

  “Give me a ring anyway. As a reminder. You know what I’m like. Too many knocks to the head made me daft.”

  Paulo walks me to the door and squints at my car. He whistles. “What happened there, then?”

  “Bad job. Someone took a baseball bat to it.”

  “You want to get that looked at. Police get you on that, you’re fucked.”

  “I know.”

  “Well,” he says, still looking at the Micra. “You be careful, eh?”

  I nod and walk to the car. Paulo watches me pull away from the entrance to the club. I don’t need to see his face to know the same old expression. The guy’s a mother hen at times. Which is what makes him so good with the lads, I suppose.

  I dig out my mobile, call Frank. Takes him five rings before he picks up. “You want me to come and get you tonight, or are you chucking a sickie?”

  Frank coughs down the phone.

  “It’s your hand, mate. Your hand’s the sick thing, remember?”

  “I know,” he says.

  “So, how is it?”

  “Swollen. I taped my fingers together.”

  “You break anything?”

  “How do I know? You wouldn’t let me go to the hospital, would you?”

  “C’mon, mate, don’t try to make me feel guilty. Are you coming to work, or do I get kicked to shit by myself tonight?”

  “I don’t know, Cal.” He sighs. “You got your work head on?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank makes a sound as if he’s thinking. It’s unlikely, but I let him make the noises until they become irritating.

  “Well? I’ve only got so much charge on this phone, Frank.”

  “You’re sure you’re not going to be on the pills all night?”

  “I’ll be lucid.”

  “And no more of that Francis rubbish.”

  “Best behaviour, I promise.”

  “Fine,” he says. “But I’m going to see my mum this afternoon. Is it alright to pick me up from there tonight?”

  “Not a problem.”

  9

  There are new houses being built all over Longsight, but the ramshackle terrace across the street from us isn’t one of them. Plummer doesn’t believe in new unless it’s a crisp orange fifty. As landlord, he does the minimum to make the place habitable, then lets a hundred revolving-door tenants wear it down to this: patchy, yellowing grass out the front, paint blistering from the sash window frames. I’d say it was just cosmetic, but I’ve been inside these properties before. The sickness runs right through the whole house.

  “Looks alright,” says Frank from inside the car.

  Yeah, it looks alright. But you never know.

  I blow smoke, look up the road; a couple of adverts look back. There’s a Tory billboard left over from the last election: It’s not racist to impose limits on immigration — ARE YOU THINKING WHAT WE’RE THINKING?

  Some wag’s spray-painted a red cross through the not and written NO YOU CUNTS underneath the question. I’m guessing it’s the same bloke going on about climate change on the advert for the Mitsubishi Warrior on the other billboard. And right enough, while I don’t see global warming being a hot button issue round here, I don’t think any of Longsight’s residents are diehard bluebloods either.

  Check the eviction notice. The Rashid family: mother, father, one kid and a grandmother. Seems like a shitty thing to do, evict a whole family, but I’ve done worse for cash. And the way Plummer justifies it: they should’ve paid their rent. If they hadn’t messed us around on that, I wouldn’t be here, and they wouldn’t be out of there about ten minutes from now.

  I look at the house. No lights in the windows, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. They could’ve seen us coming.

  Dump the cigarette, slap the roof of the car and Frank gets out.

  He waves non-existent smoke away. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, mind. What d’you think?”

  “I think we should get it over with. If there’s nobody in, we sack it.”

  “You sure?”

  “If there’s definitely nobody at home, yeah, fuck it.”

  As we reach the front door, there’s the sound of breaking glass. Frank starts and looks around. Neither of us can make out where the noise came from, but it’s too close for comfort. Thing is, something like that, it’s not worth investigating, isn’t in our remit. If someone wanted that window dead, good for them. Hope they’re happy.

  I ring the doorbell, then take a step back. Upstairs, a curtain twitches closed, swings a little.

  “You see that?”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s in.”

  “You think?”

  “That curtain just moved, Frank.”

  “Could be a breeze. Open window.”

  “You feel any breezes tonight?”

  He moves one shoulder. Could be a half-shrug, could be a knot he’s trying to work out.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say, turning back to the house. “I’m going to give it a knock, so pull up behind me. We walk away because it’s a dangerous situation, that’s one thing. I don’t want Don giving us shit because we didn’t knock long enough.”

  “How’s he going to know?”

  “He’ll ask you, Frank. And you’re not the lying type.”

  Frank thinks about that, his eyes closing to slits. Then he says, “Right enough.”

  I press on the doorbell again, lean on it. Can’t hear anything inside, so it’s probably knackered. I bang the letterbox a couple of times. Frank’s started to shuffle behind me. “That doesn’t sound very mean, mate.”

  “I’ll be alright on the night,” he says.

  Nothing from inside.

  “Do me a favour, have a look up at that bedroom window again, see if there’s anything moving up there.”

  Frank steps back. “I dunno. Maybe. Ah, hang on.”

  “What is it?”

  He huffs. “Yeah, okay, I think I saw someone.”

  “Right.” I rattle the letterbox again. The noise echoes inside the house. I crouch down, push the flap through.

  And get a belt of hot air to the face.

  “Whoa, ya fucker.”

  “What?”

  I straighten up, wipe my nose on the back of my hand. “You smell smoke?”

  “Cal, I don’t smell nowt, mate.�
�

  “Right, your condition.” Never stopped him from being a bitch about smoke before, and I’ll say something about that later, but right now there’s more important stuff going on. I crouch down again, flap open the letterbox and catch another belt. I wipe my eyes, squint down the hallway.

  “Oh shit.”

  “What?”

  “The fuckin’ place is on fire.”

  “Oh dear,” he says.

  “That’s the PG version, yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “I know a fuckin’ fire when I see it, Frank.” I stand up, look at him. “Do me another favour, would you?”

  “What?”

  “Kick the door in.”

  Frank smiles, then laughs a little. It doesn’t last long before his face creases. “You’re joking.”

  “There’s someone in there, mate.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

  “I saw someone. You saw someone, that’s your second opinion. Enough for you to kick down this door.”

  “I didn’t see anyone, I saw movement.”

  “Frank, fuck’s sake, grow some balls, man.”

  He points at me. “You do it.”

  “I can’t do it. I’ve got a back problem. I even look like I’m going to try, I’ll end up in the fuckin’ hospital, you know that.”

  “What about me?” he says, unzipping his jacket. “I got a condition too, y’know.”

  “I’m not debating your condition, Wheezy. I’m not asking you to run in there and blow the fuckin’ fire out yourself, either. I’m just telling you to put your foot on the door, man.”

  “Nah, they’ll be fine. I’ll just call the fire brigade.”

  “Don’t be a twat about this, alright?”

  “Nah, hang on.” He fumbles with the buttons on his mobile, the phone tiny in his massive paw. “Stupid thing’s built for kids.”

  His hand’s shaking. He’s scared. I don’t know why.

  I turn, aim at the handle and connect awkwardly, stumble back, my arse almost meeting ground. Trainers aren’t made for kicking. I steady myself, the sole of my foot throbbing, making me hop. “I’m not joking, Francis. Put your fuckin’ shoulder to that door right now.”