No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  “That the bloke who was looking for me?”

  Frank nods.

  “Thought as much. Get in the car.”

  “Callum Innes,” says the bloke, stuttering to a walk, reaching into his pocket.

  I think about lying, but I’ve already stopped, and I can’t think of anything convincing to fob this bloke off with. It’s been a long night. “What d’you say this bloke’s name was, Frank?”

  “Andy Beeston,” says Beeston. “Evening News.”

  “Yeah, my mate told me about you. What d’you want?”

  Beeston brings out a small tape recorder, clicks a button on the side, and holds it up to me. I step back.

  “Just wondered if you had a second,” he says, “maybe you could give me a quote or two about tonight?”

  “Okay, how’s this: nice tape recorder.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “Look, I’m knackered, Andy, alright? I just want to get to bed.”

  “I understand that. Absolutely. But just one question. You can do one—”

  “Okay.”

  “How does it feel to be a local hero?”

  I look at him. “I’m not a local hero, Andy. I was just in the wrong fuckin’ place at the wrong fuckin’ time.”

  Reckon he’ll have a job using that. Media savvy, that’s me.

  “And how come you were there?” he says.

  I shake my head and start walking. “I told you, one question.”

  “You work for Donald Plummer, don’t you?” There’s laughter in his voice that sets me on edge.

  “You’re making this a piece about Plummer?”

  We stop walking. Beeston rolls his shoulders, but he looks more uncomfortable than confident. Still, there’s something going on he doesn’t want to tell me about. “I’d appreciate your thoughts on the matter.”

  “What matter?”

  “The recent allegations surrounding Donald Plummer.”

  “I’d appreciate you fucking off out of my sight, you keep that shit up. Got something to say, say it straight.”

  Beeston looks off at something behind me, still got that thin smile on his face. “Alright, that was a stretch.” Back to me, and talking like we’re old mates: “But do me a solid here, Callum, and I won’t disappoint. Plummer’s not the story if you give me something else instead.”

  “The fuck do I care about Don Plummer?”

  “I’ll make you look good.”

  “I already look good.”

  Frank laughs in the car. I shoot him a glare.

  “But you’ve got to give me something here, mate. All this bad news recently, the public need someone to look up to, know what I mean?” Beeston opens his free hand, the other still holding the tape recorder within range. “All I’m asking, you give me a couple of quotes that I can actually use, we’ll get a bloke round tomorrow to take your photo and that’ll be it. Way I hear it, you could probably use the publicity, right?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “For your PI business.”

  I stare at him. “I’m not a PI.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “I used to be. Kind of.”

  “Even so—”

  “Andy, I’m tired. I just escaped the Towering fuckin’ Inferno, doctor says I’ve got smoke inhalation. Now all I want to do is go home and get some sleep. You want to make up a story, you go right ahead, go fuckin’ nuts. Make it about me, make it about Plummer, whatever you want, because right now, I couldn’t give a shit.”

  I move back to the car, get in. Start the engine as Beeston appears at my side. If I had a window, I’d roll it up on him and go. He makes a show of turning off his tape recorder. Puts it back in his pocket and holds his hands up, his expression approximating sincere.

  “Before you go,” he says, “there’s just one thing you probably need to know.”

  “Okay.”

  “The kid’s fine—”

  “I know. I was told. But thanks, anyway.”

  “His granny isn’t.”

  Beeston’s fucking smiling at me. Like he’s enjoying this.

  “What granny?”

  The smile disappears from his mouth, but it’s still apparent in his eyes. “I can focus on one or the other, Callum. Your choice.”

  “What fuckin’ granny are you talking about? There wasn’t a granny in the house.”

  “You checked, did you?” he says.

  Looking at him, trying to see beyond the cocky expression on his face, and I’ve got the word Naani in my head, thinking it’s not that big a leap from “granny’.

  There’s me, I thought the kid was just frightened. I glance across at Frank. He’s staring straight ahead, doesn’t want to be involved. It’s obvious from that pitiful look he’s wearing that he knew about it, but he didn’t want to tell me. Feel like reaching across and slapping the guilt off his face.

  But I don’t. I sit there. Stare at the steering wheel.

  The dad was crying. Wasn’t relief. Wasn’t some fucking stamp collection. He’d just lost his mother.

  “You okay?” says Beeston.

  Like he gives a fuck. It’s a story.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I say.

  “Great stuff. What’s your home address?”

  “The Lads’ Club in Salford.”

  “You live there?”

  “No, but you’re not coming round my flat. You want to do some good, you mention that place a lot. And tell your photographer I’m not pulling any daft fuckin’ poses.”

  I put the Micra into gear and pull away. Frank stares out of the passenger window.

  “When were you going to tell me, Francis?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Just as well. Otherwise I’d be dropping him off at the nearest fucking bus stop.

  12

  “Couple more, Callum. Just so’s we’ve got a choice.”

  This from the bastard with the Nikon. The sun shines off his head, making him look balder than he actually is. He’s already had me standing in front of the club, throwing hero poses for what seemed like ages. If he’d had a cape and a wind machine to hand, I wouldn’t put it past him to force both on me.

  “Wanker.”

  “Fuck. In. Wank. Ah.”

  Now there’s a gang of kids on bikes heckling me, I reckon it’s time to call it a day.

  “That’s it, that’s your lot, mate. I’ve got work to do.”

  There’s a chorus of catcalls as I head towards the club. When I make a move at the kids, they scatter, the fattest one almost hits a note only dogs can hear as he slips onto his crossbar and separates his balls. He waddles off, straddling his bike. I could catch him, but I don’t know what I’d do to the little bastard if I did. So I leave him, reckon his bruised nads are enough punishment.

  Paulo grins at me as I walk in. “Local fuckin’ hero, eh?”

  I shake my head. “Not you too, man.”

  “You want me to get you a special cake, Callum?”

  “I’ve just had the most humiliating experience of my life, and you’re giving me shit. That’s nice, Paulo. “Preciate it, man. Really.”

  The interview with Andy Beeston wasn’t too bad, just mind-boggling. Felt like as soon as I’d said something, I forgot all about it. Heard myself talking about stuff I didn’t want to talk about, saw myself digress all over the fucking shop. Kind of like having an out-of-body experience, except the body’s acting like a twat and you desperately want to shut it up.

  Paulo grabs my arm. “You loved it, you little tart. Wait until that story comes out, they’ll be offering you the key to the city.”

  “I don’t want the key to the city, I want a drink. You got the kettle fixed yet?”

  “Nope,” he says. “But I can offer you something cold.”

  “You got beer?”

  He shakes his head and gestures to a vending machine in the corner of the club. I blink at it. It’s huge. And it’s new.

  “You didn’t mention that yesterday,” I say.

>   “I had a brainwave while you were out rescuing children. You’d be surprised how quick they can drop these things off. I thought I’d have to wait ages.”

  I walk to the machine, rifle in my pocket. Look up and Paulo’s holding a pound coin. I take it from him, drop the coin in the slot and press the button. A can of Coke clatters into the trough. At a pound a fucking can, I can understand why the company were so keen to get it round — once Paulo gets some kids in here, they won’t be able to fill it fast enough. I pop the lid and take a swig, the bubbles tearing the back of my throat out.

  “Listen, thanks, man,” says Paulo.

  I swallow. “What for?”

  “Bringing the press round.”

  “I didn’t want them round my flat, did I? It’s a fuckin’ tip.”

  “Still.”

  “It’s not a problem. You wanted the Evening News, you got ’em, for what it’s worth. Not like you couldn’t do with the exposure now you’ve got a brand new rip-off vending machine to pay for.”

  “Pays for itself.” Paulo leans against the machine and looks at me. “Done any thinking on what we talked about yesterday?”

  “Nothing but, man.” Another drink from the can and I can feel the wind building in my gut. I give it a second, burp a quiet one before I continue. “And yeah, I’m jacking in Plummer’s job. Told him the other night if I got hurt, I was going to walk. I got hurt, so I’m walking. Simple as. Whether I’ll come back and do the PI thing, I don’t know yet.”

  “You told that reporter you were a PI.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah.”

  I should really watch what I tell people. Or at least try to remember.

  “I didn’t mean to tell him that,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter. You told him. You’re committed now.”

  I shake my head. “Fuck that.”

  “Hey, people see that in print, they’re going to want you to work for them.”

  “I really doubt it, Paulo.”

  “Never underestimate the power of the press,” he says. “Look, people read about you saving a kid, that’s going to reflect well on you.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “They hear you’re a private investigator, they’re going to think, I’ll have to remember that name. That boy’s got balls and he’s got integrity. You can’t fake that, y’know.”

  “The balls or the integrity?”

  “Both.”

  I guzzle the rest of the Coke and drop the can in the bin. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’ve finished working for Plummer, so if the offer still stands, I’d be glad to come back.”

  “Yeah, I’ll put you on the staff list.” He pauses. Grins, his eyes shining. For a second, I think he’s about to start crying. “I’m proud of you, man.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was nothing, bollocks.” Paulo makes a fist with one hand, shakes it. “I ought to knock some fuckin’ confidence into you.”

  “Enough. You’ll be hugging me next.”

  My own fault for mentioning it.

  Paulo grabs me before I get a chance to move out of the way. He hugs me so tight, the breath rushes from my lungs and my arms get pinned to my sides. For someone so affectionate, it feels like he’s about to break my fucking spine. I try to struggle, but it’s no good. This old bugger’s still got some muscle on him.

  “Easy,” I say. “C’mon. My back, man. I’ve got a bad back.”

  He lets me go. “You asked for it.”

  “No, I fuckin’ didn’t.” I brush myself off, punch him in the shoulder. “I’m off before you try to get more familiar.”

  Paulo keeps grinning at me as I turn back towards the double doors.

  “Later, Mr Incredible!”

  That smart arse always has to have the last word.

  13

  HERO PI SAVES CHILD FROM INFERNO

  There you go, there’s the best ad I could hope for. Fuck Paulo’s “balls and integrity” stuff, the early evening edition says I’m a hero. And I’m making sure that everyone in the pub knows it, holding it up so anyone who wants to can see the headline over my shoulder. If they’re going to be nosey, they might as well be impressed at the same time.

  Unfortunately, the headline’s about the only decent thing about the story. One picture makes me look like a puffy, drunk version of my dad. I try not to look at that one if I can help it. And after a quick scan of the interview, it sounds like even though Beeston had a tape recorder with him, he hadn’t switched it on. That, or I wasn’t entertaining enough for him, because he obviously decided to make up the whole fucking thing.

  “I did what anyone would do,” said private investigator Callum Innes. “You don’t think about yourself in those situations.”

  And what does Innes think about his new status as Salford’s very own local hero?

  “You do what you have to do,” he said. “I’m just an average guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  I didn’t say any of that, I’m positive. Doesn’t sound like me. Far too cool and optimistic. No, what I said to Beeston was I was sorry to be anywhere near the place, that I didn’t do anything particularly special and if Daft Frank had bothered his arse to kick down the door when I told him, I wouldn’t be suffering from black lungs right now.

  Except that didn’t meet with Beeston’s approval, obviously. Not the way a “hero” should talk, so he’s gone and made it all up. And I sound like some square-jawed smug bastard who reckons his shit doesn’t stink. But then that’s what the public need, according to Beeston. They need someone to look up to. And it’s easier to believe in a cliché, because they’re familiar with them. They’re comfortable, and God help us if we make anyone uncomfortable.

  Which explains why my brother isn’t mentioned, even though I was asked about how I came down to Manchester. Smackhead family doesn’t reflect well on a bloke. Neither does prison time, which excuses my dad — not that I’d mention him anyway — as well as my own experience.

  It also explains why Granny Rashid made half a sentence, a glance of death buried deep in the text of the story. She was old, going to die soon anyway — that’s the implication. Doesn’t matter that she burned to death, went out screaming.

  No, look at the pictures instead, people of Manchester. Look at Innes standing in front of the Lads’ Club, looking for all the world like he’s just staggered to the end of a week-long binge drink. Those half-lidded eyes, a touch of the early morning nausea, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth because the photographer told him that would hide the double chin he never knew he had.

  Across the page, the Lads’ Club again, this time with The Smiths in front of it. Bring up Paulo’s place, they have to trot out Morrissey and Marr. One of the commandments of Manchester journalism — tie it to the music, might make people read the fucking thing.

  Same deal with the flats that used to be the Hacienda. A mass murder in there, and they’d have a picture of Bez and Shaun to accompany it.

  Still, I never thought I’d ever be in that close proximity to Moz.

  I take a drink from my pint. I want a cigarette, but I’d have to go outside to have one. Still haven’t quite got my head round that yet.

  I keep going through the newspaper. There’s a small, but perfectly libellous story about Donald Plummer, calling him the “Slumlord of Manchester”. And for all Beeston’s promises, it’s his name on the byline and most of the story’s pure hearsay. Next, some local spokesbastard for the English National Socialists harping on about the rise in racial assaults against whites in the city centre. Got himself a right cob on about it. Reckons these cases have been overlooked by a liberal constabulary “more concerned with policy than policing”, whatever that means.

  Then there’s the gang of rude boys with baseball bats who took apart a grandmother of six, robbed her of the money she’d stashed in the biscuit tin.

  And the nine-year-old Asian lad who’s been stabbed to death in Moss Side
over his mobile.

  Vox pops in small boxes, the average person on the street asked, should kids of nine have mobiles in the first place?

  The general consensus: yes, they need ’em. Too many paedo kidnappers about.

  So there it is. The good stuff engulfed by the bad. Hero news doesn’t survive when there’s tub-thumping and hand-wringing to do.

  Still, it was nice while it lasted. I knock back the rest of my pint and get up from my table. I leave the paper behind, open at the story about me. One of the regulars, a fat, oldish bloke who I think is called Terry, waddles over to the table and points one chipolata finger at the newspaper. I notice he’s missing a nail on the pointing finger.

  “You finished with that, son?”

  I glance at the paper. “Yeah, you go ahead.”

  “Ta.” He grabs the newspaper, looks at the story, then up at me. “Here, is this you, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  His mouth parts in a gummy smile. “Christ. Well done.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I’m heading to the door, one hand on my cigarettes.

  “Here,” he says, just as I’m about to leave, “you’ve not half put on the beef since they took this, eh?”

  I don’t say anything. Just push outside and shove an Embassy into my mouth. Turns out celebrity means politeness goes out of the fucking window. I’ll have to get used to that. Or else develop selective deafness. Either way, I can only hope that with celebrity comes paying work.

  Once I get home, I find it does. It just happens to be the last person I want as a client.

  14

  Plummer’s read the same paper I have. I know that because he’s been leaving me messages all afternoon.

  “Callum, it’s Don. Give me a ring back.”

  “Callum, Don. Call me.”