No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  “Tell you what you can do, Frank. You can vote ENS next council election. Get Jeffrey Briggs on the fuckin’ case, you’ll be fine.”

  More laughter, and I wonder what’s so fucking funny.

  “Briggs is a politician, too.” That’s Frank.

  They don’t hear it. “Yeah, get Briggsy out from Bolton. Here, I knew that cunt when he was a fuckin’ boot boy. Fucker were down the terraces at Maine Road, he’d be the first to kick off given half an excuse. Taking them cunts from the ICF right the fuck down.”

  Someone else chimes in. And I think I know the voice: “To the fuckin’ pavement, Frank. Think on.”

  “And look at him now, eh? Billy Big Bollocks. Right fuckin’ top dog, eh? Mister fuckin’ Suit.”

  “Ease up, Russ. Briggsy’s legit now. He’s establishment. He has to be else they won’t give him the fuckin’ airtime.”

  Jesus, it’s Eddie. Frank’s been hanging out with Eddie.

  Before I can ask Frank about it, this Russ bloke interrupts: “He’s legit. Like fuck he’s legit. He looks legit, he sounds it, too, but he’s fuckin’ not. Not really. And that’s what makes him the fuckin’ man, know what I mean? You was inside, Frank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you know about it, don’t you? There’s a mate of mine, Jimmy Figgis … You know Jimmy Figgis?”

  “No.”

  “He knows Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, you know Jimmy. You don’t know the name, you’ll recognise the cunt when I describe him. Got a face like all burnt up an’ that. Pink gnarly skin, he’s a proper fuckin’ horror show on account of some fuckin’ Paki scalded him on the inside, right? Fuckin’ screws did fuck all about it an’ all.”

  “I heard it was acid, Russ.”

  “Where’d you hear that, man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Maybe, yeah.”

  “Right, well, that’s why it’s wrong. Jimmy’s a fuckin’ liar — he got scalded. And the screws did fuck all ’cause if they put force on a Paki, they’re up on the old race hatred, am I right?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Am I right, Frank?”

  “Yeah,” says Frank, but he doesn’t sound sure.

  “Now what I’m saying is, Jimmy’s a fuckin’ lying knobhead an’ that — proper fuckin’ New World Order cunt reckons acid’s a harder thing to get burned by — but he were bang on about some stuff. And Jimmy Figgis, you took notice of him.”

  “Had to with that face.”

  “Fuck up, Eddie-mate. Trying to tell Frank summat. Anyway, he was saying, like, it’s not that big of a stretch to think that maybe the Pakis are tooling up for summat.”

  “Don’t get you.”

  “C’mon, Frank. You heard what I was going on about in there. We’re gonna have to circle the fuckin’ wagons soon enough, mate. That burn in Longsight, there’s rumours flying about: Pakis reckon us lot had summat to do with it.”

  Eddie laughs.

  “I know. It’s a fuckin’ job, innit? We’re not like that, Frank. I mean, I don’t want you thinking we’re thugs just ’cause of what happened in that meeting. Just ’cause we’re a bit rough and fuckin’ tumble, that don’t make our opinions any less fuckin’ valid, does it? Thing is, the vocal minority have to be heard, don’t they? The majority of people in Moss Side, they couldn’t give a fuck, am I right? They’re too busy working, keeping their heads down and being all fuckin’ ignorant.”

  “Apathetic.”

  “They couldn’t give a fuck. More people voting in Britain’s Got Talent than any election. So someone’s got to stir the shit a little. And if we don’t do it, there’ll be nowt done, you get me? They need to see the big picture.”

  “Ah. No.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, he’s a slow lad. And don’t take that wrong, Frank. Here, I’m fuckin’ dry. You get a round in, slow lad, we’ll talk some more.”

  Frank makes another fast-forward motion.

  And stop.

  “I knew Jimmy Figgis, Frank,” I say.

  He motions for me to press play.

  “Just so you know.”

  Another “play” gesture.

  “… to the march, right?”

  Stop. Rewind. Frank tells me when to play again, his head cocked to one side, listening hard.

  Now.

  There’s the rustle of cloth against the microphone.

  “… you going?”

  “Got to go to the bog. Lager, mate. Goes right through us.”

  The sound of Frank moving into the gents, the squeal and thump of the toilet door closing. Another rustle of clothes and his voice is as clear as it was when he told me what kind of coffee they had at St Dominic’s.

  “Two of ’em, Cal. You got Russell, he’s the one what’s talking the most. And that skinny bloke called Eddie — think he’s the one you were talking about, the one from the garage. Got ink all over his arms. I got a good look at it and them tattoos are like full-on White Brotherhood.”

  A click. Then another one.

  “Did you turn the tape off to take a piss?” I say.

  Frank nods.

  “Thank you.”

  Another click.

  The sound of him walking back to the pub.

  “Fuckin’ hell, you’re a horse, ain’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Listen, lads, it’s getting on for last orders. I’m starving. You want to get a kebab?”

  “Wouldn’t say no, like. Get these down and we’ll go.”

  Fast-forward. Then play.

  “… Bell’s alright for you?”

  A muffled affirmative from somewhere. The sound of glasses clinking. No other pub noise, so I’m guessing they’re at someone’s home. Probably Frank’s, judging by the smell in here and the hall. From the sound of Frank’s guests, the drink has hit them both hard. And Russell’s taken the floor.

  “You think the Pakis are gonna stand for a burn on their turf? No, they’re gonna blame the first white man they see …”

  “That burn,” says Frank. “Who did that?”

  “Fuck knows.”

  “I thought it was … concerned citizens, y’know.”

  “You pointing fingers, Frank?”

  “I’m saying I wouldn’t blame them.”

  “Fuck’s … Eddie, this cunt been listening to a single word I just said?”

  “I dunno, Russ.”

  “What, I look like I’d burn a fuckin’ house down? What—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t say that, you fuckin’ meant it. Nowt to do with me. I need a fuckin’ ciggie. You got a ciggie, Frank?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Rollies.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Give us a top up then.”

  The sound of Frank coughing. Russell must’ve cadged a roll-up from Eddie.

  “Cheers. You’re coming to the march, right?”

  “March?”

  “Yeah, the march. The fuckin’ march. You know about the march.”

  “It’s Briggsy. You not listened to the fuckin’ radio, Frank?”

  “I missed it.”

  “Briggsy’s got this bright idea, he’s gonna get a bunch of the ENS together and we’re gonna march on down to Rusholme.”

  “Fuckin’ genius set-up, you ask me.”

  “March about what?” says Frank on the tape.

  “We’re gonna march in protest.”

  “Protest against what?”

  “Against the fuckin’ busies, man. A Paki lad gets his arse kicked, a fuckin’ Paki house burns down it’s like, shit, we better do summat about this because otherwise we’ll have all them fuckin’ liberal bastard council people on our arses, right? But you see all them Pakis beating the shit out of people in the city fuckin’ centre, right in everyone’s fuckin’ faces, and the police do nowt.”

  “Right.”

  “So Briggsy’s got this march, right, on Friday. They can’t stop him m
arching. Can’t stop us protesting. And I’ll tell you right off the fuckin’ bat, you are coming. Because you are now a mate. And we’re gonna get beered up—”

  “Too fuckin’ right.”

  “We’re gonna do some fuckin’ damage. Hit them before they hit us. Show them who the fuck they think they’re fucking with. ’Cause I’m serious about this, Frank — it’s only a matter of time, you mark my fuckin’ words, son. Them lot’re gearing up for summat, I can smell it.”

  The sound of Frank clearing his throat close to the microphone. “Yeah. I’ll be there. No bother, Russ.”

  “Fuckin’ sound. I knew you was a good bloke.”

  “I need the bog again.”

  “You got the bladder of a child. I’m after you.”

  The sound of Frank getting up. He goes into the bathroom, the acoustics switching. The rustle as he moves the tape recorder.

  “Cal, I’m scared, man. Look, I’m going to put this in the kitchen cupboard, right, and I just hope you got what you wanted. But I can’t keep doing this. They’re smoking. I can’t breathe in there.”

  A thump. “Who you talking to in there?”

  The click of the tape recorder as it turns off.

  Silence.

  I press stop, look across at Frank. Looks like the painkillers are kicking in.

  “They caught you, didn’t they?” I say.

  He feels his jaw. It clicks once more, then he can move it properly.

  “You want to tell me what happened? You up to it?”

  Frank nods.

  “They caught me,” he says. “And then some.”

  27

  Frank tells me what happened. In detail, apart from what Russell and Eddie said. Even when he’s quoting people, Frank tends to replace swear words, but I know what he means.

  The way it worked out was this:

  After Frank switched off the tape recorder, he flushed the toilet. Stepped out of the bathroom to find Russell standing in the hall with a face on.

  “You talking to your knob?” he said.

  Frank tried to shrug it off. “You’ve had too much to drink, mate. I was talking to nowt.”

  “You called it Cal.”

  “What’s that?” shouted Eddie.

  “Cal, man. Frank here’s named his fuckin’ cock.”

  Eddie came into the hall, a big grin on his face. “You named your cock, Frank?”

  “He called it a Cal.”

  Eddie stared at Frank, and that was when Frank knew he was fucked. “Cal? What, like Callum?”

  Frank had never been a good liar. He said, “Nah.”

  “Callum like Callum fuckin’ Innes?” said Eddie.

  “Who’s Callum Innes?”

  “Phil’s been on about this cunt Innes, man,” said Eddie. “Been around the garage with his shitty little Micra. He was at that Longsight burn, you must’ve read about him in the paper.”

  “That bloke? He’s police or summat, right?”

  Eddie drew closer to Frank. The smell of tobacco and whisky on the man’s breath made Frank’s gut flip. “He’s a PI. Isn’t he, Frank?”

  “PI?” says Russ. “Fuck off.”

  “Serious. He’s been asking questions round the garage. Phil’s been chewed on it, man. Reckons he got grassed by someone ’cause Plummer’s been saying it’s him what organised the burn. Doesn’t have the foggiest why anyone would think he wasn’t an old-school socialist.”

  “You trying to fit us, Frank?” said Russell.

  “Course he’s trying to fuckin’ fit us, Russ. Give your head a shake.”

  Frank pushed past them into the kitchen. “You two lads, you’re paranoid.”

  He opened one of the cupboards in the kitchen, stuck the tape recorder in behind a box of Shreddies. He could hear the pair of them talking in the hall. Russ and Eddie still trying to work out if Frank was suss or not. Frank had just managed to shut the cupboard door when Russ came into the kitchen. He had the bottle of whisky in his hand. Gripped tight, his knuckles pale around the neck of the bottle.

  “So who’s Cal then, Frankie?” Russ’s mouth hung open.

  “How’m I supposed to know? You’re the one heard something. Wasn’t me. Must’ve been your brain playing tricks on you. That’s what you get for drinking the blended stuff, mate.”

  “Mate?” said Eddie, coming up behind Russ. “The fuck you know about mates, Frank?”

  Russ shook his head and looked at the lino. He held the bottle up to his head for a second. “What’d we say to him?”

  “Eh?”

  “What’d we tell him? I said we didn’t do that fuckin’ burn, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t matter, man. Cunt’s still gonna try to fit you up for it.”

  Russ squinted at Frank. “You seriously trying to do that, Frank?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought we was having a chat, having a drink.”

  “You drink,” said Russ. “You had a drink?”

  “Aw, fuck’s sake,” said Eddie, doing a pained dance. “He’s had a drink. He’s had one fuckin’ drink all night, carried the bastard thing around. Y’know what, we should’ve known better, man. That cunt’s acting all pally an’ that, he’s just trying to make us talk.”

  “You got a wire on you or summat?” said Russ.

  “Nah.” Frank held up his hands. “And you ask me, Eddie, you’re a nasty drunk.”

  Russell looked at Eddie. Weighing up his options. Like even then, the way Frank tells it, Russell wasn’t sure he believed his drunk mate. But Frank must’ve either thought too much of his act, or Russ decided he wasn’t going to take any chances, because he went straight for the big man. The smell of smoke on Russ’s breath made Frank cough. Spit flew into Russell’s eye.

  “Fuck you doing, gobbing at us, mate?” said Russ.

  Frank started, “I didn’t mean to—”

  Russell put two hands at Frank’s collar, tugged his shirt open. The face on Russ, he was expecting the full body wire.

  He was disappointed.

  Frank made a move, planted both hands in Russell’s chest, put his weight behind it, shoved the bloke across the kitchen. Russ slammed into and then over the kitchen table, bringing it onto its side as he grabbed onto a chair for support. The bottle of whisky dropped, smashed. Russell brought the kitchen chair to the lino as he fell.

  “Get out of my house,” said Frank.

  He’d figured his bulk would be enough to put them off, a show of force confirming it. But there were two of these blokes, and they were both drunk enough to figure they had a shot.

  Eddie ran at Frank, caught him in the side. The skinny bloke stuck his elbow in Frank’s gut, backed him up against the sink. Russell pulled himself up to his knees, his right hand glistening with blood, glass and whisky. He planted a hard right in Frank’s face, snapping the big guy’s head back. Eddie threw his weight against Frank, kept him pinned as Russell threw another right, the glass digging into his hand, into Frank’s face.

  Frank yelled, hunkered down and tried to barrel past. He made a grab for the knives on the kitchen counter — reckoned a weapon, a couple of choice slashes, and these fuckers would leave him alone. He caught, fumbled, the knife block dropping to one side and spinning across the counter, the knives falling to the floor. Eddie brought his knee into Frank’s gut. Russell kicked him hard in the ribs.

  And Frank — big Daft Frank, never took a fall in his life — hit the floor. Tried to crawl away, but he was caught on both sides.

  Heel-kicks. Their coordination killed by the booze, but the blows hard enough to crack ribs, smash features. Frank’s lungs screamed for air. Each heel took the breath out of him.

  Frank knew well enough from his time inside that when you’re down, you stay down. No room for Cool Hand Lukes. You play possum, you wait it out, you get to breathe again.

  And Frank did breathe again. But only for a second. Then a kick to the jaw blacked him out.

  He’s still rubbing his jaw right now.
He says he doesn’t think it’s broken, but he’ll never eat toffee again. I take that as a sign he’s feeling better.

  “You been here since last night?”

  Frank nods. The story’s pulled him lucid, the codeine numbing most of the pain. “Glad you made it.”

  “Shit, Frank, I’m sorry, man.” I need a cigarette, but even I’m not that much of an arsehole that I’d smoke around Frank right now. “You need to get yourself to a hospital.”

  “I’ll be alright.”

  There’s a long silence. I stare at a blood splatter on the lino.

  “Why’d you do it, Frank?”

  He blinks. “What?

  “I told you to go to the meeting, right? Report back. That was it. I didn’t tell you to go undercover, did I?”

  “I didn’t get anything from the meeting.”

  “Then you should’ve left it.”

  He lets out a ticking sigh. “I thought I did a good job.”

  “I didn’t say you did a bad job, mate. What’s this bloke Russell look like?”

  “Moustache. Stocky.”

  “Just a ’tache? No beard to go with it?”

  “They didn’t burn that house down, Cal.”

  “I know.” I dig around in my jacket, pull out the envelope that Plummer gave me. A stack of notes. Three hundred quid. “Here.”

  I drop the cash on the table. Frank glances at it, then looks at me. “That’s more than you said.”

  “Call it a bonus.” I pull out my prescription bottle, shake some pills into my hand. Pick up the tape recorder. “You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

  He moves a hand. “I’m fine.”

  I slap six codeine on top of the money. “In case you need ’em.”

  “I don’t need drugs.”

  “Don’t be fuckin’ Amish about it. Take them if you need them. Your front door still on the latch?”

  “Yeah, just pull it closed.”

  I move to the door. “Cheers, Frank.”

  “No bother.”

  And his lips part into something that passes for a smile.

  28

  The cab driver has the radio on as we head to Moss Side, and the DJ who’s telling us that we’re looking at Manchester’s hottest summer on record is fond of old news. We’ve been told this time and again the past couple of days. The hotter it gets, the more we’re told. And in weather like this — where there’s a perpetual sweat on your skin even when you’re not moving — the last thing you need to know is that it’s getting hotter. Might as well tell a drowning man he’s wet.