No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  Hunched over the wheel, my back scraped. Squinting at the road through my one good eye. Couple of close calls with parked cars, my door-width distance creeping into an inch. Almost took off more than my fair share of wing mirrors.

  I leave the Micra parked at an angle and fumble with my keys to swipe into the block. Take the stairs slowly and seriously. No fucking about when my coordination’s this sketchy.

  When I reach the landing, I look across at Greg’s flat. There’s the glow of his lava lamp. The little beauty, he’s in. I ease myself round to his front door, leaning on the railing every step of the way. Ideally, I should’ve gone home, got cleaned up first, but this is more important. I knock sharply on his door, then retreat to the railing. Turn around, look over the side. I feel like throwing up again. In fact, I do, but the puke doesn’t make it past my teeth before I gulp it back.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Greg.

  I turn around and smile. “Greg, mate.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  “How are you?”

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I had an accident, mate. Nothing that could’ve been helped. Look, I need to buy.”

  Greg shakes his head, his arms folded. I can smell weed smoke wafting out from his flat. The sweet stink turns my stomach.

  “No?” I’m still smiling. Still got the taste of vomit in my mouth. Can’t quite register the word “no’. Playing around with it in my head.

  Get the old 2 Unlimited song in there: “No, no, no?”

  “You’re fucked, Cal.”

  “I haven’t been drinking,” I say. But I have. Must’ve been. A bloke doesn’t just fall over if he hasn’t been at the booze. And I’m slurring, dizzy. That doesn’t help my case right now, so I try to watch it. “I swear to God, Greg, I have not been drinking.”

  Over-enunciating now. Get a grip on yourself.

  “Are you bleeding?”

  “That’s the least of it,” I say, touching my head. “C’mon, I just need to buy. You want to bump up the prices, that’s fine by me. It’s kind of an emergency.”

  Greg watches me for a second, then looks up and down the landing. He pulls a face, then pushes open the front door. “Get inside.”

  “Cheers, mate. You won’t regret this.”

  “Broad fuckin’ daylight, you’re coming round.”

  I walk into his living room. Greg’s sacked Cat Stevens, got himself some James Taylor, singing about fire and rain. It’s mellow. I like it, sing along a bit in my head before I run out of words.

  I lean against the wall. I don’t want to chance the sofa. If I sit, I’ll have to get up again. I don’t plan on being here that long, and I’m having enough of a job standing upright.

  Greg looks like he’s about to say something, so I interrupt: “I know, it’s getting harder to get the codeine. You said that the last time.”

  “You want the same as last time?” he says, crossing to the ashtray and picking up a spliff. Annoyance in his tone. He tries to melt it out with a hefty drag. “Or d’you want what I’ve got left?”

  “There a problem?”

  He exhales a thick stream of smoke. “I don’t know. You come in here, broad fuckin’ daylight—”

  “You said that already, mate—”

  “And you’re all fucked up. I didn’t think you’d do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Act like a fuckin’ junkie.”

  I step forward, but keep my hand on the wall. “Don’t call me a junkie, Greg. You know I don’t like that, mate. It’s fuckin’ rude.”

  “You act like one, I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.”

  “It’s just that word—”

  “Callum, don’t think you can come round here and demand shit, alright? What’d I tell you when you first came to me, eh?”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t the time—”

  “I said I was glad you come round, mate. You were one of the few. Most of the bastards I deal with, they got their pupils in their back pocket. I got a reputation and a front to keep up, you think I got that rep because I let fuckin’ junkies come round all hours of the day—”

  “It’s half four.”

  “I’m discreet, I’m professional. I keep a low profile.”

  “I know that, man.”

  “And I maintain that low profile because I don’t have people who look like they need a fuckin’ fix hanging around plain as you like. Plus, I liked you coming round because you live just up the way and it was kind of like having a mate pop by who just like bought as a sideline thing, right? Got a medical condition, couldn’t get it legit on account of how the government are fucking up our National Health, so you came to me. It felt like I was doing you a favour rather than taking your money.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Greg,” I say.

  “Bollocks.” He points at me with the spliff. “Maybe the other night when you were screaming up the fuckin’ walls, you could still play off that medical thing. But a bona fide condition, it doesn’t make fucked up and stupid, does it?”

  “Who’s fucked up and stupid?”

  “Prove my fuckin’ point, why don’t you? Look at yourself, man. You’re covered in puke, you’re bleeding. You stink like you’ve been sleeping in your clothes.”

  I wave a hand at him. “You selling or not? ’Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving. I can’t be doing with this shite. I’ve got places to be. And yeah, I’m stinking. But you lecturing me’s not going to get me clean, is it? You want to talk about fuckin’ ethics, we can do it some other time when I’ve had a shower and I’m not in such a hurry. Until then, could you please do what you do best and get me my fuckin’ pills?”

  Greg looks at me, takes another draw off the spliff. He shakes his head, looking at me like I just asked him for crack. Hands me the spliff as he walks out the room. I take a puff on it, then a deeper drag, hold it in my lungs as long as I can. Calm me down, whatever it takes. My gut revolts against the taste and I cough out the smoke, grab onto the back of the couch. I notice gob on the upholstery, wipe it off with my free hand.

  I ease myself round, put the spliff back in the ashtray and stick an Embassy in my mouth. Light it with a shaking hand. I can feel the back of my neck start to prick now, a knot above my eyebrow.

  Greg better hurry back soon. I don’t know how long I can smell myself and the smoke in here before my head goes too light to stand. I look around at the wall.

  There’s a bloody mark on his paintwork.

  Greg appears, bag in hand. He holds it out to me. “That’s the last of it.”

  “You doing me that lot?”

  “Same price, take it off my hands. You’re the only bloke I get it for. No call for codeine, but you know that.”

  I reach for my wallet. “You’re doing me a favour then.”

  “Nah, you’re doing me a favour.” He presses the bag into my hand.

  I give him money, try to smile. “Always glad to help out.”

  “That’s not the favour.” He tucks the cash into his back pocket, crosses to his chair and slumps into it. “The favour is, you don’t come round anymore.”

  “Come on, man.”

  “Alright, so it’s not really a favour, I’m telling you. You don’t come around anymore. You want to score, you find someone else willing to put up with your shit.”

  “What, because I’m a bit worse for wear? The fuck do you get off, Greg?”

  He looks at the end of his spliff, blows the rocks aglow. James Taylor’s still trying to mellow everyone out, but there’s a place for his brand of homespun porch-folk, and this isn’t it.

  “Greg,” I say. “C’mon, mate. You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Trying to work this fuckin’ case, I got all sorts of bizarre shit happening to me—”

  “I don’t care,” he says.

  And that’s it. Final word on the matter.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” I say.

  Greg doesn’t say anything. I push off the
couch and guide myself to his front door. I’m already trying to calculate how long these pills are going to last me, but mental arithmetic was never my strong point, especially when my head’s in the shed.

  Lucky for me I don’t have a long walk back to my flat. Any longer, and I’d be in serious trouble. I pull myself along the railing, bent double. When I can make out my front door, I tuck the pill bag in my pocket and grab the prescription bottle. I’ll need to take the rest before I get in the flat. I’ve still got a shitload to do before I’m needed at the Lads’ Club. I fumble with the child-proof cap, can’t get the fucker open.

  “Fuckin’ open.”

  I flick the cap, feel the bottle flip out of my hand. Swipe at it, trying to catch, but the prescription bottle spins into the air. I touch with the side of my hand but can’t get my fingers to close. The bottle drops over the railing.

  I watch it fall, spinning. Then it connects with the concrete, bounces out of sight.

  Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a bag of pills here. I take two, one at a time, slow and sure, then head for home.

  39

  My phone’s ringing when I push into the flat. I dump the pills on the coffee table.

  “Hello?”

  “A courtesy call, Mr Innes.” There’s the sound of heavy machinery in the background. “Just to make sure you’re still coming to the grand opening tonight.”

  My fucking brain’s gone foggy. I have to take a second to think about what I’m going to say.

  “Course I am. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I heard a pause, Callum.”

  “Then you’re going fuckin’ mental, mate.”

  “You remembered, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Paulo yells at someone in the club. “Lift and place the fuckin’ table against the wall, don’t try to fuckin’ hump it there.” Back to me: “You promised me you’d be here, Cal. Means a lot to me, this does. And from the RSVPs, it looks like we’re going to be thin on the ground.”

  “What happened?”

  “This march,” he says. “Got people too scared to leave their houses. Hang on a second.”

  He puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and yells at some more people. When he comes back, he sounds distracted.

  “You know what, you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.”

  “Who you got helping you out?”

  “The usual lads. Would’ve thought by now, all this time I taught ’em how to smack people, they’d be able to take simple fuckin’ instruction on where to put tables. But no, these lads are fighters, not movers. And you, you’re positive you’re going to be here?”

  “How many times you going to ask me the same question, Paulo? When d’you need me there, mate?”

  “We’re not starting till seven.”

  “So six thirty, right?”

  “If you could. And I expect you to be presentable when you turn up.”

  “When am I not presentable?”

  “I mean wear your good duds. There’s going to be a press presence.”

  “Oh, fuckin’ marvellous. I get to have my photo taken again.”

  “You love it,” says Paulo. “It’ll keep you in the papers, and it can only be good for business.”

  There’s a terrible crash on the line. I have to move the phone from my ear. When I move it back, Paulo’s turning the air blue at his end, telling someone to get the fuck out of the way, he’ll sort it out, just leave it.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” says Paulo, half to me, half to whoever’s just fucked up. “They’re just setting up the trestles and they need a fucking manual to do it.”

  “Trestles, eh? Going all out for the Evening News.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great stuff. I should start getting ready.”

  “Remember, six thirty. Don’t make us come looking for you.”

  “See you later.”

  I put the phone down, lean on the table. This is not going to be fun.

  ****

  Hot water beating against my back and neck, stinging against cuts and scrapes, my head down. I’ve already checked my face in the mirror. A wee gash above my eyebrow, but it doesn’t look too serious. I’m not worried about the damage, just the appearance. I don’t need to be noticeably beaten, don’t want people to talk about it.

  My clothes lie in a smelly heap on the floor of the bathroom. Means I’ll have to streak to the bedroom, but I’m okay with that. Now I’ve soaped up and rinsed off, I’ve got a glass of cold water just within reach. I’m taking more pills to balance out the aches, the thumping behind my bad eye.

  I need to maintain, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. And I can feel the clouds parting, less like my brain’s made of cotton wool. I can start to think again.

  Greg’s a wanker. That’s all there is to say about that. He’s a judgmental wanker. Who the fuck is he to get on my back about fucking ethics? He deals drugs. I don’t see that as a humanitarian vocation. Don’t see too many crack dealers popping down the hospice to give blood to the orphans …

  Wait.

  I run a hand over my head, open my mouth as water streams down my face. A memory jogged somewhere, but only a flash before it flies off somewhere else. It can’t be important if I can’t hold onto it. Another pill, another swig of water, then I step out of the shower and towel off, the skin on my face tight.

  Look at myself in the mirror and reckon it’ll do. I promise myself that I won’t drink too much. My body’s already taken enough of a beating from booze today.

  Christ knows what I was doing drinking with students in the middle of the day. I should know better. But then after that weird longing I had when I was walking around the student union, the old what-if-life-had-turned-out-different bit, I probably just lost the plot a little.

  It happens.

  I check my watch — should be going. Shake my jacket and it feels light. I’ve got my wallet, my pills, my cigarettes, my lighter and my mobile. So, what am I missing?

  I shake my head. Nothing. Got everything I need.

  Check my watch again because I forgot the time. I’m doing okay.

  On schedule. And everything’s fine.

  ****

  When I pull up outside the Lads’ Club, I’m immediately disappointed. For some reason, I expected more excitement, people milling around outside the club, an Oscars party vibe, but the place is deserted.

  I park the car, get out and head to the double doors. I push through into the main club. There’s a couple of lads in the corner. Some more at a long trestle with glasses of red and white wine laid out, orange juice in wine glasses for the teetotallers.

  There isn’t any sign of a hedgehog. And while I knew there really wouldn’t be, it doesn’t stop that twinge of disappointment. It looks like I’m not the only one, either. Apart from the two lads I recognise from the club, there are a few more groups of them, mostly wearing school shirts and shoes. Milling around, look like they’d rather be at church than here right now. They’re talking amongst themselves, but their voices are kept low, almost like they’re plotting to tunnel their way out.

  I see Liam standing by the sound system. He sees me, too. The kid keeps growing, it looks like. Last time I saw him he was tall enough, but reedy with it. Paulo’s been working the lad into another weight class or something, because Liam’s turning into a brick shithouse. I don’t really want to talk to the kid, don’t know what I’d talk to him about, given our previous shared circumstances, but before I can pretend I haven’t seen him, he nods my way. I nod back.

  Paulo’s at the end of the room, talking to Andy Beeston. I head over, grab a glass of juice on the way.

  When Paulo sees me, he smiles. “You’re on time.”

  “Just about.”

  “No, you are.” He’s trying for jocular, but he can’t quite manage it. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Not a problem.” I smile at Beeston.

  We all stand there for
a few moments, not talking. Beeston in particular looks uncomfortable with the situation, looking around the room. If he’s searching for something to talk about, he doesn’t find it. So we keep standing there, Paulo and I sipping juice, Beeston with his white wine.

  It’s all very sophisticated and unbearable.

  When Paulo clears his throat for the third time, I have to say something.

  “Alright,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  Paulo attempts another smile. “I don’t get you.”

  “You sent out invitations, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why isn’t this place packed?”

  Paulo moves his shoulders. “People, Callum. Never underestimate the power of apathy.”

  Beeston shuffles his feet, looks into his glass of white wine.

  “I thought you had a thing in the paper,” I say.

  “He did,” says Beeston, not looking at me. “More than one article. It’s a good thing, this place, but you can’t blame people for not wanting to come out tonight.”

  “Why’s that then?”

  Paulo puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright, Cal. Tell you, I don’t think I’d be here if I could help it.”

  I stare at him. Then Beeston.

  Smile and say, “Okay, someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “You didn’t hear?” says Beeston.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “The march,” he says. “You must’ve heard about it. Everybody’s that scared they’re going to come through Salford. No big deal, really. Just bad luck had to hold his opening the same night.”

  I frown. “What march?”

  Beeston looks at me like I’m drooling. “The ENS.”

  Time for a shrug. “ENS?”

  “English National Socialists.”

  “Right.”

  The name rings a bell, but both Paulo and Beeston are looking at me like I should know all this. I put it down to my bad drunk, and then start to wonder how long I was actually out. When I catch Paulo about to ask me what’s wrong, I say, “They’re the ones that’re marching.”

  “Yeah,” says Beeston.

  “Oh, right, yeah, I remember now,” I say.

  Beeston sips his wine. “It’s been in the papers all week, Callum. Of course now, it’s a solidarity march for that student.”