No More Heroes

by Ray Banks

  “I know better than to read the papers,” I say, grinning.

  Throwing it around the inside of my head. Trying to remember why that organisation rings a bell. And why it’s tied to a student. Thinking now, I met a couple of students this afternoon, maybe they’ve got something to do with it.

  Ben and what’s-her-name.

  Did she tell me what her name was? I think she did. I just can’t remember.

  When I look at Beeston, he’s talking. And I realise I haven’t heard a word he just said.

  “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

  Beeston squints. “I said, if you ask me, anyone who’s locked themselves into their homes, they’ve got the right idea. I said I was already booked to cover this thing, otherwise they would’ve had me down in Rusholme tonight.”

  “You’re welcome,” says Paulo.

  “Too right.”

  I don’t get it. What’s Rusholme got to do with anything?

  I’m about to ask when I remember.

  “Rusholme,” I say. “That’s where they found … David, right? He’s the student?”

  It’s starting to come back to me now, a headache coming along for the ride. Bits and pieces, but I can’t quite grab onto the connections anymore. There’s a march, and there’s Rusholme, and there’s this student David, but none of it fits together.

  “It’ll be carnage tonight, you mark my words. It’s not often the ENS feel they’ve got a real reason to go marching. Things’re going to burn.”

  Something clicks.

  “What’d you say?”

  Beeston moves his head, brings Paulo and I into a huddle. He smells of aftershave. “Keep this under your hat, but it’s going to kick off bad tonight. Coppers’ve got the riot gear out. They’re not taking any chances.”

  “Been there,” says Paulo. “You bring out the shields, they’re brick magnets.”

  “When were you there?” says Beeston.

  I shake my head, try to focus. My fucking head is pounding now.

  “Where’s this again?” I say.

  “Rusholme. Longsight.”

  Rusholme. Longsight. Both places jarring memories loose.

  “I was down in Rusholme today,” I say, and as I’m talking, more comes back to me. “I think it was today. I talked to a lad down there, he said it was a couple of blokes who beat up David.”

  There’s a moment where Beeston seems to transform into a teacher I once had. She was a patronising bitch with a smile that I wanted to punch out, even when I was nine.

  “Oh, you know who did it, do you?” he says.

  I stare at him until he switches back to normal. Then I say, “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ve been asking the police about it. They’ve given me nothing as usual. Still pending—”

  “An investigation?” I say.

  “Something like that.”

  I shake my head. The headache starts creeping out behind my eyes. “Some bloke called Saeed and his big mate. They did it.”

  Beeston looks interested. “You got a surname for this Saeed?”

  “Seems to me like you’ve heard of him already.”

  “It’s a common enough name, Callum.”

  “Local gangster, or wannabe. I know his big mate’s supposed to be just out of jail.” I look at Beeston. He sips his wine, waits for me to continue. “You know David Nunn wasn’t given a kicking just because he was a white boy, don’t you? I mean—”

  Ben. That girl with him.

  Karyn.

  Yeah, Karyn with a “y”, because she wants to make herself seem different. And it works because the “y”‘s what makes me remember her now.

  Trying to call me off the case because she only fucking knew that her boyfriend tried to burn down a house in Rusholme. Did burn down a house in Longsight. Her looking all worried because she thought Ben had done me some serious damage. And he had done serious damage, except I was too fucked up to notice it.

  Me acting like I was drunk. Thought I was drunk. Covered in puke, not sure where I was, it was a good enough guess. More likely that than concussion.

  I rub my good eye. When I look at Beeston, he has one of those wee tape recorders in his other hand.

  “You don’t mind if I get this on the record, do you?” he says.

  The tape recorder.

  Fucking bastard.

  “I need to go,” I say.

  “You feeling alright?”

  “You look like you’re about to throw up,” says Paulo. “You want to have a sit down, mate.”

  “I’m fine. I just need to go. Right now. I’ll be back, okay? And none of this is on the fuckin’ record yet, Andy.”

  I don’t turn around. Don’t want to see the look on Paulo’s face as I’m leaving. I push out through the double doors, light a cigarette and squint against the sunlight. Christ, it’s not even seven yet and it feels like mid-afternoon. There’s already sweat building in my collar.

  I can’t go back to Ben’s, not unless I want another hiding. Besides, he’s probably listened to the tape and erased it by now.

  No, that’s not the priority anymore.

  David left his car in Rusholme. There has to be some evidence there, something I can use.

  Problem is, the march has already started.

  40

  The more I see, the more I think I’m not going to get out of this alive.

  Police vans already congregating around the city centre. Policemen in full riot gear, just as Beeston said. Batons, shields, helmets scuffed from a thousand close encounters with bricks, bats and bastards. I ease off on the speed once I hit the southern part of the city, slow as a police van draws up behind me. In the rear view, I can see the driver, his hands gripping the steering wheel at the official ten-to-two. He’s staring at the road with hooded eyes and probably seeing none of it. Thinking about the night ahead.

  Already slipped past the main barricades now, and I start to wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. What happens if I find the car? David’s the one with the keys, so since when did I know how to flick an ignition? Can’t even work the DVD player half the fucking time, and now I’m going to play at car thief?

  No, all I need to do, I need to get some proof, that’s all. Ben’s got the tape, so that’s out of the window, unless I drive back there and take it by force, which is highly unlikely considering he already fucked me over once today.

  Maybe I won’t get to the car at all. Rusholme could be a war zone by the time I get there. But if that’s the case, then me lobbing a brick through a car window wouldn’t look suspicious. Christ, everyone’ll be doing it. And then I can grab something from the car. There’s got to be something they left in the Beetle.

  But self-preservation is a priority. No point in me doing this if it’s going to be unsung. I need the papers on my side. I need them to make me into a fallen hero if this all goes pear-shaped.

  Just in case. Always thinking, just in case.

  I pull out my mobile and call Andy Beeston. Instead of hello, he says his name. Very professional. I can hear the background noise of the Lads’ Club, what little there is. Doesn’t sound like a lot’s going on.

  “You want a scoop, Andy?”

  “You feeling alright, Callum?”

  “Uh-huh, but that’s not the story. You said yourself, there’s more exciting stuff happening elsewhere.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way to elsewhere. Wilmslow Road.”

  “Jesus, why would you be doing that?”

  “Because there’s a car down there that’s more than likely got a bunch of petrol bombs in the boot.”

  The sound of Beeston switching ears. The click of his tape recorder.

  “Turn it off, Andy. I mean it. You keep taping me, I’ll hang up.”

  “I thought this was a scoop.”

  “You turn off the tape recorder, I’ll tell you more.”

  Another click.

  “Thank you. Now you’re wondering why all this can’t be on
the record: I’m not sure of anything right now and I don’t want to be quoted. Besides, it concerns Plummer. Donald Plummer came to me, he said there was someone threatening to burn his properties down. They’d already done one—”

  “Longsight.”

  “Correct. And they’d sent him a list of addresses with a cigarette burn in it, right? A ransom note without the ransom.”

  “I didn’t know this,” says Beeston.

  “Yeah, you thought it was an insurance job. Well, that’s not the case. Turns out the guy who did the Longsight house was going to do a house in Rusholme when he was interrupted. Now he’s in a fuckin’ coma. Name’s David Nunn.”

  “You what?”

  “Got his arse handed to him in Rusholme because he was acting all suspicious and he got the attention of the wrong lads.”

  “Hold on a second,” says Beeston.

  “Haven’t got time, mate. Write quicker or remember quicker, whatever the fuck you’re doing. David Nunn used to rent one of Plummer’s houses. You want to double-check, I’m sure the university will have a record somewhere. Now, Nunn was evicted. Not by me, but by the bloke you saw with me at the hospital. Name’s Frank Collier.”

  “Was the eviction legal?”

  “Probably not, but who really gives a shit? Doesn’t matter. Bottom line, the one file we had to tie Nunn to Plummer, it’s been nicked. Anyway, the lad had a grudge, he was a fuckin’ militant with it, decided that there wasn’t enough being done about Plummer so him and his mate burned one of his houses. Trouble was, there was someone home.”

  “You have any proof?”

  “I had a confession. The other lad confessed, and I got it on tape.”

  “Where’s the tape?”

  “I don’t know. The lad lamped me with an ashtray. I think. I don’t know where the tape is. He’s got it. I think he’s got the ashtray, too. Probably has.”

  “Callum, you’re not making any sense here.”

  “I will if you fuckin’ listen to me.” Shake my head. Can’t seem to keep my thoughts straight. There’s a growing pain at the back of my head, feels like it’s spreading around under my ears. “Rusholme, they tried to burn the house. They didn’t. They argued. Some bloke stepped in. Saeed. The other lad did a runner. But his car’s still there. It’s a blue Beetle. That’s the one that has the petrol bombs in the boot, I fuckin’ know it. There’s a Zippo in the front, but David doesn’t smoke. Ben does smoke, because he’s got an ashtray.”

  A warning bleep from my mobile. I glance at the display. The battery’s dying on me. Fucking typical.

  “There’s a Zippo,” I say again. “He doesn’t smoke, you get me?”

  “Cal—”

  “Just do some digging, alright? Do some investigating. I’m right.”

  I pull the phone from my ear, beep him off. No point in trying to explain it any further. Too much for my brain to process, and it’s difficult enough keeping my mind on the job, without having to do it for someone else. I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat as I reach for the painkillers in my pocket. I’ve got to shake this headache. Need to be lucid when I get to the car.

  Into Rusholme now, and the streets are starting to fill with people. Supposed to be behind closed doors, all safe and tucked up at home, but nobody let these guys know. A quick scan of some of the people as I pass them in the Micra. They’re wearing hankies or bandanas around their necks, some of them pulled up over their nose and mouth. Look like bandits, the lot of them.

  I turn on the radio. White noise of barely controlled hysteria, translated into reportage. The march has already started, coming through the city centre. Coming south. Police are blocking off roads. There’s already been some violence, the odd skirmish. It’s the hottest night of the year so far.

  And I’m stuck behind the barricades.

  Another codeine. Can’t shift the headache. Thinking that I’ve had one too many knocks to the old noggin recently. Wondering if these pills Greg gave me are any good. I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to dose me with placebos, wouldn’t put it past God to fuck with my medicine when I’m feeling like this.

  I’m about to turn onto Wilmslow Road when a police van trundles in front of the Micra, blocking my way. I put my foot to the brake, stop the car before I hit anything. A copper looks my way. He must be roasting in all that gear he’s got on. I unclick my seat belt and sit there for a second, trying to breathe. Then I wind down the window and gesture to the copper in the van.

  “What’s up, I can’t go into Wilmslow, officer?”

  “Cordoned off.”

  “The march coming down here, is it?”

  “It’s coming close enough.”

  “What am I supposed to do then?”

  The copper shrugs under his stab vest. His shoulders barely move.

  “Thanks,” I say, duck my head back inside and throw the car into reverse. A five-point turn later, and I’m pointed back towards the rest of Manchester. I take a jaunt around the block, find an alley that doesn’t look like it would interest many people, and leave my car parked in the shadows. Grab my mobile and stuff it into my jacket pocket, get out of the car. Might be a daft thing to do, but I lock the car.

  Start walking, see if I can circle round to a bit of the cordon that isn’t quite so heavy. Further on down the road, maybe, where they’re not as prepared.

  Fuck it, you never know who’s out this time of night, especially when there’s going to be trouble on the streets. Reckon maybe I can smash a few heads before I get pounded into the concrete. And I will get pounded into the concrete. I’m painfully aware of that now. Whether I meet up with Eddie or Russ or any of the other marchers coming down here to burn the fucking place to the ground, someone’s going to put me down tonight, I can feel it.

  Call it a sixth sense, whatever. But I’ve been knocked around enough times that I can smell it coming now.

  I keep walking, though. Because it’s my job to keep walking, find a way in and get that car.

  And why? When I already told Beeston everything I needed to. Why am I walking into the fucking riot to get this car? I don’t evidence that badly, do I?

  Yeah, I do. Because as much as Beeston sounded interested, he’ll do fuck all to prove it. Guy might paint himself as a crusading journalist — and fuck it, he might’ve actually thought of himself as one at some point — but he’s just like every other jobsworth in the world. He gets told to write what’s popular and easily digestible. He’s not in the business of shocking anyone unless it helps whoever’s in charge.

  So they need something else. They need solid proof that a couple of fucking students were behind these fires, that it was a couple of naïve, angry wannabe revolutionaries that caused the riot that’s about to happen. That it wasn’t anything to do with racism or grand political statements, that the fear this city’s feeling has nothing to do with the fires, and everything to do with how they’re being sold to their “enemy’.

  And there’s the chance that I might not make it out of here. In fact, if I’m going to be straight with myself, that chance is turning into a certainty the more I walk. Passing through into Viscount Road now and I can already see the curtains twitch at the white face. There are people out here who’ve been waiting to put the boot into someone like me for a long time, because that kind of racism, it’s not just the fucking province of the white blokes out there. Your man Saeed’s living proof of that. See him and his ex-con mate round here, I’ll have some trouble. And I don’t think I can run that fast with this head and my back scraping at the same time.

  I pass number sixteen and keep on. Take another pill for my head.

  Feels like it’s getting warmer the closer I get to Wilmslow Road.

  And I can see the police lines already forming. The vans pulling up, blocking alleys and side roads. I can see riot shields and batons, helmets and boots. Like the entire constabulary are out in their gladrags tonight.

  I keep as low as I can, duck into the end of Wilmslow Road as a police v
an approaches behind me. Keep expecting someone to shout at me, but I don’t hear anything except my heart thumping in my ears.

  Duck behind an Escort as a police van rolls past. Keep my head down, my face out of sight and grit the pain in my back away.

  Yeah, there’s a chance I’m not going to make it out of here. I knew that when I left the Lads’ Club. And I couldn’t give a fuck. Here’s the thing — I’ve been trying all this time to live up to that fucking label they gave me, so I reckon maybe it’s time I either live up to it, or die trying.

  Sounds dramatic, but what the fuck.

  Better to cark it and prove a fucking point, and in case I do, that should push Beeston to do something more than a two-line footer.

  When the van moves away, I get to my feet and head into Wilmslow Road.

  41

  I can hear the sound of the march coming like an approaching storm. The sky has the last glow of the evening replaced with false light.

  They’re coming closer. Christ, I can almost feel the tarmac rumble under my feet. The English National Socialists chanting. Something to do with justice. Their right not their privilege. I keep to the walls, see the police arriving at the top of the road. They look like soldiers, except they’re not armed that I can see. Lined up in the street, shields at the ready. Once they’re in position, there’s the odd shuffle of feet, but they’re otherwise motionless. Just this implacable wall, something to guide people. Not riled yet.

  In the opposite direction, right at the other end of the road, I can see the Beetle. Nobody’s touched it and everything’s working out so far. Nice and quiet, but it won’t stay that way for long.

  I make a move, take my steps with my back to the shop fronts. Behind me, I can see placards arriving as the marchers round the corner. The police already bristling as a unit, getting nervy. At the other end of the road, there’s those blokes again, the bandanas up over their noses. Coming out of nowhere, disparate elements congealing into one mob, a glut at the end of the street.

  But not moving forward, not yet. Just growing larger and staring beyond me as I hear the ENS marchers spill into Wilmslow Road.