No More Heroes
The First Heroes Story
Roo I MacLeod
Copyright © 2016 by Roo I MacLeod
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Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing, 2016
Heroes Publishing
www.rooimacleod.com
Cover Design by David Pendergast
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Chapter One
Of snow, Christmas & Trouble
At three pm the clock in our town square chimed four deep tolls. Festive faces turned to the town hall looking at the clock in confusion. The juggler dropped his blades. The cries of the vendors quietened and Santa's Ho turned to an impotent Ha.
I retreated into the frigid dark of Smelly Alley and collided with old Fred the fishmonger. His keys fell with a sharp clatter to the worn cobbles and he stumbled against his shop window. I grabbed at his arm to steady his gait, but he shrugged free and glared at my intrusion.
‘Yer making me late, you good for nothing pup.’ He hauled a large gold watch from his waistcoat, shook the time piece and placed it to his ear.
Seriously? Pup? Late? How could he possibly know? The silly old bugger walked with the aid of a white stick and the town clock was arse up.
The wind rattled at the drawn shutters. Litter cavorted with folk heading for the celebrations in the square. I stooped to retrieve his keys and he snatched them from my hand, eased away from his shop and tottered toward the square.
I pulled my coat tight and readied myself for the festive madness. I was eager to chance a meeting with the bar maid from the Old Poet public house. Her shift had finished and she was known to purchase a coffee on her journey through the square. With luck I hadn’t missed her.
The butcher’s boy blocked my path. He carried a dead pig across his narrow shoulders and was intent on sharing his burden with me.
‘Easy, eh?’ I said. ‘You closing early?’
I sidestepped his blood stained apron, alarmed by the manic look in the dead pig’s eyes.
‘Is anniversary, in’it,’ he grunted. He turned into his shop and tried to smack me with the dead pig’s trotters.
What bloody anniversary?
A shout greeted old Fred’s entrance into the square, causing me to flinch, jump even. Man I hated random noises. My nerves were pretty crap to be honest. My mate Tommy said it was my diet being inadequate. He reckoned living on cigarettes and vodka had to play havoc with your nerves. Tommy was no intellectual but my diet did lack fiber for sure.
I pulled the hood over my head and followed the old boy’s steps. Fairy lights shone in the afternoon gloom. Sad droopy loops of tinsel glittered between the stalls. Vendors in Santa hats called out their wares and folk traipsed the frozen dirt bartering for a deal. Beneath the video screen a group of carol singers shared their festive bliss. Faces beamed with Yuletide cheer, welcoming the snow bloated clouds lumbering across the sky. The weatherman had promised all good citizens a merry and white Christmas.
‘Bugger their perfect bloody Christmas,’ I muttered. I was well aware my tatty coat and I stood no chance of surviving the festive season if snow dumped on our town.
Sam the snake charmer pushed past me rushing to book his pitch by the sad old tree outside the Ostere Gazette. I kept to the awnings of the trader’s shops watching for trouble and a glimpse of the girl.
The large video screen preached of ‘good times for hard working citizens.’
I laughed at the message as a Slotvak girl’s petite hand relieved a tourist of his wares. She smiled and winked at me before joining the flow of traffic, the wallet secure and her mind settled on her next kill.
A band of soldiers sat at the tables outside the Drunken Duck Hostelry. Their songs sounded loud and lewd. Ale mugs clinked, bodies embraced, but the boisterous play set the world on edge. Soldiers ruled and they liked to shoot stuff. A glass broke, a curse followed and a punch inspired a melee of drunken proportions.
I kept my head low, dodging the ruckus and the camera trained on the Duck’s tables. Me and the army had issue with my role in life. On my eighteenth birthday conscription called and I ran. I chose to live rough on the streets rather than fight the Man’s war on terror. The army and the Man have long memories and zero tolerance with recruits not willing to front a bullet. And drunken soldiers tend to shoot, badly for sure, but I didn’t want to be testing their aim.
A hand reached out and clutched at my arm. I swiveled on my right foot and buried my left knee deep inside my assailant’s gut. A loud oomph sounded as he doubled over and dropped to the ground. I ducked behind a bedraggled line of school girls, curious, but no way keen to learn my assailant’s identity.
‘Good times indeed,’ I muttered.
‘Ben,’ a voice called out. It sounded strained and urgent, yet familiar. I quickened my pace, keeping clear of the main camera and stopped by the first aid tent. Marvin sat leaning against the town hall clutching at his stomach.
‘I hope it hurt,’ I mouthed as he found my face through the crowd.
I hadn’t seen Marvin, my mongrel childhood mate, since he married the love of my life. Two years ago, the same day the army called, I ran from her rejection. For two long years I cursed the girl’s indifference to my passion. I buried my pain in the gutters of Ostere and wished plague and pestilence on the happy couple.
Serious.
Over the top for sure and dead bitter, but it helped me sleep at nights. On bad days, with the alcohol flowing, I dreamed the sad, lonely dream of what if? And that scenario always turned out well for me. The wedding made the social pages and her father shook my hand. Marvin stood beside me holding the rings as my best man. There was a three tiered cake, speeches and we danced close to a waltz type tune.
A family crossed my path and I used the two children as cover. Marvin struggled to stand, his back stooped as he searched for my sorry arse. The smaller child dropped her floppy eared rabbit in a mucky puddle. I stepped forward and retrieved the toy, brushing the dirt from its ears and tucked it beneath her arm. She offered me a smile but her mother, alarmed at my actions, yanked the leash and pulled her close.
I crept along Church Lane, my head turned from the town hall camera. A gaggle of coffee addicts sat at the tables outside Sylvia’s Coffee House. Tilly, the young lady I sought, stepped onto the sidewalk. She held the door for customers and the deep, rich aroma of coffee wafted into the square. She sat next to Sylvia and warmed her hands on her steaming brew. On special occasions me and Tilly shared the odd bottle of wine. I broke bread at her dining table. Many times I dreamt of breaching her inner sanctum, climbing the rickety stairs and surviving the night, waking tousle haired and hungry for the fry up in the morning.
Tilly liked me, but she harped on the prospect of her little Harry having a stable influence in his life. By stable she meant a man with a job, a roof over his head, a car
and maybe a dog. I struggled with her criteria, but my mate Blacky owned a dog and I walked it on occasions.
The large cup dwarfed her petite face. She pushed dark curls behind her ears and smiled at the festivities in the square. As her gaze approached my position I turned my back and blended into the crowd and cursed my cowardice. Maybe later, after a drink, I thought, when the square was less crowded.
A half-naked man juggling flaming sticks blocked my path. His child assistant shook a hat in my face. The scattering of gold shekels jingled and taunted me. I had no money and the little shite understood there was no jingle to my pockets. He continued to hound me, stamping his foot and pretending to cry when I patted his head.
No one cared about my protestations and I didn’t need the drama. I cut across the square, weaving between dawdling bodies, and collapsed on the seat between the undertakers and the Ostere Gazette. Above my head camera three, yes I’d numbered them all, craned forward into the square. Its lens panned the populace relaying images to the large screen. I pushed the black hood off my head and released the vodka from my pack. The cheap liquor calmed my nerves. With a cigarette burning I kicked back against the cold brick wall, took a deep breath and calmed my heart.
Safe.
My life wasn’t too tragic, I reasoned. I’d dodged the past, leaving Marvin crippled in the dirt. I’d witnessed the future, spying young Tilly sitting by the Coffee House. And my present status found me with a pouch full of tobacco and a chilled bottle of vodka.
Marvin broke through a crowd of folk gazing at the large video screen. He tugged a large black carryall as if it were a reluctant child. His grubby trousers stuck to his ankles and his thin summer jacket froze to his body. Raw fingers clawed at his trouser pocket and mucous seeped from his nose.
I pulled the hood back over my head, took a quick sip on the bottle and bunkered low in my seat.
Walk on by.
Chapter Two
One big old Bag labelled with a T
Marvin ignored my thoughts and fell onto the warped plank, kicking the bag beneath our seat. Chains rattled as it rested against the wall.
‘I need your help,’ he said.
He didn’t greet me, or apologize for crapping on my life and not a word concerning my assault two minutes back. I’d have made my anger known and offered my assailant a right slap for the offense.
‘I’m in big trouble,’ he said. Clouds of vapor and spit followed each word. The voice sounded a pitch too high, a degree too desperate and loud enough for the Mayor in the town hall to hear. I had no wish to spend time with the boy, but to witness his distress succored my spirit. I offered him the vodka.
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Trouble,’ he said.
He pushed the vodka away and leant forward, glancing left and right before focusing on my nose. I didn’t like him looking at my nose. I sniffed and twitched before offering it a good wipe with my coat sleeve.
‘With a big fucking T.’ His back straightened as he exhaled with a loud sigh.
I tried to ignore his presence and focus on the stupid clock and its irregular chimes. I didn’t need trouble, neither capital T nor little t, complicating my life. Marvin scratched and fidgeted, his elbow poking and bumping me to spark my interest. I remained resolute because the man was a mongrel, because the man fucked with my happy ever after and that was just wrong. He married my girl and I could never forgive him such a heinous act.
‘I wouldn’t ask,’ he said grabbing at my arm. ‘But I don’t know where to turn. I don’t know who to ask for help.’
He jumped up from the seat and paced in front of me. On his second turn he knocked against a vendor setting up his stall for the evening trade.
‘Sit down,’ I hissed.
Two lads in summer coats, shivering in the winter chill, caused eyebrows to rise. I didn’t want to cause alarm. Two lads supping on a generic brand of vodka caused voices to gossip. I couldn’t afford the gossip. I didn’t need my presence in the square becoming an issue as issues spiked the interest of the army. If the army became involved, guns, handcuffs and bouts of torture and detention followed.
Detention could be bad. Detention could be forever as folk often went missing since the Man won government. For two years I’d fought such an outcome and I didn’t need Marvin popping his ugly head above the parapet.
‘Stuff’s going down,’ he said as he flopped beside me.
What did he mean? What stuff? The army—a rag, tag bunch of conscripts—ruled our streets. And the Man—desperate to stop the rioting and looting—had issued orders for the Scarlet Scum to be shot on sight. Or maybe he referred to the Projects—the urban guerrillas pissing on our lives by taking out the electric four nights running.
Was that the stuff he thought was going down?
‘What do you want?’ I said.
Marvin’s presence made me nervous. He'd stuffed a bag, contents undisclosed, beneath my seat and not explained its worth. Bags made us nervous in Ostere. We did bombs big time. It’s not that long ago the Christian Clan set off the first of the back pack bombings in a bus heading to Old London Town.
But I couldn’t see Marvin as a bomber. You needed to be political and passionate and revolutionary with a sparkle of zeal in your eyes. I’d known Marvin from wee and he didn’t do altercations, no way. He ran from a fight and pissed his pants when confronted.
My shekels sat on Linda having thrown the boy out of their family home and packed the bag to the gunnels with his crap life. And that suggested Linda might be lonely and be looking for company.
Could I forgive the girl for marrying the mongrel invading my space with his bag of trouble?
We sat in silence. The town square had transformed into an open-air restaurant. Street performers decorated the periphery. Part-cooked carcasses rotated on metal poles as herbs sprinkled on crisping skin. Musicians tuned instruments. Jugglers stretched and beggars searched for a profitable patch of turf.
A group of old boys huddled by the betting shack to my immediate left. They wanted to lay a bet and shelter from the chill wind, but the sign said closed. I’d never known Bob the Bookie to close.
‘Who are those blokes?’ Marvin pulled at his tie, rolling the end up and letting it fall. ‘Why are they standing there?’ He pointed, jabbing his finger at the men.
I slapped his hand before the old boys took offense.
‘What’d you do that for?’ He rubbed at the red welt on the back of his hand.
‘Because you’re pissing me off and I’m not in the mood for answering every damn fool question you think up. I sit here because it’s safe and I keep my head down, nice and quiet, eh? Do you get it?’
He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he heard a word.
‘What is it with that wreck of a shop?’ he said. ‘It’s obviously closed, so why they keep trying to get in?’
I sighed and smiled at his hundredth question. ‘They’re gamblers,’ I said. ‘They want to lay a bet. Or play the machines. Or just get out of the cold.’
‘But it’s closed.’
‘What are the odds on that, eh?’
Marvin stood and paced and scratched. The scratching alarmed me. There were many diseases blighting the planet that medicine didn’t touch. People stepped around him, desperate not to touch his sorry, scabby arse. At least he’d stopped pointing.
‘So why don’t they move on?’ He stopped in front of me and stared at the men.
‘Move on where?’
I threw my hands in the air in exasperation. Street life offered few options unless you could magic shekels from dirt. His body flopped back on the seat, pushing his hands beneath his thighs for warmth.
‘What’s going on with today?’ A petulant whine over-emphasized each word. ‘Everything’s wrong. It’s all bloody wrong.’
The big screen projected images of Ostere’s missing children. The tearful pleas from their desperate parents followed. They pleaded with the kidnappers to show mercy. I pulled my thin coat tight and c
rossed my leg away from Marvin’s neurotic behavior. My attention turned to a musical combo to our left and the growing crowd.
A man walking with a limp joined the huddle of men standing outside the betting shop. Lots of blokes suffered limps, walking with sticks or worse. The war took the piss out of our able-bodied conscripts. The man swung his right leg with each step, his polished boots stepping heavy in the dirt. Light ginger hair, buzz-cut short, complimented a red beret. He wore an old, mid-length, black leather jacket and faded combat trousers. He accepted a cigarette from the group and pointed at the betting shop. The men shook their heads and huddled closer with a chimney of smoke puffing from the heart of their group.
Marvin pushed his hand through his thin brown hair before he turned back to the men by the shed. ‘Do you remember that time when you were in trouble at school?’
‘Which time?’
I had struggled with school big time, so Marvin needed to narrow his point of reference.
His brow furrowed and he shook his head. ‘Yeah, you were in trouble a lot, weren’t you?’
‘Compared to you,’ I said and shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess I was.’
I pulled the vodka from my bag and a large serrated knife clattered to the ground.
‘Jesus, Ben, that’s one serious knife.’
I pulled two switchblades from my right leg pocket, a rusty cutthroat and a hunting knife from my left. I smiled at Marvin as he leaned away from the threat. ‘Well-armed, eh?’
I shoved the serrated knife into the bottom of my backpack and the other knives into my calf pockets.
‘Against what?’
I showed him the half loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper and the pack of ham. ‘Folk are hungry down here and you live in the posh clouds of Lower Ostere. You’ve also spent time away fighting the good fight, haven’t you? Times aren’t good and if you haven’t got the coins, then you have to fight for the crumbs and if you don’t fight, you die.’
No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series Page 1
