No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  The gate stuck and complained, but gave way allowing me to sprint over the narrow lane and duck inside the Old Poet. I bolted the front door and collapsed on the chair to the left of the bar room.

  Safe.

  The pub appeared empty. My gaze rested on the back room and I ran for the door, slamming the door shut, the bolt grating into place. My heart thumped and short sharp breaths left me light headed.

  The chair creaked as I sat and lit a cigarette from the burning candle. No one had followed me to the pub. No one passed the window. The curfew had left Ostere abandoned and the pub stood empty. No Ivan drunk at the hatch or Nab chewing glass at the bar. Not even Charlie slept against the pillar separating the front bar from the back bar. Dirty glasses covered the bar and tables. Ashtrays overflowed, but the T-Birds had left the building.

  A figure moved in the dark and I tensed. A white face with blackened eyes rose from the bench seat, mimed rubbing its eyes, yawning and smiled a big old clown smile. He stepped out of the dark corner onto the stage and swayed to a tune playing in his head. The fairy lights shone on sad eyes. He wore a striped shirt and red trousers with big braces securing the baggy apparel. He sang in a foreign language, the sleepy voice ever so sad.

  I flicked my cigarette into the far corner of the pub and we both watched the red ember flip through the air. I pushed the chair back and left the clown to his sad song, calling for Nab. A grunt alerted me to Ivan’s prostrate frame behind the bar.

  ‘Drunk again?’

  He groaned and attempted to roll over but gave up, settling with a loud sigh, his face flat to the floor.

  I thought I’d seen blood. ‘Ivan, are you all right or just pissed to bits?’

  He lifted his head trying to locate my voice. Blood leaked from his mouth and his puffy eyes struggled to open.

  I rushed to his aid, rolling him onto his back, holding his head so he could look at me. Blood covered his face, his left eye swollen shut. I grabbed his arms and pulled him into a sitting position, resting his back against the shelf of mineral bottles and crisps.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  He held out his hand, miming a feeble take on holding a glass.

  I found his crystal tumbler on the floor and filled it with a good quantity of his favorite malt.

  His hands shook, so I held the glass and found a straw. Ivan mimicked a fish as he chased the straw and slobber pooled in his lap. I steadied the straw, gulping in sympathy as he slurped at his drink.

  ‘Where’s Nab?’

  He wanted to drink, not talk. I left him alone with his medicine. I wanted to get Ivan closed up before the army came calling. With the windows locked and curtains drawn I turned to the candles and extinguished the majority of his lights. The singer stopped singing and swaying as his shoulders shook, his eyes crying dry tears.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked him.

  He lowered his arms and swung them ape-style.

  ‘Gorillas?’ I asked.

  He nodded then pointed to his head and traced a round shape.

  ‘Wearing hats.’

  Lifting a long floppy black shoe in the air he pointed, running his finger along the length of the item.

  ‘They had big feet.’

  His head shook vigorously and I cursed my rubbish aptitude for charades. He pulled at my hair and pointed at his head, again indicating the hat. He made a rude gesture not normally associated with clowns, then pointed with his finger, his thumb acting as the hammer on a revolver.

  ‘Guns. Big men with guns and hats which were black.’

  ‘Fucking genius,’ he muttered and took a cigar from his baggy trousers and puffed a load of smoke as he returned to his corner seat.

  I fed Ivan more Scotch. ‘I’ve closed up, Ivan. Get yourself off to bed, eh? You’ve got a clown in the building. He seems harmless, but a tad rude and clowns can be nasty. He didn’t beat you up, did he?’

  Ivan shook his head, sighed and settled back against the shelves. He held his glass in both hands, resting it on the first roll of fat. His good eye focused as a tear formed.

  ‘I’m happy here,’ he said. His voice sounded so forlorn. ‘The clown is okay. He was with the funeral party.’

  I took the bottle from the back bar and placed it next to him. ‘I’ll leave by the front door, but you need to bolt it behind me. You sure you’re okay?’

  He topped up his glass, the bottle clattering on the rim as he poured.

  I nodded to the sad clown as I left the building and his gloved hand waved goodbye.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nab don’t do Digging

  Images flickered on the screen dominating the town square. The speakers sparked and hummed as the faces of the missing children flashed and died. A lone figure balanced on a ladder, his toolbox at his feet and his hands fiddling with the mechanics located at the foot of the screen. The buzz sounded loud in the quiet and the flashing images reflected in the murky puddles and shards of glass littering the ground. Against the wall of the Town Hall a scarlet hooded youth sprayed ‘Death to the Man.’ Outside Sylvia’s Coffee House two young women taped new posters of missing children over old forgotten faces.

  A line of dark idling vehicles, headlights spot lighting the council sheds crowded the service lane to Blacky’s overgrown car park. I kept to the shadows heading for the bright coals burning hot in Blacky’s furnace. Tommy slept on the sofa with the hound’s fat head resting in his lap. Beyond the furnace, little Billy Two Guns sat on a soggy pile of Bigger Issue magazines, his back to his brother and cursing the night.

  I pushed Tommy’s legs off the sofa and sat on the dirty fabric, cringing as the broken spring stuck in my arse. ‘What’s Billy’s problem?’ I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and retrieved a small bottle of vodka. I offered Tommy the first drink. He smiled, shook his head and pointed to the empty bottle lying dead beneath the furnace.

  ‘He’s got the hump with me,’ Tommy said. ‘Just coz I think his new shoes make him look like a clown.’

  ‘He doesn’t think he looks like a clown?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  We both looked over the flames at Billy, his bent back shaking as he ranted. ‘He seems a bit angry,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah, Billy does anger big time you know. He’s seriously pissed with me coz I called him a thief. But where did he get the shoes and why wear them when they’re so bloody large? He’s not a child, you know? He isn’t going to grow into them. I shouldn’t have to call Mum because Billy’s going shopping. That don’t make sense. And they’re not new.’

  We stood up and moved to the furnace to get a better view of Billy and his clown shoes. Black brogues with scuffed toes and the laces untied. Billy couldn’t bend to tie his laces and he dragged his feet so his shoes wore out on the toes.

  ‘And he’s got a new pair of glasses. And a hat. It’s a stupid hard boy skullcap. Billy’s not hard and he’s got a damn shiny new jacket. He’s robbing someone and not telling me, you know? And he promised me he’d stop stealing. He promised me, blood brothers you know, that he’d never steal again.’

  Tommy’s reaction didn’t match the crime.

  ‘We all steal and scavenge,’ I said. ‘So long as it’s not you he’s stealing from, what do you care?’ Tommy walked back to the sofa, but I remained at the furnace, absorbing its heat and listening to Billy abusing the world. ‘Cool glasses, Billy.’

  He took them off, smiling at me as he admired the dark frames. ‘Make me look smart. You’ll be calling me Billy Two Books soon.’

  ‘No, you’re always going to be Billy Two Guns. Acting smart is good, cool, eh, but you want to look hard down here. Blokes carrying books get mugged.’

  Lights shone in the allotments. I sat on the sofa with Tommy. ‘The Ferals entertaining again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been too busy taking the piss out of Billy. Seriously though, where do you reckon he got those shoes? And that hat. It’s not fair he’s got new clobber and I’ve got nowt.’

 
‘I don’t care and you should be happy for the boy. Maybe it will be your turn next time.’

  My attention focused on the allotments. A large lamp stood burning by the tomato bed with men standing behind the flame, leaning against the old brick brewery.

  ‘Tommy,’ I said. ‘They aren’t supposed to be there. Some of ‘em are wearing black hats, eh?’

  Tommy ceased throwing pieces of coal at Billy. ‘Yeah, I know they don’t look like Feral types and they’ve got Nab with them.’

  I stood up from the sofa, pulling my coat tight and took a wide path toward the allotments. I nodded to the winos hiding in the shadows of the rusted sheds, their faces white in the light of their flickering flames. Tommy followed me greeting each wino by name.

  ‘Serious motors,’ he said. ‘That first car was here the night when Marvin checked out, you know.’

  ‘What’s Nab doing with the Black Hats?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Stupid place to meet, isn’t it, coz the Ferals aren’t going to be happy about them trespassing.’

  ‘I’ve just been in the Poet and Ivan’s taken a hiding. Nab runs that place and he wouldn’t let no one hurt Ivan. So what’s going on here?’

  We stood within the darker shadow provided by the big oak tree. Nab and a gang of Black Hats stood by the old brewery wall. Nab and a spade worked at the earth, digging a serious hole, half his body deep in the fresh earth. Perspiration beaded his forehead and he cursed every spade full of earth he threw out of the hole. Nab didn’t look so tough with a spade in his hands.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said. ‘Nab don’t labor for no one.’

  ‘Two of ‘em are holding guns,’ Tommy said, pointing to the lads leaning against the brick wall. ‘I’d be digging.’

  ‘But what they going to find digging by the brick wall? Tubers? Jersey Royals? I don’t get it.’

  Tommy turned back to the fire. I grabbed his arm. ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Back to the vodka before it loses its chill. It don’t taste so good warm, you know.’

  ‘Tommy, that’s Nab.’

  ‘And they’ve got guns, Pilgrim.’ He talked in his tough voice and the gravel-like tones suited the night. ‘Have you got a gun and are you quick enough? A man has to decide whether he wants to live or die.’ Tommy switched to his normal voice. ‘Nab’s hard, you know and nobody’s going to hurt Nab. Do you remember that time he rode Billy’s push bike into the wall?’

  I smiled at the memory. ‘He reckoned he could ride through it. No brick wall was going to stop him.’

  ‘He don’t need us. Nab’s hard.’

  ‘No, that was just stupid. He trashed the bike and he didn’t seem right for days.’

  Tommy shrugged and set off back to the fire. I wanted to follow him, but I needed to know what the Black Hats had on Nab, or whether Nab had joined forces with them. Had they worked out where Marvin hid the bag? Marvin’s body died ten yards from where they stood, but he had no tools to bury the bag.

  The deafening crack of the gun shot caused me to jump and drop flat to the ground. When I returned to the action the shorter man with his black hat pushed to the back of his head, stepped to the hole and shot twice. Sounds became muffled and gunpowder tainted the night as a cloud of smoke drifted into the dark. Three men with their hats low on their heads, headed back to the cars. A tall large man, no hat, shook hands with the man with the gun. He pointed at the spade lying on the ground before joining the men in the car. The gun was holstered and the two remaining men watched the car’s taillights head toward the over pass before turning back to Nab.

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  The gunman turned to face Blacky’s shed and I cringed behind the tree. He spoke to the man with the spade and they both looked toward the furnace and laughed, before resuming the gruesome burial.

  ‘No witnesses.’ I didn’t hear or see them speak the words, but I knew what the glance toward Blacky’s shed signified.

  Chapter Twenty

  Little Billy Two Guns don’t Talk

  I grabbed Tommy by the collar and lifted him clean off the sofa and frog marched him to the darkness beneath the eaves of Blacky’s shed. ‘They shot Nab.’ I looked across at Billy, hoping he understood my urgency. ‘We need to leave. We can’t stay here, so get your brother and lets clear out.’

  ‘Fuck him.’

  I slapped Tommy’s face. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  Tommy entered the sulking cave, erecting a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. I stepped closer to the furnace, my attention drawn to the men filling in the hole.

  ‘Billy,’ I called to the stroppy midget. ‘Get your arse over here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not until he apologizes.’

  I turned back to Tommy, watching him kick at the strut supporting the eaves to Blacky’s shed. ‘Apologize to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we need to leave,’ I said. ‘And one of you needs to be the adult, otherwise we’ll be digging holes next to Nab’s grave.’

  The stocky man hit at the loose dirt, the flat whack of metal on dirt making me twitch. He stamped on the earth, his colleague joining him, turning it into a morbid dance. The taller man stepped off the grave and helped his mate replace his coat and hat. The two men smoked a cigarette leaning against the old brewery wall admiring their work.

  I pointed at the men. ‘They’ve been left to tidy up.’

  ‘So?’ Billy said.

  ‘We witnessed a murder. They’ll be coming for us next.’

  ‘I didn’t see nothing.’

  ‘Good one Billy and good luck arguing the toss with the Black Hats with blindness as your defense.’

  I surveyed the large overgrown quadrangle, searching our best exit. The path to the passage leading to town made us easy targets. A climb up the sloping slagheap meant exposure for a good ten minutes. The overpass required a hundred yard sprint leading onto a dual carriageway. I didn’t want to panic, but my estimation suggested we lacked options.

  The men finished their cigarettes and headed for the gate. They threw the spade and lamp into the black car and turned to face Blacky’s shed. I ducked to the ground, crawled across to the horse trough and retrieved the large rusted key. The men approached the council sheds shooting as they walked. ‘Oh Jesus,’ I cried and ran for the safety of the eaves and the inside of Blacky’s shed.

  ‘They’ve just shot the winos. Your brother’s got problems. One last chance, Tommy.’ Tommy continued to kick at the strut. I ran to Billy and grabbed the scruff of his new paisley jacket and lifted him off his seat. ‘You need to leave.’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m not going anywhere with him.’ He looked at Tommy hiding in the shadows.

  ‘Fine, but go,’ I said pointing away from the council sheds. ‘Run, you silly twat.’

  I pushed him toward the passageway leading into town and shuffled back into the shadows with Tommy. Billy lacked urgency. At one point he stopped and glanced back to the sheds, peering at the men before limping forward across the car park.

  ‘Stop!’ The voice barked at Billy, but we all froze.

  ‘Billy, run, you silly fucker,’ Tommy called to his brother.

  Billy stood in the middle of the quadrangle looking for his walking stick. It leant against the furnace table. Billy turned to run, but his left leg collapsed and he fell.

  The digger approached Billy, barking orders at Billy’s prostrate form. He grabbed him by the arm and led him back to the furnace. His mate sat on the arm of the sofa, holding his hands out to the red glow and the dog skulked to the dark side of the furnace, shivering and wondering when a pat might be offered.

  Tommy and I hid deep in the dark of Blacky’s shed. I closed the door and slid the bolts, the rusted metal sticking before slotting home. A deep morbid black tainted by a sour odor dominated Blacky’s shed. The wind rattled the corrugated iron roof. We made our way deep, scraping against machines, our boots scuffing across a straw-strewn dirt floor. Our
hands played across hammers and anvils on his workbench and bumped against bric-a-brac hanging from the roof.

  ‘It don’t smell right in here,’ Tommy said. ‘Worse than that piece of road kill me and Billy ate the other night.’

  ‘Keep it down.’

  ‘We should be cool in here.’

  ‘No, we won’t be cool in here, because Billy will give us up.’

  ‘No he won’t. Billy’s cool.’

  ‘Tommy, he’ll talk,’ I said. ‘They’ll make him. We watched them shoot Nab, so a stroppy midget won’t stop them and then they’ll come for us.’

  ‘Well, if you say so, but…’

  ‘I’m going upstairs to keep a look out.’

  I pushed Tommy to Blacky’s front door and inserted the key. A few years back the door opened onto a vibrant industrial complex. I pulled a table over the floor to scramble the path.

  ‘When they break in, you’ve got to take off. Just run, Tommy. They won’t be able to keep up with you and they don’t know who you are, eh? When you’ve got a lead, backtrack and meet me by the gate to the allotments.’

  ‘And you’re stopping here?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the plan. I’m as slow as a snail and as fit as a dead one, eh? Take off toward the High Street, okay? You should be able to lose them well before you hit the square. Just watch out for the law because they’ll shoot if they see you running.’

  I climbed the ladder to the loft looking at the low, dark space for a position to hide. As I crawled across the loft space, the putrid thick air caused me to gag. ‘Blacky’s got something up here that isn’t living,’ I said. ‘It hasn’t been living for a while, eh?’

  Once I stored the ladder to the back of the loft I scrambled across the dusty floor to the small grubby window. I settled on my stomach and pushed the window open, gasping at the fresh air. ‘They’re holding Billy over the furnace. He’s wriggling and getting a few kicks in.’

  ‘There you go, Billy’s cool. He’s a stupid fuck, but he’ll never shit on me. I’m his bloody brother.’