No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  He turned back and waved the gun at me. ‘Ben,’ he said. ‘It is Ben, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Put the backpack down on the floor before I shoot you. A homeless person can’t be trusted, I’m afraid and your hand digging about in a backpack spells a heap of trouble. That’s a fact and I’d bet my life on that, for sure.’

  I dropped the bag and pushed it toward his feet. He smiled before speaking. ‘Tell me, what were you going to do with the bodies?’ He laughed as he leant back on one of the kitchen stools. ‘You got a clean-up crew, have you?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t given it much thought, eh? I didn’t think Tilly would be too happy with the mess I’d left behind and figured I should be here when she came home. Tilly’s a bit house proud and she don’t do blood or dead. She wasn’t going to be happy with four bodies, but the stained rug was going to piss her right off. Some wank bloke robbed a peasant so she could display that rug on her floor. It was special to her, eh?’

  ‘Empty your pockets.’

  I pulled out the two police badges and placed a handful of shekels on the floor with a litter of screwed up notes. I picked up my backpack ready to dump its contents on the floor.

  ‘Now drop your trousers.’

  ‘Why?’

  The gun raised and pointed at my groin. I stood and dropped my trousers quick and squatted with my possessions, my hand within reach of the knife in my calf pocket.

  He turned his nose up at the state of my underwear and the crusty socks peeping out from the tops of my boots. What did he expect from a boy living on the streets without access to hot and cold water? Bugger him; I’d showered earlier that morning and washed me socks in the hotel sink. I didn’t smell.

  A slight tick flickered at the corner of his right eye.

  I tried not to look, but the infliction worsened and no matter how much he wiped at his cheek the tick consumed the right side of his face. Life’s a bitch, eh? It don’t matter how tough, or how far up the ladder we get life just likes to knock you down, snap a rung or place a wee old snake in the way of your path so you slither back down with the poor folk. And he lifts the gun, covering the stupid tick in his cheek so I can’t see it, the muzzle looking me dead in the eye.

  ‘Cecil skimmed from us big time and he was family and that’s not right.’

  I didn’t know who Cecil was, nor did I give a shit. What sort of fucking name is Cecil anyway? ‘Seriously,’ I said. ‘I don’t need to know this stuff. It’s your shit and nothing stinks as bad as someone else’s shit, eh?’

  ‘He also kept copies of everything. Accounts, numbers, addresses. Every bloody detail. The man was damn meticulous.’

  Some people like to talk and share and I tried to show disinterest, but the mongrel couldn’t help himself.

  ‘We know he passed the money on to his son. That’s set in stone and you can take that to the bookies, for sure. And we’re not bothered about the cash. Seriously, we can overlook the cash, but the books we can’t ignore. You know shit’s going down in the East End and we can’t have the books getting into the wrong hands. There’s bad people out there.’ He pointed the gun at the front door. ‘And what they’d do with our books gives us nightmares. Take that with the cash to the bookies while you’re at it. For sure. But now they’re both dead and we still don’t have the bloody bag. And you were the last person to see him alive.’

  I put my hand above my head. The tick below his eye turned staccato. My hand wavered with each beat as he rubbed at his face, leaving his hand hiding his cheek.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whoever killed Marvin was the last person to see him alive. I didn’t kill Marvin, so I wasn’t the last person to see Marvin alive, eh?’

  ‘Cooper remembers you from the square.’

  ‘Who’s Cooper?’

  Two quick steps and the gun pushed hard against my forehead. I fell backwards and came to rest against the grey metal of the refrigerator.

  ‘You don’t ask the questions.’ The bright whites of his eyes glared from behind the gun with his spastic face turning puce.

  Testy and seriously unhinged.

  I pulled my legs to my chest, dragged my trousers and knife within reaching distance and decided, for the good of my health to stop with the questions. My next action centered on taking him out, but I wasn’t sure I could throw a knife with a gun pointing at my head. My ability with a knife reached legendary status when I hit a big fat rat in the dark from twenty yards. This man with his stupid facial tick and barrel chest should prove no problem. Except for the gun.

  ‘So where’s the bag?’

  His voice sounded tired and his facial tick bothered him. He hid the tremor to his fingers by rubbing at the dark patchy stubble on his chin, but the gun pointing at me couldn’t focus. I sensed an end game and I needed time to get to my knife, flick and throw.

  ‘The Ferals reckon he had a limp,’ I said.

  ‘Go on, I’ll bite. Who are the bloody Ferals?’

  ‘They own the land where Marvin died. The land you buried my mate Nab in last night.’

  He smiled at my admission to witnessing Nab’s murder. I smiled back, not caring what he thought.

  ‘So you saying they’ve got the bag?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t, but it’s a possibility because they saw who killed Marvin so he might’ve passed it on to them. They may have killed him and taken the damn bag. Who knows what makes a Feral a Feral? But the point is they saw who killed Marvin and they reckoned he had a limp. The last time I saw Linda she was on the arm of a man with a limp.’

  ‘If you’re talking about Peg Leg, you’re wasting breath because we know he hasn’t got the bag.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Forget him. He’s a nutter. Ex-Squaddie, trigger fuckin’ happy nutter.’

  ‘Like you guys don’t like shooting at folk.’

  A soft, irritating tune sounded, muffled by the man’s clothing. He pulled out a phone and smiled as he answered. ‘My daughter’s choice of tone.’

  ‘She must be so proud.’

  ‘Yeah, I got him.’ My man with the gun looked at me with an ugly sneer made ridiculous by his cheek twitching every second. He stepped into the dining room and rested his fat arse on the table. ‘No, he says, he don’t know where the bag is.’ His tone suggested he didn’t believe my tale. ‘We’re getting to that point.’ And he looked at me, his face screwed against the tick. He nodded his head to the caller, offered me a snarl and dropped the phone on the table.

  My hand reached for the knife in the leg of my trousers.

  ‘My problem is this,’ I said. I stood up with the knife hidden against the back of my wrist. ‘I’ve grown up with Marvin and I can’t see him and you guys having paths that could ever cross.’

  He scratched at his cheek, his gun hand wavering.

  ‘You guys are crooks. That’s a given for sure. But Marvin’s a good guy. You know Marvin didn’t even smoke at school or skip class or take the piss out of the teachers. Marvin was good. And his dad was a tired, bent old fuck lacking any humor or life. Not crook material.’

  ‘Marvin’s old man, Cecil, was a Cooper,’ he said. He tapped the gun on the worn wood of the table as he spoke.

  ‘Sit!’ he brought the gun up to point at my head. ‘Or I will shoot you.’

  I slid down the smooth metal surface of the fridge. He stepped up to Tilly’s server so he could watch me.

  ‘Cecil’s old man,’ he said. ‘Marvin’s grandfather was the biggest Short Price Bookie Old London Town has ever known. He also had a sideline in protection that kept the whole East End of Old London Town in his pocket.

  ‘So no, I don’t think we’ve got this wrong.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. Marvin the ‘Black Hat’ Cooper.

  He pulled out a stool and eased his body onto the seat and placed the gun on the Formica top. The resting hand shook and beads of perspiration trickled toward his thick black eyebrows. He screwed his eye half-shut, trying to control the tick.

  When his brea
thing became short, panting and hoarse I worried, because sick people made poor choices. And still I dithered. For sure I can throw a knife, but to look the man in the eye and throw left me queasy. And I might get shot.

  I needed to convince him I owned the bag and hope for an opportunity to attack. I needed him to drop his guard, forget about his gun or drop dead.

  Tilly’s head appeared at the front door, the foyer wall hiding her from the man with the gun. She ignored my half-dressed state and pointed toward the man, her fingers pretending to be a gun. I nodded without enthusiasm. Tilly did angry with vigor. With an attack from Tilly distracting the man, I could stick him with my knife. A dim flicker of light appeared in a tunnel far, far away.

  ‘If I knew where the bag was hidden would that get me out of here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at me, but struggled to hold eye contact. His hand jerked with the tick in his cheek. His breathing rasped and the pallor to his face resembled a dead man’s coloring. Perspiration wandered toward his cheek and no amount of mopping slowed the output.

  ‘So I could take you there? Or just give you the address and you’d let me go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tilly needed to act and soon. And I needed an address.

  ‘So where is it?’

  He looked at his feet, the droplets of sweat splashing on Tilly’s hardwood floor. Tilly smiled and offered me a thumb up sign before backing out of the house.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But this isn’t comfortable for me, you know. It’s not clever facing a loaded gun while squatting like I’m defecating. Can I pull me trousers up, eh? You got to see it from my angle.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he shouts. ‘All I get from you is questions and bloody demands and no bloody address yet.’

  ‘Do you know Upper Ostere, the High Road?’

  He checked his phone for messages. The gun lay forgotten on the server. He needed two hands to play with his phone, which left an opening for me to throw, but from a squat I lacked confidence. I’d never practiced the current scenario and felt I might struggle to get the power and accuracy into my throw.

  He placed his phone back in his pocket. ‘Yes, I know High Road in Upper Ostere. Cecil’s house is on High Road. What about it?’

  ‘That’s where the bag is.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s all you got?’ He picked up the gun and pointed the weapon with intent. ‘So you got bugger all.’

  He didn’t want to shoot me. He didn’t like me, but he didn’t have the balls to shoot me. Or maybe he awaited instructions, hence the need to play with the phone. I needed to stay calm and hope the ugly mongrel didn’t lose the plot and pull the trigger. My advantage lay in the guise of a girl called Tilly. She redressed the odds, so long as she returned with a plan.

  He brought out a small packet of powder and dumped the contents on Tilly’s kitchen server. A small cloud of dust rose as he rubbed at his chin, gazing with glassy eyed lust. He sat on a stool, removed a bendy straw from the pastel colored tub by the cereal boxes, bit it in half and snorted long and loud.

  ‘Tilly’s going to have your balls for doing that in here. Harry eats his breakfast on that bench. He uses those straws for his squash.’

  He looked at me, his eyes rimmed red and watery. A lump of moist powder dropped from his nose as he sniffed. ‘Like I give a fuck.’

  The eyes stared, the cheek no longer ticked and the hands playing with his pile of powder remained steady.

  Tilly appeared at the door. She grinned at me as she stepped further into the house, a half-brick clenched in her hand. God bless the child and her penchant for violence.

  As the man bent to fill his nose with another quantity of the white stuff, I allowed the knife to slide into my palm. My middle finger rested on the metal, waiting for Tilly to attack with the brick.

  ‘You need to go easy on that stuff, eh?’ I said. ‘How you think you going to make a sensible decision with all that shit up your nose? It’s not clever, man. Seriously.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ he spluttered into the bench. ‘Who’s got the fuckin’ shooter in their hands? You tell me what to fuckin’ do one more time, I’m just gonna shoot you. And do you know why? Cause I fuckin’ can and cause I don’t like yuh. That’s for sure. Take that to the damn bookies, you prick.’

  Tilly inched closer; the brick raised high in the air, the gun forgotten and sitting on the table behind the man.

  ‘Go on then, shoot me,’ I said. I stood, my feet planted, my pants surrounding my ankles. My wrist cocked the knife hidden by my body. ‘Like I give a shit.’

  My statement sent him apoplectic, with his face turning scarlet and foam spitting from his mouth. Tilly, her eyes wide in anticipation, struck, the brick point first, the whole weight of her tiny frame following the brick as it slammed into his head.

  As the brick connected, I threw from the shoulder, my wrist flicking and burying the knife deep in his throat.

  His head imploded from the force of the brick. The gun clattered to the floor and he slumped forward, hitting his head on the bench with a heavy thud. A puff of white dust rose as he collapsed in a clumsy heap onto the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dead women tell no Tales

  ‘Where’s my rug?’

  The words followed me out the building. Tilly left to cover Nab’s absence at the Old Poet. No comment as to the bullet holes in her sofa or the chips of plaster missing from her walls. I sat her on the low brick wall outside her house with my bottle of vodka hoping it might calm the tremor in her fingers. Tilly covered her ears when I began the tale involving the four blokes trading bullets. When I stepped back inside to frisk the man she followed me muttering. ‘This is all mad, a bloody nightmare. Why is this happening in my home? I want my rug back.’

  I accepted the missing rug disappointed her, but I decided not to explain the bloodstain and how her precious rug suffered. She performed the sign of the cross when I turned the man and found his money. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘You can’t rob a dead man.’ She caught his wedge of cash one handed when I threw it to her.

  ‘He don’t need it,’ I told her.

  ‘I’m out of here,’ she said. ‘I can’t be dealing with all of this violence.’

  I promised to look after Harry and hurried her out the door. The man’s phone kept ringing and Black Hats, with guns, might want to know why he wasn’t answering.

  ***

  Harry and I stood on the opposite footpath to Marvin’s house, sheltering beneath a leafy elm from the soft patter of rain. Chimneys along the street puffed gentle clouds of coal-scented smoke and lights shone in the deepening gloom. Cars occupied gravel driveways in the houses along Marvin’s street. Proper motors for Tommy to drool and get a serious itch to nick.

  ‘What day is it, Harry?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Oh yeah, coz that means no school.’

  ‘Aren’t you suspended?’

  ‘I still know a Saturday when one comes along, like coz you never forget that. Gunners got a game at home too.’

  My backpack nestled across my back and a Browning HP revolver weighted the inside of my coat. Harry and I inspected my haul of weapons once Tilly left us alone. Harry didn’t rate the Browning, but he showed me how to make the weapon safe, how to drop the magazine and other stuff I had no interest in learning. He set it up, made ready, he said and I placed it with care into my coat pocket.

  Harry lectured me for the hour it took to reach Upper Ostere on why he didn’t rate the Browning. ‘Too heavy and the Browning bites if your grip rides too high.’ I turned off ten minutes into our journey. Guns bored me and learning from a child didn’t seem right, but everyone carried a weapon, I reasoned and I needed to upgrade.

  ‘Although the Browning has a larger magazine of thirteen bullets, it could jam bad,’ he said. ‘The army ditched the Browning for the Glock because of it jamming all the time, like. That’s why the Glock is a million times better.’

&
nbsp; That’s what Harry said. Thirteen years old, according to his mother.

  And our talk centered on the Browning I’d taken from Zac. The bloke Tilly had clobbered no longer owned a gun and, my guess suggested, he didn’t have a Browning.

  The curtains to Marvin’s parent’s house gaped with a small dog, paws on the sill, looking out at the world.

  ‘We going in?’ Harry said.

  ‘Yep, I guess so.’

  Linda’s parents’ house nestled beneath a big gnarled tree with a similar pebbled driveway to the neighbors. No cars sat on the driveway and the house looked closed for summer vacation. My old childhood home adjoined Linda’s house. The attics to the houses interconnected.

  I remembered tying Marvin to the floor in Linda’s attic one day, informing him of the bayonet wound and of death’s approach. We placed one of my dad’s medals on his chest telling him he was a hero and if we didn’t operate he’d be a dead hero. Linda picked up the heavy old bayonet and Marvin squealed like a baby as she threatened to plunge it into his gut. I’d stand there with my father’s cap on and medals pinned all over me telling him to man up. ‘You’re in the army now lad,’ with a loose imitation of my father’s voice.

  Ah, good days when nothing mattered to our lives except having a laugh.

  My old house remained the same. The flowers in the border differed in color and I remembered the front door being red. My parents moved not long after my escape from the army draft and never left me a forwarding address.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When are we going in?’

  I grabbed his arm as a vehicle sped past, its wing mirrors brushing Harry’s coat sleeve. A long estate car sat on Marvin’s graveled drive, parked snug to the flowerbed bordering the fence. The main door opened to the side of the property and a bottle of milk and two daily papers sat on the porch mat. The chimney offered not a breath of smoke.

  Harry pushed the bell. Its chimes set the dog into a muffled frenzy. It scratched at the door leading to the front room. Harry lifted the letter flap and called out, setting the dog into a belly full of howling.