No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  ‘I’m going round the back. Stay here with the dog. I’ll let you in the side door once I’m inside.’

  The side gate opened onto a tiled patio and a load of grass rolling in descending steps to open fields. A greenhouse hugged the right side of the property and wrought-iron chairs sat around a glass-topped table on a tiled patio. Glass, loads of glass, covered the conservatory floor and shards clung to the metal doorframe. I stood before the destruction listening for sounds inside the house. A clock ticked. A bird chirped behind me and the muffled yelps of the hound encouraged me to enter.

  Chairs and bookshelves lay on their sides in the conservatory. I called out before ducking through the smashed doorway. No one answered. Top and bottom cupboard doors in the kitchen to my right, stood open with pots, pans and plates scattered over the tiled floor. A twin fridge hummed, its doors gaping with the interior light shining against a chaotic jumble of foodstuffs.

  Again I called out as I stepped into the short hallway. A small toilet room sat beneath stairs to the first floor. Two front room doors faced the kitchen with the side entrance to my right. I looked at the door, not keen on letting Harry inside the house. A noxious odor caused me to breathe through my mouth, but the scent soured with each inhalation. The door in front of me housed the dog, but the door to my left, closed tight, leaked a putrid odor and a light buzzing noise.

  I opened the door housing the hound and bent to pick up its bowl. The dog raced from the top of the settee to head butt my legs, its body shaking, its small tongue panting and licking. I carried the wriggling mass of fur to the side door and let Harry inside the house.

  ‘Get it some water, eh and see if you can find the dog food.’ I pushed them toward the kitchen. ‘Harry, stay here, okay? Spend time with the dog, eh?’

  He carried the dog and the bowl into the kitchen talking to the excited mutt and giggling as it attacked his cheeks with its tongue. I shut the door behind him. The room the dog occupied resembled a tip. Dark patches stained the beige carpet. Books littered the floor. A laptop lay broken on the rug. Again, furniture lay upturned and cut open.

  I turned the handle of the second door and offered a light push, the strengthening stench slowing my actions. I covered my mouth and nose, but the thick pungent odor filtered through to my stomach.

  Her shoes sat flat to the beige carpet pointed in opposing directions with the skirt riding high on her white, bluish thighs. Her arms lay beneath her body, the head turned to her right. The buzzing of flies in the humid room sounded loud and hysterical.

  I guessed someone had hit Mrs. Cooper. A thick moist black stain encircled her head. I didn’t want to touch her corpse. Her gaze concentrated on an object far, far away where the air smelt fresh and flies let her sorry arse alone. I needed to leave and soon, well before investigators found me leaning over her body.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  Harry’s voice made me jump. I turned and found Harry holding the dog and staring at the body. ‘Who killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. Maybe that man in your house.’

  ‘Good thing mum whacked him then.’

  We retreated to the kitchen and found a damp cloth for Harry to remove our fingerprints. I stood by the phone admiring his work. He kept looking at me, waiting for my nod, before moving onto the next object. The dog followed him, biting at his ankles. I instructed Harry to grab the bowl from the other room to fill with the dry dog food in the corner cupboard.

  The dog attacked the food, spreading the pieces over the floor. ‘Jesus, he’s real hungry,’ Harry said.

  The little mutt chased the pieces across the floor. ‘Listen Harry, we got to leave the hound, but when we get to a phone box, we’ll call the police and tell them about the dog, eh? But we got to leave because we’re breaking the law being here.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll just give him more food, like. Keep him going a while.’

  While Harry refilled the bowls, careful to use the cloth, I pulled Linda’s number from my pocket and dialed. The phone rang for an age.

  ‘Hello,’ a quiet voice answered.

  ‘Linda, Ben here. It didn’t work out last night, eh?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t make it. My hair doesn’t do rain. And to meet in a cemetery in the middle of a storm was a crazy idea. I’d have called, but I don’t have your number.’

  ‘Oh, right. No, I don’t do phones. Most people leave messages for me at the Poet or the Blacksmith’s. Listen, do you want to meet up later this afternoon?’

  ‘Brilliant. Where’d you want to meet?’

  ‘Do you know Sylvia’s Coffee Shop?’

  ‘Sure. Good coffee, but really stroppy staff.’

  ‘And no beer, but we can meet up there if you like.’

  ‘Sure. Now?’

  ‘No, now’s no good. Give me a couple hours, eh?’ I watched Harry patting the dog. ‘Say five.’

  ‘You’ll bring the bag. I need the bag.’

  ‘But …’

  She hung up before I could reply. I replaced the handset, curious about the girl and her obsession with the bag. Linda, I remembered, had always been single minded and if she wanted something nothing stopped her. But I didn’t understand what the bag contained that could be so important to Linda.

  The dog chased food across the floor as I congratulated myself on arranging the meeting in Sylvia’s Coffee House. No chance of a sniper taking a pot shot at me amongst Sylvia’s clutter. It offered me time to find the bag or work up an excuse for losing the damn thing. She wasn’t going to be impressed if I turned up without the bag.

  Harry grabbed the handset and offered it a good rub with his cloth. With Harry offering a last pat and cuddle to the dog we left, our heads low and our faces hidden. Harry pulled his hood over his head, but I brushed it back. ‘The private coppers don’t like hoods. They’re trained to shoot at hoods.’

  ‘Who was that you was talking to?’

  ‘An old girlfriend. She wants something she thinks I’ve got. A bag.’

  ‘And you haven’t got it.’

  ‘I was hoping it might be in Marvin’s house.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Money, according to the vicar. A severed head, according to Tommy and Billy reckons there’s a body all hacked to pieces.’

  ‘Wow. No. A head? A whole body and hacked up? Like how big is the bag?’

  ‘Big enough.’

  ‘That’s truly gruesome, like.’ He flicked his fingers and repeated keywords like wow and hacked up.

  ‘Yeah, but they’re both wrong. I reckon it’s just books and stuff and maybe some money. But my point is, if I knew what was in it, maybe I’d start wanting it to be mine and there are some blokes looking for it that would take exception to me wanting it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Man and boy walk into a Bar

  Harry and I walked into town, twice cringing behind trees to avoid Upper Ostere’s private police and their rabid hounds. Harry found a phone box, running ahead to make sure it worked. I found him giggling at the calling cards stuck to the window. He pointed at a leaflet with a large smiling black lady offering multiple services.

  ‘Big, black, bald Betty has massive bazookas,’ he said. ‘Can we call her?’

  The pungent aroma kept Harry outside holding his nose and Black Betty safe in his jacket. I kept the door open while I dialed the police and reported the dog. They wanted to talk, hitting me with a load of intrusive questions, but me and Harry needed to be places.

  A police car turned into the street and crawled along the gutter trawling for low-life. The cradle offered a loud click as I replaced the receiver and turned my back on the advancing car. I knocked on the glass, trying to get Harry’s attention.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Police,’ I said. ‘Stay close and out of sight.’

  The car moved closer, both blue shirts paying the phone box close attention.

  From the other end of the road, a jeep, overloaded with khaki and serious armory, turned
toward us and approached at speed. How did they find us? I made the call short and didn’t answer their stupid questions so we’d dodge this scenario.

  Harry and I needed to disappear before they stopped and drew their guns and attached cuffs to our wrists.

  Again I tapped on the glass. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  Harry nodded and pointed across the street at the laneway. ‘We could run up there,’ he said. ‘There’s a park and it’s always locked, but we’d fit under the gate easy. We could lose ‘em, like, at the back of the park for sure.’

  I shook my head, knowing the army held no qualms about shooting at a boy with a sweat on, let alone running in the opposite direction.

  Two lads dressed in casual gear, but wearing the black skull cap popular with the Projects, exited a house on the lane leading to the park.

  ‘Harry,’ I said. He looked at me. ‘You ready to run?’

  ‘Sure, bloody cops, like they never give us a break.’

  ‘We’ll run at those two lads from the Projects.’

  Harry pointed at the two lads. ‘The Projects, them?’

  ‘Yup, I reckon so. We need to knock them over and see if Jackie John’s taught them how to survive. You up for it?’

  ‘Cool. Pitts Ville Punksters take on the Projects. Yeah, easy.’

  I stepped out of the phone box as the jeep slowed and the police car stopped twenty yards back. ‘Easy Harry, but when I say, we run hard, eh?’

  Harry nodded as the two lads stopped on the corner of the lane, too busy talking to notice the danger surrounding them. Strike one to us, I thought. The moment before our paths crossed I shouted, ‘Go!’ and Harry and I bolted, running at them, knocking them to the ground. I screamed, ‘Police!’ as they buckled and fell, then I lowered my head for the sprint to the park.

  Harry left me behind, running hard for the gate. Sirens and yelps from the lads sounded behind us. Harry called out. ‘Through the park, Ben?’ He threw himself to the ground, scampering beneath the narrow gap of the massive wrought-iron gates.

  A hundred chain links and a massive padlock prevented the gates from opening no matter how hard I tugged. A diet of road kill and cigarettes kept a boy trim and I squeezed beneath the gate. I glanced behind me before standing and saw the blues and greens running from their vehicles, barking orders and waving guns. The two lads dropped to their knees with their hands behind their heads.

  Harry urged me to catch up with him, but I’d stopped running, settling into a fast paced walk that still brought me out in a sweat. Squirrels ran from my hoarse inhalations and a menagerie of birds squawked in protest. I found Harry perched on the bough of a big oak tree, his legs swinging and whistling liked he’d been waiting years for me to catch him.

  ‘You comin’?’

  I lifted myself onto the first branch and followed the child as he edged along the limb hanging over the fence. We dropped onto the pavement and sat back against the iron railings. I lit up a cigarette and watched it burn in my trembling fingers. Have I mentioned the state of my nerves? The first puff caused a throaty eruption of phlegm and I threw the cigarette into the gutter. For a moment I thought of ditching the packet, but it found its way back inside my coat. No will power either, eh?

  Harry kept up sentry duties. His eyes gleamed. ‘Jesus, that was close,’ he said. ‘Do you think they’ll be after us, like? They might surround the park and we’re lacking fire power.’ He climbed the railings. ‘They’re putting those two from the Projects in the jeep. The Punksters rock and the Projects suck.’

  ‘So let’s move it then,’ I said, adjusting my clothes to lose the distressed fugitive look.

  ***

  The journey to the Old Poet Public House took a good hour. Harry kept skipping back and replaying the action, pretending to shoot our pursuers. His behavior negated my attempt at stealth, but we arrived with no further grief. I offered Harry a quick once over, making sure he showed no signs of our near death experience with the law, but he slapped at my effort.

  ‘We going in, Ben?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Listen if your mum’s still working, you can’t mention this chase with the police.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. She won’t get it and she won’t think me clever. Your mother thinks I lack responsibility and I act no better than…well you.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault the police and army found us.’

  ‘Exactly. But still, let’s not mention it, eh?’

  The chill in the pub bordered on arctic. Harry and I rubbed at our arms, our breaths frosting as we searched for his mother. Ivan sat slouched at the bar, trying to lift his gaze above the crystal tumbler before him. With a death-defying grunt he rose and pulled himself forward, gripping at the beer taps for support. He opened his mouth to greet me, but something rotten exited his gob as his body sighed, an exhalation so vile I moved Harry back from the bar.

  ‘Jesus, Ivan,’ I said. ‘You need to gargle with something other than whisky and cigars.’

  His right eye sported bruising with a light yellow coloring to his skin. Dried blood clung to his ear and dark stains decorated his shirt. He nodded and looked beyond the bar top for an able body to help him, to explain the meaning of life, the reason for the Gunners slump in form and why he needed to serve me. A lone punter sat at a table beneath the front window, his feet resting on a chair, smoking a long dark cigar. The clown sat up the back of the pub, his head slumped against the plastered wall, a blanket covering his slumbering body. The buffet table provided scraps for the hungry and Harry lunged at the last crumbs, filling his mouth to overflow.

  Ivan found a glass, a shot glass and splashed beer over his shirt with the first pull. He held the glass up in his fat fingers and we laughed at his stupidity. His gruff rumbling chortle gave his demeanor a pinch of life, a blush of red to his cheeks. I reached over the bar and passed Ivan a grown-up mug.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Staff didn’t turn in today. More supervisory, my role. Not good at the graft.’

  ‘No Tilly?’ I said.

  ‘She’s gone. She’s got a child.’

  ‘We saving on the heating Ivan?’

  ‘What heating? This isn’t cold.’

  ‘Not if you’re a penguin.’

  The mug wavered bottom side up beneath the tap. I advised him to the imminent tragedy, but the man became lost in the task. He pulled on the tap with gusto, the fluid gushing in an almighty rush against his belly and shoes and splattering the underside of the mug. He placed the empty vessel on the bar then waddled back to his stool. As I reached for my empty mug, Ivan’s stool slipped and his arms flung up in the air and he clattered to the floor. Bottles jiggled and glasses jumped. Each attempt at standing resulted in him falling further onto the floor until he slumped and sighed, exhausted and unconscious.

  Harry and I peered at the prostrate lump of lard behind the bar.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He don’t look too clever, does he?’

  ‘He hasn’t got my drink like and I was wanting one of those fruit drinks.’

  ‘Yeah, right, like your drink’s the priority.’

  ‘That was funny him having the cup up the wrong way. I’ve never seen my mum do that.’

  ‘No, it takes a boss to be that incompetent.’

  I approached Ivan and gave him a tentative kick. ‘You all right?’

  He grumbled and sighed, his whole body deflating with the exhalation. I stepped over the slumbering tub of Ivan and poured myself a drink. The man sitting by the front window turned in his seat and blew a plume of thick smoke in my direction. He held a phone to his ear, muttering and nodding into the device. I knew the face.

  A regular.

  ‘He collapsed in the act of not pouring me a drink,’ I said as he pocketed his phone. ‘You cool with me serving?’

  He puffed another quantity of smoke before standing and approaching the bar. He wore a crisp army green shirt decorated with a row of
colors across his heart. His faded jeans sported a razor sharp crease running dead center and a pair of shiny army boots strode with a drunken rolling rhythm. He stopped at the bar, preening his strawberry-blonde hair and stroking his ginger mustache. Without warning he laid one of his shiny boots into Ivan’s ribs. Ivan grunted and muttered nonsense before the same restful state returned.

  ‘You serving, Private?’ he said. He drained his mug and banged it on the bar. ‘I’ll have a Black Rat. Get to it.’

  I dispensed ale for the soldier and grabbed a small bottle of orange for Harry. The soldier sat on a stool by the bar, scrutinizing my style with his head cocked to the side.

  ‘Call that a pint, Private?’

  ‘Why does he keep calling you Private?’ Harry said.

  As I refilled his pint I smiled at Harry. ‘Ask him?’

  He barked his explanation at Harry. ‘You are all Privates. No experience. No discipline. Need to be kept in order.’

  Harry straightened his back and kept quiet.

  As I finished topping up our beers, the front door banged open with a load of litter pirouetting inside the pub. I froze, fearing the police, but exhaled with relief as a gang of Toffs entered, their pompous attitude and barking wit dominating the bar well before their bodies. I stepped out from behind the bar and sat on the first stool.

  ‘Hey, Dick Brain.’ He strode to the bar, his shiny mustard-colored suit reflecting all surfaces. Large ruffles grew up the middle of his shirt and a trough of gel supported the quiff to his hair. A long pointy shoe reached for the foot rail and manicured nails tapped at the worn bar top.

  Toffs didn’t drink in the Poet, but the Drunken Duck took a hit the other night, the second bomb taking out the front of the pub. Ivan hated the Toffs. He employed a No Toff policy because they expected service and smiles. Instead of a smile, I reached into my left leg pocket and withdrew my rusty cutthroat.

  ‘Don’t be leaving the bar, Dick. You haven’t served us.’ He pointed at the boy and girl slouching in his shadow.