No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  The dog followed me, tugging on the lead as I opened the door and allowed the frigid day to enter. The car pulled away, heading toward the square and I turned to Tilly and smiled.

  ‘That’s the last one I promise.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Job offers, love and Guns

  The damn hound limped most of the way back from the Old Poet, dragging on the lead and stopping often to wee and gaze back at the path traveled. As soon as the furnace came into view he ran for the warmth curling beneath the bulbous clay fire. Large flakes of snow fell as I chained the hound to the metal table and filled his bowl.

  I hid the guns deep in the hole of the tatty sofa and secured a new wad of cash behind the dodgy spring poking high through the upholstery. Me, the flask and a fresh roll up settled on the sofa, brushing at the falling snow.

  When the dog growled, the ridge bristling, I wished I’d kept a gun close. I took a drag of my cigarette, a good swig from my flask and steadied myself for the next attack on my sorry arse.

  Wynona appeared at the peak of the snow covered slag heap with Wolf at her hip and skated to the bottom. ‘Nice hat,’ she called. ‘And coat. Very black, but black is cool. You been rolling crooks?’

  I gave the black hat a slight readjustment and smiled at her and Wolf’s approach. ‘So you like the coat? It’s not too posh, eh?’ I stood, brushed away the snow and offered a quick twirl.

  ‘Have you dealt with Pete?’

  I exhaled and flicked my cigarette into the furnace and pointed toward the cemetery. She stopped in front of me, her back to the furnace and her hands gripping her hips. She wore the usual black ensemble with the beret cocked to the right. Smudges of black highlighted the high cheek bones.

  ‘You buried him?’

  ‘Not quite, but I got the Ferals to dump him in an open grave in the church cemetery. One of his previous victims is still interned there. I’ll call the police later sometime, eh? He needs to stew in his own shit.’

  Blacky thrashed at a piece of metal in his shed. The donkey stood at the door to the stable with its head stuck out the top half of the open door chewing at its breakfast. The goat head-butted the rusted sheds its efforts conflicting with the racket inside the workshop.

  ‘You had any luck finding the other bag?’ I asked.

  She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘It’s got to be at his parents’ house hasn’t it?’

  Wynona, with her hands clasped behind her back, the feet set shoulder width, shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s worth a look and could be a job for me and the Punksters tonight.’

  ‘Just a final thought,’ she said. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

  She looked at the ground, shuffling snow onto her scuffed boots. ‘It won’t take you off the streets, but I can offer accommodation with the deal if you’d like.’

  ‘You fancy me, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  I’d guessed her response, but I’d enjoyed the hug and I remembered the scent of moss and how good it felt to embrace earth itself. She adjusted her beret and tugged at her jacket. ‘But if you’re looking for options, coming to work with me could be a positive career move.’

  ‘And I’d be expected to do what?’

  ‘The grunt work.’

  ‘Yeah, me and manual labor have never been happy bed partners. I’m more your thinking man.’

  She smiled at my revelation. ‘Listen, I need someone to help me right wrongs. I can get the info from the crime sheets and I can do the hacking, get the low down from the station, but I can’t do the physical stuff. Not all of it. The Punksters are good, but they’re greedy little shits and don’t get the righteousness part. They need supervision.’

  ‘You’re subcontracting the Law?’

  ‘I’m deputizing you. At the moment, Justice is awarded to the highest bidder, but you and I can redress the balance. The bad news is you’ll have to work nights, but you get to lie in and it’s a better alternative to what Jackie has to offer. The streets are no longer safe for you Ben, as you’re wanted by the Man and the world wants your neck wearing a rope.’

  ‘Wanted for what?’

  ‘Murder,’ she said.

  ‘Who’ll arrest me over Cooper’s murder?’

  ‘You are wanted for the murder of your childhood friend found dumped in your part of the world.’

  We both turned to the allotments. ‘The Ferals part of the world.’

  ‘Then there are the two coppers murdered in your girlfriend’s house and dumped after a mauling in the dumpsters outside the public morgue.’ She took a breath and smiled. ‘And the shoot-out at Ostere Primary earlier this morning has your name all over the crime. Finally we offer the blood bath in Lower Ostere where your girlfriend took a bullet, but lives and can testify to your involvement.

  ‘Ostere has its own heinous serial killer and we are proud and eager to take him to the gallows.’

  ‘You know I did none of those crimes.’

  ‘You talking to the office girl and my opinions don’t get heard. No, you are sitting on top of the Most Wanted List and you need to get off the streets.’

  ‘If I come to work with you, do I get a wolf?’

  Wynona shook her head and linked arms. ‘With the wolf comes much responsibility.’ She offered my arm a squeeze and turned to leave. After a couple of steps she turned back to me and smiled. ‘Merry Christmas Street Boy.’

  ‘Did you get me anything?’

  ‘You have Nirvana, so what could you possibly need from me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not even a kiss.’

  Wynona shook her head and followed my gaze as I looked into the allotments. ‘There might be mistletoe in there?’

  She stepped forward and pecked me on the cheek. My hand touched her armand her breath brushed my face. Spring, cut grass, freshly dug earth and I stepped forward and we embraced and I inhaled her sweet scent.

  ‘Merry Christmas Wynona.’

  ***

  Tommy limped into view an hour later. His battered Stetson sat back on his head, dirt covered his coat and his stained trousers hung loose. He removed his hat and rubbed his hand through lank blonde locks. He shoved his hands into his pockets and sat on the arm of the sofa turning to the crashing and banging in Blacky’s shed.

  ‘You all right?’ I said. My long legs stretched the full-length of the sofa with a black hat covering my eyes and a black coat covered in snow working well as a blanket.

  ‘Knackered. The army took the child. I stopped by Ahmed’s shop and told the child to sit on our seat in the square. There’s army all over the square. Someone had to notice the child, don’t you reckon, but he sat there forever, you know. He kept looking over at meand I could see he was crying, but he didn’t move. No one thought it out of place that a child, what eight, seven years old, was sitting in the square on his own. I’d have thought someone would be concerned for him, you know. No wonder they can’t find those missing children, not if no one’s bothered about that little tyke just sitting there.’

  Tommy stepped up to the furnace to warm his hands. ‘I was about to bring him back here when this army lad sat next to him to have a cigarette. They got talking and he put him in the jeep and drove away.’

  ‘Good enough, I guess.’

  The snowfall upped its game, with the flakes falling fast and thick and settling the breadth of Blacky’s scrappy quadrangle.

  ‘I’m going home for a bit.’

  He stepped away from the furnace and scuffed at the thick layer of snow covering the frozen dirt and sat on the stack of Bigger Issue magazines.

  ‘I don’t like leaving you,’ he said. He pulled a half chewed cheroot from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth. ‘We’ve been through hell this past year, but…’ He raised his eyes and smiled. ‘This last week’s been serious. I shot people.’ He looked back at me and tears brimmed at his eyes. ‘Ben I don’t like shooting people? I know I dress like I’m a cowboy, but I don’t think I’d have
been good at the quick draw. Killing isn’t right. So I’m heading back to me mum for a rest you know. And she needs me because she isn’t so good. She’s well sick and maybe it’s my turn to watch out for her.’

  He shrugged, rolled his cheroot in his mouth and pulled his hat low on his head. Snow fluttered with large flakes trying to settle on the hot furnace. Blacky whacked at metal and the goat head-butted the rusty council sheds. Traffic on the overpass hummed, the peak hour for bypassing Ostere nigh.

  The hound rattled his chains and climbed up onto the sofa laying its head in my lap. I scratched at his ears and reached for my flask. ‘It’s all good mate,’ I said. I offered Tommy a drink which he refused. ‘I’m out of here, Tommy. Wolf Girl reckons I need to get off the streets.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Well there’s a question. Wolf Girl’s offered me a roof and a job.’

  ‘Does it come with a wolf?’

  ‘No, she said something about responsibility, which I obviously don’t have. But Jackie’s coming round this morning and maybe I’ll go for my black dragon.’

  ‘That’d be good for you.’

  ‘Yeah, me and the Projects back together, that should be fun. Because you know how much I enjoy the training. I love the running, hiking and fighting and then the night time raids where we get to blow stuff up. Oh joy.’

  My options were bleak. I didn’t have a home and the only job on offer involved getting shot at in the name of the Man’s war on terror. Physical exercise, sport even, didn’t suit my light frame. But Jackie believed he could build a man out of any body. Endless hours of shadow punching and performing the three forms of his martial art caused a long crawling shiver to travel the length of my spine.

  I sighed and sagged into the hard upholstery. ‘I still have the pole to learn. Good Grief my life is hell.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben, but me mum needs to know why we used an ambulance the other day. She needs to know Billy’s dead and she won’t be happy, but it’s best I tell her before the police break the news.’

  I sat up and put out my hand and we shook. ‘You look like shit,’ I said. ‘You can’t go home looking like that. Give your face a wash in the trough before you present to the folks, eh?’

  ‘Me mum’s used to my street look and she’ll have a bath running before I get inside the house. I’m looking forward to the roast, but she’s going to be wrecked about Billy.’

  He stood and stretched his neck peering into the snow laden clouds. All about us the snow continued to settle and whiten.

  ‘I’ll stay in touch,’ he said. ‘I can get a hold of you through Tilly, can’t I?’

  ‘Tilly will be happy to see you. She’s always working at the Poet. Now Nab’s gone, she’ll be doing all the shifts. Old Ivan isn’t one for work, eh? If Tilly don’t know me whereabouts, you could try Wolf Girl. Just look up at the slagheap when the moon is full as Wolf likes the bright yellow orb.’

  ***

  From the summit of the slagheap, the town of Ostere spread out before me as a fresh white canvas. The snow had stopped falling and a sluggish sun struggled to rise in the sky, its half-arsed effort fighting back the low cloud cover. Bodies scurried, sprinting and zigzagging across the narrow lanes as if the day pursued them with a bat. The overpass, bypassing the sadness rampant on the streets of Ostere, had become grid-locked with mooing cattle mustering for Market Day in the town square.

  I hitched my trousers over my hips and squatted on my haunches, readying myself for the umpteenth cigarette. The smoke masked the odor of rotting waste festering beneath the thick layer of snow, but it couldn’t paper over the dire state of my life. I needed to get out of Ostere because the crap following me and asking to be fed on a regular basis was about to bite my sorry arse. The Man wanted me bad and I had no wish to bend my knee to his demands.

  The vicar paced the church grounds. He held the book in his hand and his flock pursued his righteous path. Gray robes fluttered in the light breeze and hoods shadowed serious faces with smooth somber steps.

  Next to the church grounds, the town cemetery sunk into the many burial sites covering its grounds. The snow blanketed most of the site, but the old crooked yew tree sheltered the open grave. I rang the emergency services hoping Pete remained interred in the earthy confines.

  ‘There is a boy trapped in a grave in the town cemetery,’ I said to the operator. ‘He seems to have become overcome with cold.’

  Once I hung up I called the fire brigade and talked of a child trapped in an open grave who needed rescuing. I offered the police more information. ‘I left a child in the town square this morning,’ I told them. ‘A boy scout I found wandering the streets of Ostere on his own.’ I had their interest. ‘We passed him onto the soldier in the jeep in the square last night.’

  The police operator wanted more details and my name. Yeah right.

  ‘I also know where you can find another boy scout, but this one’s dead. He was dead when I found him in an open grave in the cemetery of Ostere Town Center. You will find a retarded bloke, nursing the child and he’ll put his hand up for the missing children. May I also add a thought, no a suspicion, regarding the vicar of the church who has not been over helpful in caring for the retarded chap. If you dig up one or two pauper’s graves, you might find more of your missing children.’

  I hung up and dismantled the phone. The battery I threw into the scrub surrounding the church grounds and I buried the casing beneath the snow and crap lining the surface of the slagheap.

  Sirens sounded north of the overpass. A police car parked at the cemetery gate, two cigarettes hanging out of the car windows as the officer’s awaited backup. A wall of prime rump slowed the ambulance on the overpass and the fire engine struggled with the narrow lanes of Old Ostere.

  The coppers approached the grave, stopping at the edge and looking into its dark, dank depths. Fireman pulled a ladder from their truck and a copper headed for the church. I wanted to see Pete’s reaction and hear his explanation concerning the poor child lying dead in the grave, but it didn’t matter. The boy had been caught and needed to be locked away forever.

  The morning sun shone on my back, the snow tempered the slagheaps odor and the frigid breeze offered me a sense of calm and a feeling of starting anew. I blew a long plume of carcinogens into the day, chuckling at my thoughts, because my life bordered on bankruptcy. The police, the army and the Man wanted me swinging from the nearest tree. Pete had a date with the justice, Billy… Poor little Billy Two Guns…

  I inhaled a deep icy breath and exhaled long and slow. No, I had nothing to celebrate as Tommy had returned home to comfort his mother and I sat on top of a filthy slagheap.

  But Wolf Girl had offered me a job with accommodation. Perhaps my sense of calm drew inspiration from her Christmas kiss.

  A car pulled out of the narrow laneway and headed for Blacky’s overgrown car park. The driver parked next to the sofa, the soft purr of his car dying and a soft Latin tune playing through the open windows. Jackie climbed out of the driver’s door and approached the shed calling out to Blacky.

  Jackie had come for the damn bag and I didn’t have a bag to give him. When Tommy shared Billy’s news on the bags location I rejoiced because I knew I had succeeded, fought and come out victorious. Jackie had to regard my effort as heroic. But I had nothing. Another fuck up and I didn’t understand why Jackie wanted me back in the Projects. He must’ve heard about Cecil.

  Jackie had acted as my mentor for the year I spent at the Projects. He became my surrogate father as my real father had written me out of the will when I objected to joining the army. I told him I didn’t do guns, but my dad’s loud and deaf to the word No. He wanted me to learn how to kill and dodge bullets. Me and my dad disagreed on lots of stuff.

  Jackie John as a dad scared me. He shouts a lot and if you aren’t trying, sweating or hurting he hits you. My dad never hit me, but my efforts at growing up dismayed him often and he’d walk the house shaking his head and muttering.
‘Boy needs to man up.’

  Blacky banged at stuff in his shed. He’s gruff and big and his scratchy, dirty mitt crushed mine and dropped it in the same instant when I tried to say goodbye. Blacky doesn’t talk much, but his furnace saved us through winter, keeping us warm and charred our road kill crisp and black. Chef’s tip: Road kill is best eaten cremated.

  I gave his boy a hug. He’s a shadowy mute who pumps the bellows to keep the furnace hot and drags the beasts out from the stables for shoeing. Tears welled when we hugged but a gruff bark from Blacky sent him scuttling back inside the stable.

  I tried to wave farewell to the Ferals, but they scurried away, heading deep into the bush of the allotments. We brought them trouble with a big T the last couple of days, but it wasn’t on purpose. You stand still long enough in Ostere you bump into grief, no matter where you loiter.

  My future lay with Jackie. He liked to work a boy to exhaustion. He’s a mongrel for the hard work ethos. ‘Sweat never did man harm, Street Boy,’ he said. And when he meant sweat, he meant pain-induced sweat. But the Projects kept me safe last time and when the Law wanted a word, it paid to get lost so they couldn’t find you.

  ‘Life is not game, Street Boy,’ Jackie John said. He liked his clichés, did Jackie. He was foreign—God, who wasn’t?—and he’d learnt the King’s English from a dodgy book full of tired old phrases. I didn’t think life was a game. ‘Soon the barricades come and all men must choose. No good sitting on top of barricade. You be easy target for sniper. Must choose side or get shot.’

  He talked about sides, which suggested life was a game. A man of many contradictions and he wanted me to play as a striker or something essential, eh. I can’t see him getting a team good enough to give the ‘Man’ a serious match. Nobody knows the game is on and most folk don’t care.