Heroic

by Phil Earle

  We started in the playground, passing a bag of crisps to each other as we crossed on the swings. Didn’t drop a single crumb either.

  ‘Made for each other, we are,’ I laughed through a full mouth. She didn’t disagree, which sent me swinging higher.

  ‘How long do you reckon this playground’s been here?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno. Few years?’

  ‘Imagine how long it’d last at home.’

  ‘Week, maybe? They couldn’t make it out of wood like this. Someone’d torch it.’

  ‘Wiggy probably, burn it down with one of his cigs.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ I laughed.

  We swung on for a while, passing each other at the bottom as we flew in different directions. Not once did we fall out of time.

  ‘You think you could live here?’

  ‘Are you having a laugh? I can’t afford a bag of crisps here!’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Mum could. She’d drag me and Jamm here in a second.’

  I must have had a sour look on my face because Cam piped up to defend her.

  ‘She’s all right, your mum, you know?’

  ‘If you’re Jammy she is.’

  ‘Come off it. She loves you like she does him. You just don’t want to see it cos you’d rather be the tough guy. But it doesn’t suit you, you know.’

  ‘It’s not like I have a lot of option, is it?’

  She didn’t understand.

  ‘There’s no point me trying to be like Jamm. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you they broke the mould with him.’

  She could see it bugged me, but wasn’t the type to pander to it. Instead she stifled a mock yawn and moved on. ‘It’ll be amazing to have them home though, won’t it?’

  I had to agree. Couldn’t imagine the relief to see them in front of us, safe.

  Be even better if they arrived to find everything in one piece and Hitch not AWOL. Make me feel like I’d kept my part of the bargain.

  We chatted on, had the headspace to, there were no car alarms or dodgy deals going on to disturb us. I told her about me and Mum on the roof, about escaping the Ghost, how Mum believed we were capable of doing it.

  ‘So why couldn’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Escape. Why not fill up a van and get out? Doesn’t mean you have to do it overnight. Think about it. Buy a scabby old Transit, get it running and hire it out. Do the whole white-van-man thing. You’ve enough charm between the two of you to get plenty of work.’

  ‘And that’s going to be enough to set us up somewhere else?’

  ‘Depends how much you want it. Because from what I’ve seen, if you really want something …? It tends to happen one way or another.’

  ‘And you reckon Jammy would want to do that, with me, I mean?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? He’d love it. He could keep an eye on you that way.’

  She laughed, a joyful noise that almost made the swings shake.

  I chased her from the playground, feeling the first drops of rain as I tackled her to the ground. Perfect timing.

  ‘Reckon that pavilion’s open?’ she asked.

  It wasn’t like we had the luxury of a brolly.

  ‘Soon will be.’

  I pulled her towards it as the drops pricked our scalps.

  It didn’t take me long to get inside with the minimum of force. A small, unhooked window was all I needed to drag myself in, though I’m not sure whether I looked so impressive opening the door to her in cricket pads and a helmet. I wasn’t exactly the country squire type, but we were dry, and once I found a kettle and some coffee we were sorted again, stretching beside each other on a couple of benches, talking when we had to, silent when it suited. It felt so comfy I almost forgot I was a long way from home, well, relatively. Two-buses-worth felt like a million miles to us.

  We left an hour later, after rinsing the cups and latching the back window properly. The buses arrived quickly, bouncing us home as we bantered and daydreamed.

  I hadn’t thought about Hitch for hours, and although he came to mind as soon as Pickard House loomed into view, I didn’t let it puncture the day. I wouldn’t let it. I had to do what I could to level the decks before our brothers came home. Then we could do the important thing and celebrate.

  The bus doors closed behind us as the last of the sun hid behind the towers. A breeze nipped at my neck but I left my collar turned down. I’d soon heat up as I climbed the stairs again, looking for Hitch.

  Jammy

  One patrol followed another. Twelve-hour gaps between the sun baking us, hardening our skins. Shame it couldn’t do the same to what was going on inside. I was running on pure nervous energy.

  Sonny’s phone had rung out each time I’d tried it that morning and I left no messages. What was there to say? Wish you were here?

  Besides, if this was the last time he heard from me, I wanted him to be able to talk back. He’d always liked the final word, it was the thing that defined him.

  Reluctantly I pushed home out of my head and focused on the village. We were back gathering intel: what did people know about our drugs raid? Was there more for us to find?

  Someone here knew everything, and we were pumped on sniffing it out.

  The terps were working overtime, coaxing everyone we met. I knew they were stripping the aggression out of our questions, trying not to offend the elders they were questioning, but two hours later and tempers were frayed, patience in tatters.

  I drew hard on my drinking tube, but the water was warm, like the weakest tea I’d ever tasted. I needed something else to fill my mind, something simple, and felt a terrific burst of energy when a footie rolled past me. Instinct had me follow it, and tap it foot to foot.

  But then it was gone. Nicked from my boot as someone flashed past me. The young kid, the skilful one from the last match. He stopped a metre or two away and started keep-ups of his own. Left to right foot, up to the knee for a few, then he lifted it skywards, trying to copy Tommo’s trick. But he didn’t quite have it mastered and the ball bounced off his back and towards me again.

  I grinned, remembering how flat the ball was. The inner must have been shredded – seemed a shame when all the kid wanted to do was practise. The lads back home were skint, but there was always enough money to fund a decent footie.

  I rolled the ball back to him, but instead of trying again, he spoke to me. A jumble of words I couldn’t understand.

  ‘Yumanu?’

  Cupping a hand to my ear, I told him to say it again.

  ‘YUMANU?’ Same jumbled words, more volume. No use.

  I shrugged, and kicked the ball at his feet. If I couldn’t understand him, we could have a game instead, but he was too quick for me, back-heeling the ball out of my reach.

  Outskilled by a ten-year-old.

  He wanted an answer, so the question came again.

  ‘YUMANU?’ He was getting proper hacked off with me now, like I was thick or something.

  A terp would help, but none were free, they were still grilling the elders.

  ‘Listen, mate. I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.’

  He growled. I thought for a second he was going to kick my shins, but instead he flicked the ball into his hands and held it right in my face.

  ‘Yu. Man U?’ I heard a question for the first time as he waved the ball at me. ‘MAN. U. Roonee, Giggsie. GOAL!’ With that he chucked the ball in the air and pulled his tatty shirt over his head, waving it in a circle.

  I got it. Finally. ‘Manchester United?’ I asked, saying the words slowly. ‘R-o-o-n-ey?’ Did I like Man Utd?

  He slapped his head with relief. Finally!

  ‘Man U. Best team. Chelsea?’ He went to stick his fingers down his throat, before telling me in one impressive English swear word exactly what he thought of them.

  I laughed. It was impossible not to. Here we were, trying to find out who was responsible for a massive stash of heroin, and the only se
nse I was getting was from a ten-year-old about the Premier League.

  He was right about Chelsea if nothing else. I called Tommo over. He had to hear this.

  Our little friend, however, didn’t want to wait any longer for an answer and gave me a whack to the shin.

  Tommo thought it was hilarious, until he almost got a boot of his own.

  ‘Steady on, big lad,’ I laughed. ‘You’d fit right in at Chelsea playing like that.’ He cocked his head, still wanting an answer: who did I support?

  ‘Tigers,’ I said finally, trying to say it clearly.

  He looked confused, so I said it slowly.

  No use either.

  Instead, I pulled my hands into claws in front of me and roared.

  He laughed. So did Tommo and the rest of the lads who’d started listening in.

  ‘Cat?’ the kid asked, then shrugged. He’d never heard of us. No wonder.

  ‘Campest tiger I ever saw,’ grinned Tommo.

  ‘You try! His English is nearly as bad as yours.’

  The kid had lost interest in who supported who now. All he wanted us to do was show him some tricks. Anything to improve his skills. It was a challenge we grabbed hold of quickly – hearts and minds and all that.

  What followed were ten of the best minutes I could remember; despite the heat melting us and the weight on our backs, we could’ve been anywhere, instead of a crummy dustbowl village. We even got a little crowd going, saw a few smiles, rows of rotten teeth from the elders.

  It made a change from shaking heads and frowning faces, and we owed it all to our mate, Little Wayne. It was the perfect name for him. He had the same thick neck and silky skills, the identical spirit to the real Rooney. And after what he’d shown us back there, I reckoned I owed him. Knew I had to pay him back.

  I grinned all the way back to the base that evening, as a plan mushroomed in my head. Nothing could wipe the smile off my face. If this was what being a soldier meant, then maybe I could hack it after all.

  Jammy

  A roar went up. An Old Trafford-sized racket that pulled everyone’s eyes to the middle of the square.

  I didn’t kick the new ball that high, but I swear by the time it landed, there were forty ecstatic kids underneath it, fighting for possession. And in the middle, of course, was Little Wayne.

  Funny how a nickname sticks so quickly when it’s spot on.

  I hadn’t told anyone about the plan. Didn’t reckon I needed to. It fitted right in with gaining the locals’ trust, didn’t it? Think of the number of hearts we’d win with one simple present. The kids would give up their own granny for a brand new footie.

  And anyway, there were loads more balls back at camp, more than we’d ever need.

  The game that kicked off was ferocious, like a cup-tie, end-to-end with not much skill apart from our little friend. Wayne had scored a hat-trick within ten minutes, but didn’t stop charging around for a second, bossing his team-mates about every time they failed to pass to him. I’d have loved to know what he was saying.

  A crowd built up. Elders leaned on their sticks, one guy approached me and Tomm with a bottle of lemonade each, which we necked with a grin.

  It was working, the whole thing. I felt a charge run through me, which zapped away the months of no sleep. I wanted to join in, show them how it was done. Reckon I would’ve done too if Little Wayne wasn’t playing. He’d have had the ball off me in seconds and that was a defeat I couldn’t face in front of the lads.

  Conversations were happening all over the square, the terps were properly busy. I just hoped they weren’t talking about Chelsea’s chances of winning the League: there was bigger stuff than that that needed sorting.

  The only person not wearing a smile was Giffer. He stood in the shade, arms still cradling his gun, eyes flicking at windows, doors, cars, anywhere a bullet might fly from. Born to fight, that one, and I found myself resenting him for a second, wishing he’d let his guard down long enough to see the joy we’d briefly brought those kids.

  I pulled my gun into a pose to match his, and strode over.

  ‘All calm, Giff?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ his eyes never stopped scanning. ‘For now. But you never know, do you?’

  ‘I dunno. Can’t see anything kicking off when the mood’s like this.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  I gently pulled his gun to waist level and demanded his attention.

  ‘What’s up, Giff? It’s not the kids, is it?’

  His eyes drilled into me. No anger … If anything, I saw a flash of something like fear.

  ‘Not as such. Fills me up to see them acting like they should be. It’s them who misses out in all this mess.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  He thought hard, like he was searching for the right words. And at first I reckoned he was going to say nothing. I was wrong.

  ‘I rate you, Jamm. You know that. Not just as a soldier, but as a bloke. What you did for Tommo before? There aren’t many who’d give up glory like that. I wouldn’t.’

  He paused again, like the words to follow were causing him pain.

  ‘But I don’t think the ball was a good idea …’

  I laughed, surprised really.

  ‘What do you mean? Have a look, Giff. Look at ’em.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, the kids love it. And they’ll love you as a result.’

  ‘And isn’t that the point, mate? Aren’t we supposed to be winning them over? Showing them they can trust us?’

  ‘We are. But we’re also here to keep them safe. To keep them away from the idiots who would happily blow them and us sky high.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way. But giving them the ball like that, in full view of anyone watching, was a mistake. Now you, or rather they, might get away with it. But all it takes is one pair of eyes to notice, and it could all get messy.’

  ‘You’re over-reacting, Giff. It’s a ball. That’s it.’

  But he wasn’t having a word of it. ‘To you it is, and to the kids as well. But to them whose heroin we took, it’s like a red rag. They won’t like it, Jamm, I’m telling you. It’s stuff like this that fires them up. They’ll hurt these people if they see them being disloyal.’

  For the first time he got under my skin. Could he not relax just once and see we were finally making a difference? It was a risk worth taking.

  Was it because it wasn’t his idea? I should’ve asked him but couldn’t be bothered. I knew he’d just bat it back to me.

  Well, knackers to that. I wasn’t going to let him drag us down today, when we’d finally found one bit of sanity in this whole madhouse. Instead, I turned and wheeled away, arms flexed, weapon ready. I wasn’t going to give him anything else to criticize.

  I went back to the game and tried to push Giff out of my thoughts, but couldn’t quite do it. Every time I tried to focus on the football my eyes found their way back to the broken windows above, hoping to god I wasn’t going to see a rifle barrel poking through one of them. I felt torn: I wanted to enjoy what I’d managed to pull off, but heard only the boss’s demands for the locals’ safety first.

  As the game moved on, the only danger I could see was to the dignity of Wayne’s opposition. Their team had doubled in number, dragging in as many bigger lads as possible to try and get close to him. Not that it made much difference, he had such skill that by the time they swung their legs in his direction he’d already skipped past.

  It was fantastic to watch. Like something out of a film. We couldn’t work out if he was getting more joy out of his own skills or from the irritation of the lads chasing him, but we loved both and started cheering him on, yelling, ‘OLE!’ every time he knocked the ball past or over them. It spread round the old men watching too; none of us dared take our eyes off him for a second.

  Unfortunately, his skills ended up costing him, as after fifteen minutes of embarrassment, the older lads decided if they couldn’t kick the ball, then he w
ould have to do instead. It took them a while to knock him to the ground, but when they finally managed it, Wayne went down hard. And initially, he didn’t move.

  This brought uproar from the crowd and saw us parting them to get to him. His knee was in a right state. Grit had torn the skin, and immediately I saw something else jagging from the middle of the gash, a shard of green glass.

  He yelled in pain when we tried to hold his leg still, spitting a sweary insult we knew wasn’t thanks. I wanted to grin: another sign the boy was a born footballer.

  It was in that moment, when his eyes were most fierce, that I knew why I warmed to him. When I looked at him, I saw Sonny. Had seen that mixture of steel and cheek every day for the last sixteen years. Never on a football pitch, but in the flat, on the stairwell, any place you wanted to name. Instantly, I wanted to be on the Ghost with him.

  Giffer broke my concentration.

  ‘We should get him home. Let his family sort him out.’

  But I wasn’t having it.

  ‘I’m not moving him until his leg’s clean.’

  ‘Well, you won’t achieve that here.’

  ‘I can’t imagine his house is much better. Plus he’s in pain. So let me get on with it.’

  He leaned over me, his voice still gentle, concerned, but ultimately annoying. ‘Remember what I said, Jammy. How this would look.’

  I couldn’t believe this, had to fight the temptation to get to my feet and into his face. ‘Doesn’t it look better than leaving him to get gangrene? There’s enough kids with stumps round here as it is.’

  He had no answer to that, just smiled sadly and backed away through the crowd, leaving me and Tomm to get to work on Little Wayne’s leg. We might not be able to solve much, but there was no way I was backing away from this kid now. He needed me. That was all I needed to know.

  Jammy

  Giff’s words stayed with me, flying round my head as we waited endlessly for patrols. Was he right? Should I have left well alone, let the locals sort Wayne out? I didn’t have any answers. They didn’t seem to exist in this place. Only operations that would succeed or fail. Success meant we all kept breathing. And failure? Well, none of us dwelled on that for too long. We all knew what that meant.