by Phil Earle
I knew it wasn’t just me who was nervous. Mum and Cam stood on one side of me, squeezing each other’s hands so tightly the veins on their arms popped. Den was beside them, trying to hide a tear that had escaped from his eye.
On the other side of me was Wiggs, pulling hungrily on a cig, the smoke drifting straight into Hitch, leaning on his sticks.
‘Can’t you blow that the other way?’ he complained.
‘Have a word with the wind, not me,’ he answered. They’d been bickering ever since we set off, Hitch upset that he’d had to share the back of the van with his chain-smoking pal.
I didn’t tell them to shut up. I welcomed the banter, more evidence that things were getting back to normal. All right, Hitch wasn’t ready to run the marathon, but you could see the strength returning to his stick-thin legs by the day. And as for the gear? He’d been nowhere near it. We’d made sure of that.
My watch told me it was time but the doors remained closed, adding to my agitation. Without shifting my gaze, I bent down to scratch my ankle.
The skin around the tag was chaffed and sore from rubbing against it.
I swear the officer strapped it tightly on purpose, annoyed that I was being let out at all. He’d have locked me up and swallowed the key if he’d had his way.
It had come as a surprise to me too. My solicitor shook his head as we parted on the court steps. ‘I’d fart quietly from now on if I were you,’ he advised me. Not the advice I’d expected, but I forgave him. He’d done his job.
‘Leave that thing alone, will you?’ Mum moaned. ‘You’ll only make it worse.’
‘It’s doing my head in,’ I moaned. But I did as she said. Had made more of a habit of that lately.
‘It’s better than the alternative though, eh?’
There wasn’t much you could say to that. She was bang on.
It had been rough for her. The amount she’d had to deal with would have floored most people, but she hadn’t let it. Instead, as the truth about that night and the severity of Jamm’s condition became clear, she simply soaked it up and carried it with her from shift to shift. She never complained or tried to share what was going on in her head; she just found another gear and powered on, finding time to visit him at least weekly.
There were times when I saw the strain, but they were quiet moments that I never wanted to disturb, her sat at the table with a shot of vodka, plenty of ice to make it stretch that bit further.
I did what I could. Begged anyone who would listen to give me work. I found a few forgiving souls who let me hump boxes and stack shelves. It wasn’t important what I did, as long as I could come home with something to put in the biscuit tin, enough to sort out tea for a couple of days. I always held a bit back, though, had a project that wasn’t going to pay for itself: one that had to be ready by today. And it was, sort of.
Mum saw the change in me, but again we didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t until we wound up in court that she heard the full truth of what had happened on the roof (well, the full truth minus the gun; there were some things that would never be spoken of).
After the sentencing, she linked her arm in mine and told me we were walking home. I expected a lecture or a final warning but it never came.
She didn’t really say anything. We just walked, letting the wind blow us about, each of us soaking up the relief that we’d hoped for but never really expected.
And since then? Well, it’s been the same but different between us.
So much had happened on that roof that we couldn’t possibly go over it all again. She knew I’d tried to help Jamm and I knew a part of her was proud of me. Didn’t matter how big it was. I knew it existed and that was enough.
I was the first to spot Jamm as the doors opened. The others were arguing about something – probably Wiggy lighting up yet another smoke. And as soon as I saw him I felt overwhelmingly lucky.
Lucky that he smiled when he saw us, lucky that we hadn’t lost him like we had Tommo, and lucky that the glass door behind him slid shut.
It could so easily have been the type made out of reinforced steel: the kind it took half a dozen keys to open.
Because, let’s face it, we could easily have lost him to prison. He was staring at serious charges: vandalism, destruction of public property, car theft, joy-riding: an impressive list.
I dread to think what would have happened if they’d found the gun. But they didn’t. Den had sorted that three days later, ignoring the police tape and the mess from the birds to make the pistol disappear.
‘What did you do with it?’ I’d asked. He refused to tell me.
‘It’s not important. It’s gone.’
I had no idea how I was ever going to pay him back, but according to him the slate was clean. End of. And I wasn’t about to start arguing with him. I liked my face the way it was.
Aside from Den’s favour, it was the thing that had wrecked Jammy in the first place that kept him out of prison. It was the army: the people who had served with him.
Once news broke and the local rag relegated him, in one brutal article, from HERO to PSYCHOPATH, people started queuing up to support him.
His commanding officer arrived at our door, promising the medical help he should’ve already had. He gave it a name. Post-traumatic stress. Told us it was common now, that the army had a duty of care to Jamm. They wouldn’t desert him after what he’d already given back.
Others called or wrote, vowing to be character witnesses, re-filling our heads with things that we already knew. That Jammy was a hero before he was a casualty. That this disorder would pass with the right help from the right people.
These people were good to their word. One hulking squaddie, Giffer, came from Wales to tell the court what he knew. His CO did the same. Cam’s mum, Gill, too. She read to the jury a letter she’d had from Tommo, which laid his own struggle bare. Made it clear that without Jamm to lean on he would’ve died much sooner.
‘I might be scared,’ it read, ‘but I don’t regret being here. It’s impossible to feel like that with Jamm fighting with me, teaching me to be just like him.’
I don’t know how she found the strength to read that note aloud, but we were so glad she did. There was no way they could send him down after that.
Instead they sent him to this clinic, where he’s been ever since.
But today was when we finally took him back. All right, there’d be probation officers and counsellors for as long as they saw fit, but at least he’d be home on the Ghost again.
Until my plan comes to fruition.
I watched closely as he walked towards us, looking for reassurance that they’d let the real Jamm out. One that was ready for all the nonsense that living with us brought.
His grin was wide, his strides long and urgent, but I had no idea what was playing out in his head: whether Tommo and Wayne had allowed him enough peace to move forward. I suppose I had to trust the doctors on that one; trust Jammy too. Couldn’t imagine he’d want to leave the cocoon of the clinic until he was really ready.
His pace quickened as he approached us, not slowing even when he was metres away. Instead we fanned out around him as he crashed into Mum and me, our arms snaking round each other into one enormous scrum.
Den was the first to crack. He didn’t care that he was the biggest. If he wanted to cry then he was having it. We fell in behind him, letting ourselves milk every bit of relief. We’d waited too long for this moment to let it pass any other way.
The bundle held strong, long enough for Jamm to hug each of us in turn. I soaked his embrace up, not flinching as he kissed my forehead, nor feeling jealous when he turned his attention to Cam. As they parted I felt her hand reach around my waist and squeeze.
It was the first time she’d touched me since Jamm went AWOL. It felt better than any kiss we’d ever shared.
‘I can’t believe you’re all here.’ He grinned.
‘Like any of us would miss it.’
‘But it’s miles away. How did you
afford the fare?’
‘It wasn’t a problem. We nicked a minibus.’
Cam jabbed me in the ribs.
‘No, we came in this.’ And I pointed behind me, at the other reason for us standing over here in the first place.
Jamm put his bag down and looked over my shoulder, a look of confusion appearing as he clocked the rusty van.
‘Really? That thing has an engine that actually works?’
‘Hell, yeah.’ I was going to stick up for it after all the work we’d done. ‘A good one too. Wiggy’s cousin tuned it up. It’s er … well, it’s one of the only things it does have.’
‘Why, what’s missing?’ He walked to it, sticking his finger straight into a rust hole that would’ve fitted his entire fist.
‘Not much, just insurance, MOT and that. It’s all in the post.’
‘I’m sure it is. I still don’t know why you didn’t get the train, though.’
‘Because we’ve work to do. So we need the van.’
He looked at me like I was the one with the head problems.
‘Have you not read the logo on the side?’
He squinted, trying to be funny. ‘That’s a logo? I thought someone had sneezed on it.’
I gave him a dig and looked at it again. It was a first attempt. We could start afresh if he liked, though the company name wasn’t up for discussion.
‘THE ORIGINALS,’ it read. ‘MOVERS, SHIFTERS. WE’LL TAKE ANYTHING YOU’VE GOT.’
‘It makes us sound like burglars,’ he said.
‘It’s a work in progress.’
‘That’s all right. So am I.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t even know we were going into business.’
‘Well someone has to pay the bills now the SAS won’t have you,’ I felt another dig from Cam but carried on. ‘And anyway, it doesn’t have to be forever. Just till we make enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
‘To let us hang out somewhere other than the Ghost, if that’s what you want? I’m not the ideas man round here, I’m just the one who messes them up, remember?’
I looked into his face as he stared at the van. I knew I had the others onside, but without Jammy it was a non-starter. I was doing this for him, after all.
‘So what do you reckon then, bruv? You in or what?’ There was no point beating about the bush.
He sighed and looked at the hand I’d offered him, before pulling me roughly into him, squeezing way too hard. I squeezed back, our four arms quickly becoming six, eight, ten and more. They came from every direction, ruffling my hair, patting my back; it felt better than I ever could’ve imagined.
But it wasn’t perfect.
There was still a gap where Tommo should’ve been.
So, gently and without fuss, I filled it, pulling my brother closer to me, before he noticed it too.
We could stand here a while longer if that’s what he wanted, but not for too long.
That van wasn’t going to fill itself.
Acknowledgements
I am hugely in debt to S. E. Hinton. Without The Outsiders I doubt I’d be working with children’s books, never mind trying to write them. I only hope that, in some small way, I’ve done the incredible spirit of her novel justice …
Bruce Springsteen needs a thank-you too. I listened to ‘Terry’s Song’ every morning before writing Heroic. Don’t think I’ll ever hear a finer definition of what brotherhood means (go give it a listen).
My thanks go to the people of both Royal Wootton Bassett and Carterton, whose passion and sense of community in honouring those who give their lives in battle moved me massively and planted the seed for this story.
I have also been overwhelmed by the reports of bravery from members of our armed forces fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. A friend of mine recently travelled on an internal flight in America and saw a returning soldier receive a huge ovation as attendants announced his arrival on the plane. It seems sad to me that, too often, our own armed forces are greeted with indifference or even scepticism. We can never fully understand the horrors they face, or appreciate that, for many, the real battle begins once they return home from active service.
I’m so grateful to all those who offered military advice (even if I didn’t get around to taking it), especially to the gentleman that is George Walkley, and to Kingsley Donaldson, Jim Sells, Lara Hancock and Malinda Zerefos.
Huge thanks also to my agent and lunch pal, Jodie Marsh, for her honesty, all-round brilliance and fish finger sarnies (always on white, no granary).
Thank you to the team at Puffin: Katy Finch, Sam Mackintosh, Debbie Hatfield, Sam Combes, Tineke Mollemans, Kirsty Bradbury, Clive Harvey and the sales team who champion my books, and also to Hermione Lawton, who is bloomin’ lovely and deserves a medal for pressing my worst-sellers into so many hands.
I must thank Shannon too, for whipping both the script and me into shape, ignoring my grumblings as she did so. Thank you, my friend, you are the business.
Finally, I need to thank my family and friends.
I could never have written a word of this without my mum, dad, in-laws or the friends who have taught me what brotherhood means: Matthew Williams, Chris Lowther (my brother next door), Michael Willison, Pee Dee, Bree, Paddy Ritzy, Bobby, Shreev-o, Joseph, Elliiot, Robbie, Mr Bootle, Benton, Burto, Browno, Burb, Will and, of course, Jonny John-Kamen.
I want to thank the Dublin Daves too (O’Callaghan and Maybury) for Scotch eggs, playlists and all-round marvellousness.
I hope Dennis, Matt H and Waggy didn’t mind me borrowing their names. I swear the other character traits are purely fictional, sort of. And thank you, Wagg, for writing the poem for me. It’s a thing of beauty. I’ll treasure it.
Cheers to my pals in the Palace, especially the newcomer Fred Morgan, but most of all, thank you to Laura, Albert, Elsie and Stanley – I haven’t the words apart from these. Stay Golden …
November 2012, the X68 bus,
Waterloo Bridge, London
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2013
Text copyright © Phil Earle, 2013
‘The Brothers’ copyright © Michael Wagg 2012
Helmet photo © Stephen Mulcahey
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