No More Heroes (15 page)

I kill the engine, get out of the Micra and walk to the main entrance to the block.

The thing that really boils my piss, though, is that he didn’t even have the balls to tell me he’d fucked up. What the hell did he think was going to happen if I didn’t get him on the phone? He think I was just going to, what,
leave it
?

But he obviously doesn’t think like that. He thinks like a kid, because that’s his mental age. And what do kids do when it all goes pear-shaped? They run. Except Frank can’t run anywhere, so he just hides in his flat and hopes that I won’t come knocking.

I lean hard on his buzzer.

Wait.

Nothing.

So I lean hard on all the buzzers. There must be someone in this block who’s either expecting someone or shit about security.

Right enough, through the chorus of irritation, there’s the sound of someone saying, “Just come right up.”

I push into the block, take the stairs because the lift looks like a death-trap and smells like a septic tank. Three flights later, I’m at his landing and out of breath, taking in the twisted mixed smell of chip fat and antiseptic in the air. My hip aches, spreads to the base of my spine. I can’t remember the last time I took some pills, but reckon now’s a good a time as any. Swallow them dry and straighten up slowly, take my time walking down the corridor to Frank’s flat.

It’s not bad up here. A bit cheap, maybe, but I’ve seen worse. Better than him living with his mum, which is what Frank was doing up until he got the job with Plummer. I never met the woman, but from what little Frank’s told me, she sounds like a lovely woman with her claws so deep into her son, it’s almost a sitcom. But then what do I know? It’s not like my family’s that close. Frank and his mum might be the norm.

As I get closer, I notice the front door to Frank’s flat is open.

I wouldn’t see the gap between the door and the frame if I was just passing. The door’s barely ajar, but that gap’s all it takes to put the fear in me.

Something bad happened here.

Not just kind of bad, either.
Really
bad.

I push the door with one hand. God help me, but it fucking
creaks
. I know I shouldn’t go any further, feeling like a blonde in a slasher flick.

Telling myself that Frank’s just been burgled, because I don’t want to think about the alternatives.

The hallway’s dark. And a strange smell in here, cloying.

Sweat. Whisky.

And cigarette smoke.

As my eyes adjust, I see strips of light under the door at the far end of the hall, and the door to my right. I turn, nudge the door open and the smoke smell is stronger in here. I squint against the light, my entire body tense, ready for a fight-or-flight moment.

Frank’s living room. A portable telly in the corner, cheap three-piece. Coffee table with a bowl sitting in the middle of it, overflowing with cigarette butts. I stare at the bowl. Don’t get it. As I get closer, I see most of the dog-ends are roll-ups, roaches made out of the cardboard from a pack of Rizlas.

The fuck’s gone on here?

I step back out into the hall, turn towards the other lit door. Must be his kitchen — the layout of the flat would point to that — but it’s been a while since I was last here. Then I think, have I
ever
been here?

The answer: probably not.

And my survival instinct kicks in — go no further. Get out. Bad stuff happens in kitchens. Anywhere with wipe-clean surfaces and a handy array of knives.

A blast from the past: Rob Stokes with his pants around his ankles, blood already congealed down his chest.

Get out.

Get out now.

I clear my throat instead.

“Frank?”

There’s a sound from the kitchen. A voice, maybe, but shot through with a thick dose of phlegm and cracked with pain.

“
Ghagum
.”

I freeze.

There’s a thump from the kitchen. A sharp exhalation of breath, comes out like a hiss, then another thump, closer.

The door moves.

“Frank,” I say. “That you, mate?”

A groan, then another hard thump against the door. It bounces against the frame, then swings open.

I can’t see, the light blinding me for a moment.

There it is again, that sound: “
Ghagum
.”

Can’t make out who just spoke, can’t see anyone in the doorway until I look down.

Frank.

And he’s had a proper hiding.

His face looks like it’s been chopped down the centre, a rusty blood trail running down a mashed nose. Cracked lips and teeth. His mouth drops open and he’s staring at me with his one good eye, the other already puffed shut. One arm wedged up against the door, holding it open.

“Fuckin’ …
hell
, mate. Jesus Christ.”

I can’t move for a couple of seconds, can’t believe what I’m seeing. This big bastard of a bloke on the floor, looking like he’s been run over.

He says, “
Ghagum
.”

And I get it now.

I move forward, ease Frank onto his back. His shirt’s been ripped open, the buttons scattered across the kitchen floor. I grab him under the arms, shuffle round and grab one of the kitchen chairs for him. Takes a while, but I finally manage to get him sitting upright. He pulls at his shirt with one hand, trying to close it, keep some modesty. I cover him up, noticing as I do so the patchwork of yellow and purple that make up his ribs and gut.

Once he’s settled, I take a step back, and get a better look at the kitchen.

There was a hell of a struggle in here. A block of knives lies broken and scattered, blades reflecting in the strip light. Smashed glasses in bloody shards on the floor, more blood pooling in the corner, against the sink, around the door. Red handprints on the kitchen table and chairs.

There’s the smell of cigarette smoke again, mingled with sweat and blood. Something else. A brief look at Frank, and he’s trying to cover up the fact that he pissed himself. And the smell of whisky, too. Something I caught in the living room, but it’s like someone smashed a litre bottle of the cheap shit in here, it’s that overpowering.

Right enough, there it is, a broken bottle of Glen Rotgut by the door. It was a big bottle, too.

I look at Frank. He’s pawing at himself. Uncomfortable, in too much pain to think straight.

“What the fuck happened here, mate?”

Frank opens his mouth, his bottom lip splitting in the middle. Cracks his jaw, the sound loud as the bones scrape together. Frank’s jaw locks. He raises one grazed hand, massages just under his ear, his eyes screwed shut. The lock breaks with another loud crack. A ragged breath of relief spills from Frank’s mouth.

I grab the only glass in the place that hasn’t been smashed, fill it with water and set it on the table. Dig around in my pocket and shake two codeine into the palm of my hand.

Jerk my head at him and say, “Get these down you.”

Frank reaches for the pills, but he can barely see them. I help him with the water. He grimaces and looks at me, probably wondering why I’ve got prescription pills to hand, his head all over the place.

Like maybe I set him up for this.

“Who was it?” I say.

Frank opens his mouth to speak, blood on his teeth.

Nothing comes out.

“C’mon, mate …”

He shakes his head slowly. Looks like he’s about to tap out, all the energy drained from him.

“Frank, tell me who did this to you.”

He raises an eyebrow. Waves one hand at the kitchen cupboards.

“What, you want a drink?”

A couple of fast waves, his shirt falling open again, then his hand drops to his side.

“What is it?” I go to the cupboards, open them up. Big lad’s got more cereal than Seinfeld. “There’s nothing in here but Shreddies, man.”

He breathes out through his nose. It whistles. Looks at the floor, then brings his head up and grunts, like he’s angry at me. He waves his hand at the kitchen cupboards again.

I pull out the cereal boxes, put them on the kitchen counter.

Then, right at the back of the cupboard, I find it.

The tape recorder.

And it’s still in one piece.

Frank was at the meeting, just like he promised. From the tape, I can make out that they had coffee — “Kwiksave No Frills instant
,
” says Frank — and a tea that he couldn’t place. From the sounds of it, caffeine’s the last thing these people need. Sounds more like a zoo than a community meeting.

Frank motions me to fast-forward.

“Nothing happened?” I say.

He shakes his head, keeps motioning.

“I read the paper, man. Says there was a brawl.”

Another shake, another fast-forward gesture.

I do as he says, the hiss of the tape hitting the sound of voices suddenly. Frank waves at me to stop and rewind.

Whatever happened at the meeting, the tape recorder didn’t pick it up. Too far away, maybe — there’s just white noise and the occasional raised voice. That fucker at Dixons scammed me. But the way Frank’s acting, the meeting’s something I can strain my ears listening to later. He’s more interested in afterwards, what I’m guessing he did to get himself kicked to shit.

“… was saying in there …”

Frank’s voice.

“Yeah?”

A male voice. I don’t recognise it.

“Just saying, y’know, I thought you was right, like. We’re in trouble. Tell you, I’m worried.”

“You’re worried. Right.”

Some laughter. Loud and kind of obnoxious.

“Big bloke like you, you’re fuckin’ worried … Jesus, I don’t hold out much hope for the rest of us …”

“Yeah, I’m worried,” says Frank on the tape. “I mean, Phil Collins, right, he’s acting like he knows what’s happening round here. But that’s not what I’ve seen, is it?”

“He’s a politician, mate. He’ll say black’s white. Besides, he’s old-school, he’s not one of us. Fuckin’ Phil Collins is more concerned about keeping the fuckin’ peace than he is owt else, the cunt.”

“Got to be something I can do about it, mind.”

Laughter, but not from anywhere near the microphone. Frank’s speaking to more than one bloke, it sounds like. And the background noise — not a church hall, more like a pub. The voices raised not in anger, but to be heard over the general noise. So the meeting’s over. And Daft Frank went to the pub.

“Tell you what you can do, Frank. You can vote ENS next council election. Get Jeffrey Briggs on the fuckin’ case, you’ll be fine.”

More laughter, and I wonder what’s so fucking funny.

“Briggs is a politician, too.” That’s Frank.

They don’t hear it. “Yeah, get Briggsy out from Bolton. Here, I knew that cunt when he was a fuckin’ boot boy. Fucker were down the terraces at Maine Road, he’d be the first to kick off given half an excuse. Taking them cunts from the ICF right the fuck down.”

Someone else chimes in. And I think I know the voice: “To the fuckin’ pavement, Frank. Think on.”

“And look at him now, eh? Billy Big Bollocks. Right fuckin’ top dog, eh? Mister fuckin’ Suit.”

“Ease up, Russ. Briggsy’s legit now. He’s establishment. He has to be else they won’t give him the fuckin’ airtime.”

Jesus, it’s Eddie. Frank’s been hanging out with Eddie.

Before I can ask Frank about it, this Russ bloke interrupts: “He’s legit. Like fuck he’s legit. He looks legit, he sounds it, too, but he’s fuckin’ not. Not really. And that’s what makes him the fuckin’ man, know what I mean? You was inside, Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know about it, don’t you? There’s a mate of mine, Jimmy Figgis … You know Jimmy Figgis?”

“No.”

“He knows Jimmy.”

“Yeah, you know Jimmy. You don’t know the name, you’ll recognise the cunt when I describe him. Got a face like all burnt up an’ that. Pink gnarly skin, he’s a proper fuckin’ horror show on account of some fuckin’ Paki scalded him on the inside, right? Fuckin’ screws did fuck all about it an’ all.”

“I heard it was acid, Russ.”

“Where’d you hear that, man?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jimmy?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Right, well, that’s why it’s wrong. Jimmy’s a fuckin’ liar — he got scalded. And the screws did fuck all ’cause if they put force on a Paki, they’re up on the old race hatred, am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Am I right, Frank?”

“Yeah,” says Frank, but he doesn’t sound sure.

“Now what I’m saying is, Jimmy’s a fuckin’ lying knobhead an’ that — proper fuckin’ New World Order cunt reckons acid’s a harder thing to get burned by — but he were bang on about some stuff. And Jimmy Figgis, you took notice of him.”

“Had to with that face.”

“Fuck up, Eddie-mate. Trying to tell Frank summat. Anyway, he was saying, like, it’s not that big of a stretch to think that maybe the Pakis are tooling up for summat.”

“Don’t get you.”

“C’mon, Frank. You heard what I was going on about in there. We’re gonna have to circle the fuckin’ wagons soon enough, mate. That burn in Longsight, there’s rumours flying about: Pakis reckon us lot had summat to do with it.”

Eddie laughs.

“I know. It’s a fuckin’ job, innit? We’re not like that, Frank. I mean, I don’t want you thinking we’re thugs just ’cause of what happened in that meeting. Just ’cause we’re a bit rough and fuckin’ tumble, that don’t make our opinions any less fuckin’ valid, does it? Thing is, the vocal minority have to be heard, don’t they? The majority of people in Moss Side, they couldn’t give a fuck, am I right? They’re too busy working, keeping their heads down and being all fuckin’ ignorant.”

“Apathetic.”

“They couldn’t give a fuck. More people voting in
Britain’s Got Talent
than any election. So someone’s got to stir the shit a little. And if we don’t do it, there’ll be nowt done, you get me? They need to see the big picture.”

“Ah. No.”

“Fuckin’ hell, he’s a slow lad. And don’t take that wrong, Frank. Here, I’m fuckin’ dry. You get a round in, slow lad, we’ll talk some more.”

Frank makes another fast-forward motion.

And stop.

“I knew Jimmy Figgis, Frank,” I say.

He motions for me to press play.

“Just so you know.”

Another “play” gesture.