No More Heroes (23 page)

“Was that all?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I back up a few steps, look at the poster of Che Guevara. “So you knew his car was still on Wilmslow Road?”

Ben’s face is calm. Otherwise, he’s hugging himself so hard it looks like he might crack a rib any minute. He nods at me.

“You know he was there, then,” I say.

“I assume so. You said his car’s there.”

“He didn’t tell you anything about going to Rusholme?”

“I’m not his carer.”

“You’re not? I thought you two hung out together.”

“What’re you getting at?”

“You’re seriously telling me that if David decided to go down to Rusholme, you wouldn’t tag along?”

“Yes, I’m seriously telling you that,” says Ben. “We’re not joined at the hip.”

“Lucky for you, else it could be the pair of you in the hospital.”

“I suppose.”

“But the problem is, I did some digging and turns out David wasn’t in Rusholme alone. Turns out, he wasn’t just messing around on the curry mile, either.” I wait for a reaction from Ben. He’s doing his best not to give me one. But there’s something, a ripple in that calm exterior. “He was at a house. With a mate. Got caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, two guys cornered him, and his mate took off.”

He works his mouth now, weighing up what he thinks I might know. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You tell me, mate. Your lighter in the fuckin’ car, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who did a runner.”

He shakes his head.

“You’re the one who told Karyn to call off the job, right?”

Ben’s eye twitches. He rubs it with his thumb. “I didn’t tell Karyn anything of the sort. And I know what you’re doing here.”

“What am I doing, Ben?”

A half-smile pushes up the left corner of his mouth. He wags his finger at me like he’s just caught the punchline to a joke before I said it. “You’re still working for Plummer, aren’t you?”

“Doesn’t make any difference who I’m working for.”

“Trying to …
discredit
those few people who actually stood up to him.”

“No, Ben, I’m trying to find out why you and David burnt that house.”

He folds his arms again. “I didn’t say anything like that.”

“But you did it, though. You were there in Longsight, you helped him then. No reason to think you weren’t in Rusholme too.”

“Mr Innes—”

“I’m not saying you knew anybody was in the house,” I say. “In fact, you probably thought the place was empty. Lots of Plummer houses that are supposed to be empty — those are the ones that he keeps rolling tenants through. No paperwork to snag him, either. And the first thing out of your mouth when you knew who I was: “How’s the kid?” So I know you’re not the kind to jeopardise people like that.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Then tell me, why’d you burn the house, Ben?”

Make sure to get it on tape. Make sure my voice is loud enough, make him raise his to match it.

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me. You burned the Longsight house. I have proof. You were in Rusholme with David the other night. I have proof there, too.” I hold up the piece of paper. “Got a list here only you two really had access to through the student rep. I
know
you did it, I just want to know why. I’m giving you a chance here, Ben.”

“This isn’t anything to do with finding who beat up David, is it?”

“You know who beat him up. You were there.”

“I didn’t …” He catches himself, bares his teeth, like the thought on the tip of his tongue is too bitter. “You don’t have any proof.”

“There were people in the Rusholme house, too.”

Ben stares at me.

“Was that why you were arguing? Saw a light go on or something, knew there was people in there, but David wanted to pull the burn anyway?”

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Plummer’s already ruined — he’s getting evicted from his own office building. He’s up on criminal negligence. You probably read about it in the papers already. So there’s nothing I can do to keep him out of prison or get his business back. You already won, Ben. Only reason I’m asking you now is for my own peace of mind.”

“Bullshit.” Ben gives me a tight smile. “I mean, you don’t agree with my politics, that’s fine—”

“Your
politics
have fuck all to do with it, mate. Doesn’t matter if I agree with them or not. I’ll tell you, past couple of days, all I’ve heard is fuckin’ politics. You can’t move in this city right now without someone telling you what’s right and how you’re wrong, who’s to fuckin’ blame for whatever invisible evil’s in our blood. The media, the Muslims, the police, the fuckin’
landlords
. I couldn’t give a shit if you’re strapping Semtex to kittens or giving blood to the fuckin’ orphans, that’s got nothing to do with my job.”

“You can’t be apolitical,” says Ben. “Even George Orwell said—”

“Fuck George Orwell. Why’d you burn the house?”

“Look in the books,” he says. “The only way to hurt a capitalist is to take away his capital.”

“And you thought you were bringing down Enron when you were just fucking about with Arthur Daley.”

“Donald Plummer was hurting people.”

“And you weren’t? You killed an old woman, that’s not hurting people?”

“There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the house.”

“Yeah, well, these things happen. That kid wasn’t supposed to be in the house, the granny wasn’t supposed to be in the house,
I
wasn’t supposed to be in the fuckin’ house. But sometimes it just rains shit, doesn’t it? You got the Longsight community up in arms, you gave the ENS something to fight against, and now you’ve got David in with them—”

“I didn’t do that!” he shouts. “David isn’t like that, I’m not like that. We’re about as socialist as it gets, alright?”

“Like I give a fuck—”

“Look, when I finish university, I have a job. I’m going to work for the Labour Party. Christ knows they need all the left-wingers they can get these days. Just administration, but do you honestly think that they’d have anything to do with me if I had ties to the ENS?”

“I’m not saying you’re a Nazi, Ben.”

“Good.”

“I’m saying you’re an arsonist.”

Ben twists his face and breathes through his nose. “I can’t be held responsible.”

“You put a match to a house.”

“David did it. He was the one that started the fire.”

“You were there.”

“I didn’t want to be.”

“But you were there and you didn’t stop him. And when he got caught, you fucked off. Why didn’t you take the car?”

“It’s David’s car. He had the keys. Still does.”

I stare at Ben. Let him work through it, give him a break from the questions. I think I’ve got all I need. And he knows I’ve got him, except he thinks I don’t have any evidence. He
hopes
I don’t have any evidence. Something like this, I can tell it’s been weighing on the fucker. He’s looking around the room, anywhere but at me, but he can’t avoid me for long. Every time he comes back, I’m staring right at him.

“We were supposed to be having a look,” he says finally.

“At the house?”

Ben nods. “I asked David, I wanted to make sure there was no one in there. So we went to have a look at the house.”

“And there was someone in.”

“David didn’t give a shit about that. He called it collateral damage. But when I told him I wasn’t going to do it, he kicked off. And then we got caught. I didn’t know what else to do, so I ran.”

“Right.” I nod at him, keep my voice low. Let him know it’s alright. For the moment. “What’d you use to pull the burns, Ben? Petrol?”

He grunts an affirmative. I’m losing him here — he’s too busy replaying the other night.

“Where is it now?”

“In the car.”

I make a move to go. Ben grabs my arm.

“You don’t have any evidence,” he says. Sounds like a threat.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me, Ben. You’re a runner, not a fighter.”

“You don’t get it. Plummer was single-handedly turning this city into a place where students couldn’t afford to live—”

“Yeah, you and everyone else, Ben. Do I look like a fuckin’ freshman?” I prise his hand off my arm. “Like I’m going to swallow that shite.”

Ben rears up to his full height now. “Who the fuck d’you think you are? Think you’re a fucking hero because you saved some Paki kid? I know you, did some homework on you. You were in
prison
.”

“Yeah, and you told Karyn, too.”

He grabs me again. I batter him off. He grabs. “Don’t think I’m going to take shit from an ex-con who thinks he’s something special. And don’t think for a second about going to the police because they’ll laugh you out of the fucking station. You think us
talking
is proof enough? I’m doing politics and
law
, Mr Innes. It’s
hearsay
. Your word against mine.”

I stand there, brush him off. “You’re right, Ben. I don’t have any evidence.”

That’s when the tape clicks.

“What was that?”

I head for the door. “Thanks, Ben. You really put my mind at ease.”

He moves quick for a big bloke, grabs the back of my jacket. I spin around, knock him with my elbow, but he lets go, wraps his arms around my waist and tackles me to the floor. I wriggle backwards, kick out at him, catch him a square foot in the face. A sick crunch and blood from his nose, but he’s dogged, this fucker. Keeps throwing himself at me, and that’s a lot of weight. Trying to pin me down, scrabbling at the inside of my jacket. He grabs the tape recorder. I throw my head back, snap it forward into his broken nose. Feel the blood on my forehead and him lurch away from me. The tape recorder drops to the carpet, bounces away from us.

I lunge, throw my hand over the tape. Hang on for dear life.

Roll over onto my hands and knees, push against the floor like a sprinter, try to get upright.

Then a flash of pain, exploding white just behind my eyes. Can’t see, so I put my free hand to the side of my head. My fingers come away wet. I twist, my vision clearing up, see Ben’s eyes wide with fear. There’s a large pub ashtray in his hand.

I try to move out of the way, but the world’s moving too slow for me to catch my balance.

Ben swings with the ashtray again; the room shatters out.

And I’m left with one thought:
Should’ve got the MP3 one
.

Bad dreams, but nothing concrete. The world catching on fire like the
whoosh
of a match to gas. Burning bright and fast, an orange flame turning yellow turning white in a split-second.

And then a lifting sensation, like I’m weightless.

“Mr Innes.”

I open one eye. Can’t open the other one — something’s gummed it up. I try to raise a hand to the sticky part of my face, but I miss my entire head somehow, end up touching the fabric on the sofa. It seems to be loose. Now that the vision in one eye’s coming back, I can make out a big lad, his ruddy face moving in and out of focus. I smile at him. Fuck it, he looks friendly enough. Nasty bruise on his face, mind.

“Y’alright?” I say.

He looks worried, this lad. Behind him, there’s a girl, pretty in a skinny way. Like she should be on a magazine cover about ten years ago. They’re both familiar, but they might just look like people I saw in a film once. Got that kind of shifting recognition thing going on.

Right, yeah, the bloke looks a bit like that rugby player, what’s his name.

Jonny Wilkinson.

And the girl looks like what’s-her-face from that telly thing. Maybe it’s not a telly thing. Maybe it’s a film. Probably a film. Or she could be a singer. She looks like a singer. One of those folky types. Something shiny in her nose. I stare at it.

“We should call an ambulance,” says the girl.

“He’s okay. You’re okay, aren’t you, Mr Innes?”

More of a plea than a question. I look around me. I’m laid out on the sofa, and the reason the fabric felt loose was because the sofa’s covered with a throw. One of my legs hangs off the side. I turn back to the lad and say, “What happened?”

“You fell,” he says.

“Right.” My brain feels like it’s floating in my skull. It’s not entirely unpleasant. “Right, course I did.”

“Ben, he’s not okay,” says the girl.

“I’m fine, love.” That name ringing a bell, but I can’t place it. I try to sit up, my gut lurching. “Shit, hang on.”

“Get the bowl,” says Ben. “He’s going to be sick again.”

“No, I’m fine,” I say.

Then I throw up on myself. Not a lot, but enough to make me feel like I’ve had enough to drink already, thanks very much, and it’s probably time for me to call it a night.

I check my watch — it’s just gone four.

Christ, I must be starting earlier and earlier these days. I need to cut down on my drinking, especially if I’m getting hammered in front of total strangers.

Except they’re not total strangers, are they?

I dig around in my jacket. Ben looks worried.

“I just need my cigarettes. You seen ’em anywhere? Hang on.” I find my Embassys in the inside pocket, struggle like a bastard to get them out — my limbs don’t do what I want them to do right now — and then stop. “Shit, I forgot. It’s alright to smoke in here, isn’t it?”

Ben doesn’t say anything, but I see a pub ashtray on the table next to me. It’s cracked but serviceable, got a weird brownish pattern on the side of it. I light the Embassy, take the smoke deep.

“Fuck me, that’s the ticket.”

I rub at my gummed-up eye, look at my hand. There’s blood on my fingers.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at the bloke. “It’s Ben, isn’t it?”

Ben looks at the girl, who’s sitting there with a bowl in her hands just in case I throw up again. She hands me some kitchen roll. I dab the blood from my fingers and the vomit from my shirt.

“I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t think I’d throw up. Just—”

“It’s the fall,” says the girl. “You’re just a bit nauseous from the fall.”

“Right. Anywhere I can wash up, d’you think?” I pull at my shirt. “I’m minging.”

And then I remember.

“No. Wait. Shit.” I look at the pair of them, stick the cigarette in my mouth and say, “Look, I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to be off.”