No More Heroes (25 page)

“When am I not presentable?”

“I mean wear your good duds. There’s going to be a press presence.”

“Oh, fuckin’ marvellous. I get to have my photo taken again.”

“You love it,” says Paulo. “It’ll keep you in the papers, and it can only be good for business.”

There’s a terrible crash on the line. I have to move the phone from my ear. When I move it back, Paulo’s turning the air blue at his end, telling someone to get the fuck out of the way, he’ll sort it out, just
leave it
.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” says Paulo, half to me, half to whoever’s just fucked up. “They’re just setting up the trestles and they
need a fucking manual to do it
.”

“Trestles, eh? Going all out for the
Evening News
.”

“Yeah.”

“Great stuff. I should start getting ready.”

“Remember,
six thirty
. Don’t make us come looking for you.”

“See you later.”

I put the phone down, lean on the table. This is not going to be fun.

Hot water beating against my back and neck, stinging against cuts and scrapes, my head down. I’ve already checked my face in the mirror. A wee gash above my eyebrow, but it doesn’t look too serious. I’m not worried about the damage, just the appearance. I don’t need to be noticeably beaten, don’t want people to talk about it.

My clothes lie in a smelly heap on the floor of the bathroom. Means I’ll have to streak to the bedroom, but I’m okay with that. Now I’ve soaped up and rinsed off, I’ve got a glass of cold water just within reach. I’m taking more pills to balance out the aches, the thumping behind my bad eye.

I need to maintain, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. And I can feel the clouds parting, less like my brain’s made of cotton wool. I can start to think again.

Greg’s a wanker. That’s all there is to say about that. He’s a judgmental wanker. Who the fuck is he to get on my back about fucking ethics? He deals drugs. I don’t see that as a humanitarian vocation. Don’t see too many crack dealers popping down the hospice to give blood to the orphans …

Wait.

I run a hand over my head, open my mouth as water streams down my face. A memory jogged somewhere, but only a flash before it flies off somewhere else. It can’t be important if I can’t hold onto it. Another pill, another swig of water, then I step out of the shower and towel off, the skin on my face tight.

Look at myself in the mirror and reckon it’ll do. I promise myself that I won’t drink too much. My body’s already taken enough of a beating from booze today.

Christ knows what I was doing drinking with students in the middle of the day. I should know better. But then after that weird longing I had when I was walking around the student union, the old what-if-life-had-turned-out-different bit, I probably just lost the plot a little.

It happens.

I check my watch — should be going. Shake my jacket and it feels light. I’ve got my wallet, my pills, my cigarettes, my lighter and my mobile. So, what am I missing?

I shake my head. Nothing. Got everything I need.

Check my watch again because I forgot the time. I’m doing okay.

On schedule. And everything’s fine.

When I pull up outside the Lads’ Club, I’m immediately disappointed. For some reason, I expected more excitement, people milling around outside the club, an Oscars party vibe, but the place is deserted.

I park the car, get out and head to the double doors. I push through into the main club. There’s a couple of lads in the corner. Some more at a long trestle with glasses of red and white wine laid out, orange juice in wine glasses for the teetotallers.

There isn’t any sign of a hedgehog. And while I knew there really wouldn’t be, it doesn’t stop that twinge of disappointment. It looks like I’m not the only one, either. Apart from the two lads I recognise from the club, there are a few more groups of them, mostly wearing school shirts and shoes. Milling around, look like they’d rather be at church than here right now. They’re talking amongst themselves, but their voices are kept low, almost like they’re plotting to tunnel their way out.

I see Liam standing by the sound system. He sees me, too. The kid keeps growing, it looks like. Last time I saw him he was tall enough, but reedy with it. Paulo’s been working the lad into another weight class or something, because Liam’s turning into a brick shithouse. I don’t really want to talk to the kid, don’t know what I’d talk to him
about
, given our previous shared circumstances, but before I can pretend I haven’t seen him, he nods my way. I nod back.

Paulo’s at the end of the room, talking to Andy Beeston. I head over, grab a glass of juice on the way.

When Paulo sees me, he smiles. “You’re on time.”

“Just about.”

“No, you are.” He’s trying for jocular, but he can’t quite manage it. “Glad you could make it.”

“Not a problem.” I smile at Beeston.

We all stand there for a few moments, not talking. Beeston in particular looks uncomfortable with the situation, looking around the room. If he’s searching for something to talk about, he doesn’t find it. So we keep standing there, Paulo and I sipping juice, Beeston with his white wine.

It’s all very sophisticated and unbearable.

When Paulo clears his throat for the third time, I have to say something.

“Alright,” I say. “What’s going on?”

Paulo attempts another smile. “I don’t get you.”

“You sent out invitations, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So why isn’t this place packed?”

Paulo moves his shoulders. “People, Callum. Never underestimate the power of apathy.”

Beeston shuffles his feet, looks into his glass of white wine.

“I thought you had a thing in the paper,” I say.

“He did,” says Beeston, not looking at me. “More than one article. It’s a good thing, this place, but you can’t blame people for not wanting to come out tonight.”

“Why’s that then?”

Paulo puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright, Cal. Tell you, I don’t think I’d be here if I could help it.”

I stare at him. Then Beeston.

Smile and say, “Okay, someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

“You didn’t hear?” says Beeston.

“No. I didn’t.”

“The march,” he says. “You must’ve heard about it. Everybody’s that scared they’re going to come through Salford. No big deal, really. Just bad luck had to hold his opening the same night.”

I frown. “What march?”

Beeston looks at me like I’m drooling. “The ENS.”

Time for a shrug. “ENS?”

“English National Socialists.”

“Right.”

The name rings a bell, but both Paulo and Beeston are looking at me like I should know all this. I put it down to my bad drunk, and then start to wonder how long I was actually out. When I catch Paulo about to ask me what’s wrong, I say, “They’re the ones that’re marching.”

“Yeah,” says Beeston.

“Oh, right, yeah, I remember now,” I say.

Beeston sips his wine. “It’s been in the papers all week, Callum. Of course now, it’s a solidarity march for that student.”

“I know better than to read the papers,” I say, grinning.

Throwing it around the inside of my head. Trying to remember why that organisation rings a bell. And why it’s tied to a student. Thinking now, I met a couple of students this afternoon, maybe they’ve got something to do with it.

Ben and what’s-her-name.

Did she tell me what her name was? I think she did. I just can’t remember.

When I look at Beeston, he’s talking. And I realise I haven’t heard a word he just said.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

Beeston squints. “I said, if you ask me, anyone who’s locked themselves into their homes, they’ve got the right idea. I said I was already booked to cover this thing, otherwise they would’ve had me down in Rusholme tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” says Paulo.

“Too right.”

I don’t get it. What’s Rusholme got to do with anything?

I’m about to ask when I remember.

“Rusholme,” I say. “That’s where they found …
David
, right? He’s the student?”

It’s starting to come back to me now, a headache coming along for the ride. Bits and pieces, but I can’t quite grab onto the connections anymore. There’s a march, and there’s Rusholme, and there’s this student David, but none of it fits together.

“It’ll be carnage tonight, you mark my words. It’s not often the ENS feel they’ve got a real reason to go marching. Things’re going to
burn
.”

Something clicks.

“What’d you say?”

Beeston moves his head, brings Paulo and I into a huddle. He smells of aftershave. “Keep this under your hat, but it’s going to kick off bad tonight. Coppers’ve got the riot gear out. They’re not taking any chances.”

“Been there,” says Paulo. “You bring out the shields, they’re brick magnets.”

“When were you there?” says Beeston.

I shake my head, try to focus. My fucking head is pounding now.

“Where’s this again?” I say.

“Rusholme. Longsight.”

Rusholme. Longsight. Both places jarring memories loose.

“I was down in Rusholme today,” I say, and as I’m talking, more comes back to me. “I think it was today. I talked to a lad down there, he said it was a couple of blokes who beat up David.”

There’s a moment where Beeston seems to transform into a teacher I once had. She was a patronising bitch with a smile that I wanted to punch out, even when I was nine.

“Oh, you know who did it, do you?” he says.

I stare at him until he switches back to normal. Then I say, “I’m not sure.”

“I’ve been asking the police about it. They’ve given me nothing as usual. Still pending—”

“An investigation?” I say.

“Something like that.”

I shake my head. The headache starts creeping out behind my eyes. “Some bloke called Saeed and his big mate. They did it.”

Beeston looks interested. “You got a surname for this Saeed?”

“Seems to me like you’ve heard of him already.”

“It’s a common enough name, Callum.”

“Local gangster, or wannabe. I know his big mate’s supposed to be just out of jail.” I look at Beeston. He sips his wine, waits for me to continue. “You know David Nunn wasn’t given a kicking just because he was a white boy, don’t you? I mean—”

Ben. That girl with him.

Karyn.

Yeah, Karyn with a “y”, because she wants to make herself seem different. And it works because the “y”‘s what makes me remember her now.

Trying to call me off the case because she only fucking knew that her boyfriend tried to burn down a house in Rusholme.
Did
burn down a house in Longsight. Her looking all worried because she thought Ben had done me some serious damage. And he
had
done serious damage, except I was too fucked up to notice it.

Me acting like I was drunk. Thought I
was
drunk. Covered in puke, not sure where I was, it was a good enough guess. More likely that than concussion.

I rub my good eye. When I look at Beeston, he has one of those wee tape recorders in his other hand.

“You don’t mind if I get this on the record, do you?” he says.

The tape recorder.

Fucking
bastard
.

“I need to go,” I say.

“You feeling alright?”

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” says Paulo. “You want to have a sit down, mate.”

“I’m fine. I just need to go. Right now. I’ll be back, okay? And none of this is on the fuckin’ record yet, Andy.”

I don’t turn around. Don’t want to see the look on Paulo’s face as I’m leaving. I push out through the double doors, light a cigarette and squint against the sunlight. Christ, it’s not even seven yet and it feels like mid-afternoon. There’s already sweat building in my collar.

I can’t go back to Ben’s, not unless I want another hiding. Besides, he’s probably listened to the tape and erased it by now.

No, that’s not the priority anymore.

David left his car in Rusholme. There has to be some evidence there, something I can use.

Problem is, the march has already started.

The more I see, the more I think I’m not going to get out of this alive.

Police vans already congregating around the city centre. Policemen in full riot gear, just as Beeston said. Batons, shields, helmets scuffed from a thousand close encounters with bricks, bats and bastards. I ease off on the speed once I hit the southern part of the city, slow as a police van draws up behind me. In the rear view, I can see the driver, his hands gripping the steering wheel at the official ten-to-two. He’s staring at the road with hooded eyes and probably seeing none of it. Thinking about the night ahead.

Already slipped past the main barricades now, and I start to wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. What happens if I find the car? David’s the one with the keys, so since when did I know how to flick an ignition? Can’t even work the DVD player half the fucking time, and now I’m going to play at car thief?

No, all I need to do, I need to get some proof, that’s all. Ben’s got the tape, so that’s out of the window, unless I drive back there and take it by force, which is highly unlikely considering he already fucked me over once today.

Maybe I won’t get to the car at all. Rusholme could be a war zone by the time I get there. But if that’s the case, then me lobbing a brick through a car window wouldn’t look suspicious. Christ, everyone’ll be doing it. And then I can grab something from the car. There’s got to be something they left in the Beetle.

But self-preservation is a priority. No point in me doing this if it’s going to be unsung. I need the papers on my side. I need them to make me into a fallen hero if this all goes pear-shaped.

Just in case. Always thinking, just in case.

I pull out my mobile and call Andy Beeston. Instead of hello, he says his name. Very professional. I can hear the background noise of the Lads’ Club, what little there is. Doesn’t sound like a lot’s going on.

“You want a scoop, Andy?”

“You feeling alright, Callum?”