No More Heroes (26 page)

“Uh-huh, but that’s not the story. You said yourself, there’s more exciting stuff happening elsewhere.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to elsewhere. Wilmslow Road.”

“Jesus, why would you be doing that?”

“Because there’s a car down there that’s more than likely got a bunch of petrol bombs in the boot.”

The sound of Beeston switching ears. The click of his tape recorder.

“Turn it off, Andy. I mean it. You keep taping me, I’ll hang up.”

“I thought this was a scoop.”

“You turn off the tape recorder, I’ll tell you more.”

Another click.

“Thank you. Now you’re wondering why all this can’t be on the record: I’m not sure of anything right now and I don’t want to be quoted. Besides, it concerns Plummer. Donald Plummer came to me, he said there was someone threatening to burn his properties down. They’d already done one—”

“Longsight.”

“Correct. And they’d sent him a list of addresses with a cigarette burn in it, right? A ransom note without the ransom.”

“I didn’t know this,” says Beeston.

“Yeah, you thought it was an insurance job. Well, that’s not the case. Turns out the guy who did the Longsight house was going to do a house in Rusholme when he was interrupted. Now he’s in a fuckin’ coma. Name’s David Nunn.”

“You what?”

“Got his arse handed to him in Rusholme because he was acting all suspicious and he got the attention of the wrong lads.”

“Hold on a second,” says Beeston.

“Haven’t got time, mate. Write quicker or remember quicker, whatever the fuck you’re doing. David Nunn used to rent one of Plummer’s houses. You want to double-check, I’m sure the university will have a record somewhere. Now, Nunn was evicted. Not by me, but by the bloke you saw with me at the hospital. Name’s Frank Collier.”

“Was the eviction legal?”

“Probably not, but who really gives a shit? Doesn’t matter. Bottom line, the one file we had to tie Nunn to Plummer, it’s been nicked. Anyway, the lad had a grudge, he was a fuckin’ militant with it, decided that there wasn’t enough being done about Plummer so him and his mate burned one of his houses. Trouble was, there was someone home.”

“You have any proof?”

“I had a confession. The other lad confessed, and I got it on tape.”

“Where’s the tape?”

“I don’t know. The lad lamped me with an ashtray. I think. I don’t know where the tape is. He’s got it. I think he’s got the ashtray, too. Probably has.”

“Callum, you’re not making any sense here.”

“I will if you fuckin’
listen
to me.” Shake my head. Can’t seem to keep my thoughts straight. There’s a growing pain at the back of my head, feels like it’s spreading around under my ears. “Rusholme, they tried to burn the house. They didn’t. They argued. Some bloke stepped in. Saeed. The other lad did a runner. But his
car
’s still there. It’s a blue Beetle. That’s the one that has the petrol bombs in the boot, I fuckin’ know it. There’s a Zippo in the front, but David doesn’t smoke. Ben
does
smoke, because he’s got an ashtray.”

A warning bleep from my mobile. I glance at the display. The battery’s dying on me. Fucking typical.

“There’s a Zippo,” I say again. “He doesn’t smoke, you get me?”

“Cal—”

“Just do some digging, alright? Do some
investigating
. I’m right.”

I pull the phone from my ear, beep him off. No point in trying to explain it any further. Too much for my brain to process, and it’s difficult enough keeping my mind on the job, without having to do it for someone else. I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat as I reach for the painkillers in my pocket. I’ve got to shake this headache. Need to be lucid when I get to the car.

Into Rusholme now, and the streets are starting to fill with people. Supposed to be behind closed doors, all safe and tucked up at home, but nobody let these guys know. A quick scan of some of the people as I pass them in the Micra. They’re wearing hankies or bandanas around their necks, some of them pulled up over their nose and mouth. Look like bandits, the lot of them.

I turn on the radio. White noise of barely controlled hysteria, translated into reportage. The march has already started, coming through the city centre. Coming south. Police are blocking off roads. There’s already been some violence, the odd skirmish. It’s the hottest night of the year so far.

And I’m stuck behind the barricades.

Another codeine. Can’t shift the headache. Thinking that I’ve had one too many knocks to the old noggin recently. Wondering if these pills Greg gave me are any good. I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to dose me with placebos, wouldn’t put it past
God
to fuck with my medicine when I’m feeling like this.

I’m about to turn onto Wilmslow Road when a police van trundles in front of the Micra, blocking my way. I put my foot to the brake, stop the car before I hit anything. A copper looks my way. He must be roasting in all that gear he’s got on. I unclick my seat belt and sit there for a second, trying to breathe. Then I wind down the window and gesture to the copper in the van.

“What’s up, I can’t go into Wilmslow, officer?”

“Cordoned off.”

“The march coming down here, is it?”

“It’s coming close enough.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

The copper shrugs under his stab vest. His shoulders barely move.

“Thanks,” I say, duck my head back inside and throw the car into reverse. A five-point turn later, and I’m pointed back towards the rest of Manchester. I take a jaunt around the block, find an alley that doesn’t look like it would interest many people, and leave my car parked in the shadows. Grab my mobile and stuff it into my jacket pocket, get out of the car. Might be a daft thing to do, but I lock the car.

Start walking, see if I can circle round to a bit of the cordon that isn’t quite so heavy. Further on down the road, maybe, where they’re not as prepared.

Fuck it, you never know who’s out this time of night, especially when there’s going to be trouble on the streets. Reckon maybe I can smash a few heads before I get pounded into the concrete. And I
will
get pounded into the concrete. I’m painfully aware of that now. Whether I meet up with Eddie or Russ or any of the other marchers coming down here to burn the fucking place to the ground, someone’s going to put me down tonight, I can feel it.

Call it a sixth sense, whatever. But I’ve been knocked around enough times that I can smell it coming now.

I keep walking, though. Because it’s my job to keep walking, find a way in and get that car.

And why? When I already told Beeston everything I needed to. Why am I walking into the fucking riot to get this car? I don’t evidence that badly, do I?

Yeah, I do. Because as much as Beeston sounded interested, he’ll do fuck all to prove it. Guy might paint himself as a crusading journalist — and fuck it, he might’ve actually thought of himself as one at some point — but he’s just like every other jobsworth in the world. He gets told to write what’s popular and easily digestible. He’s not in the business of shocking anyone unless it helps whoever’s in charge.

So they need something else. They need solid proof that a couple of fucking students were behind these fires, that it was a couple of naïve, angry wannabe revolutionaries that caused the riot that’s about to happen. That it wasn’t anything to do with racism or grand political statements, that the fear this city’s feeling has nothing to do with the fires, and everything to do with how they’re being sold to their “enemy’.

And there’s the chance that I might not make it out of here. In fact, if I’m going to be straight with myself, that chance is turning into a certainty the more I walk. Passing through into Viscount Road now and I can already see the curtains twitch at the white face. There are people out here who’ve been waiting to put the boot into someone like me for a long time, because that kind of racism, it’s not just the fucking province of the white blokes out there. Your man Saeed’s living proof of that. See him and his ex-con mate round here, I’ll have some trouble. And I don’t think I can run that fast with this head and my back scraping at the same time.

I pass number sixteen and keep on. Take another pill for my head.

Feels like it’s getting warmer the closer I get to Wilmslow Road.

And I can see the police lines already forming. The vans pulling up, blocking alleys and side roads. I can see riot shields and batons, helmets and boots. Like the entire constabulary are out in their gladrags tonight.

I keep as low as I can, duck into the end of Wilmslow Road as a police van approaches behind me. Keep expecting someone to shout at me, but I don’t hear anything except my heart thumping in my ears.

Duck behind an Escort as a police van rolls past. Keep my head down, my face out of sight and grit the pain in my back away.

Yeah, there’s a chance I’m not going to make it out of here. I knew that when I left the Lads’ Club. And I couldn’t give a fuck. Here’s the thing — I’ve been trying all this time to live up to that fucking label they gave me, so I reckon maybe it’s time I either live up to it, or die trying.

Sounds dramatic, but what the fuck.

Better to cark it and prove a fucking point, and in case I do, that should push Beeston to do something more than a two-line footer.

When the van moves away, I get to my feet and head into Wilmslow Road.

I can hear the sound of the march coming like an approaching storm. The sky has the last glow of the evening replaced with false light.

They’re coming closer. Christ, I can almost feel the tarmac rumble under my feet. The English National Socialists chanting. Something to do with justice. Their right not their privilege. I keep to the walls, see the police arriving at the top of the road. They look like soldiers, except they’re not armed that I can see. Lined up in the street, shields at the ready. Once they’re in position, there’s the odd shuffle of feet, but they’re otherwise motionless. Just this implacable wall, something to guide people. Not riled yet.

In the opposite direction, right at the other end of the road, I can see the Beetle. Nobody’s touched it and everything’s working out so far. Nice and quiet, but it won’t stay that way for long.

I make a move, take my steps with my back to the shop fronts. Behind me, I can see placards arriving as the marchers round the corner. The police already bristling as a unit, getting nervy. At the other end of the road, there’s those blokes again, the bandanas up over their noses. Coming out of nowhere, disparate elements congealing into one mob, a glut at the end of the street.

But not moving forward, not yet. Just growing larger and staring beyond me as I hear the ENS marchers spill into Wilmslow Road.

A glance behind me: the police move now, forming a corridor, funnelling the march straight down the middle of the street. One of the uniforms at the end of the line is gesturing towards something out of sight. There’s an engine sound forming a throbbing bassline to the chants, so I guess it’s one of the police vans I saw earlier.

I can’t walk now. Have to pick up the pace. Sprinting towards the Beetle.

If I can get in that car, fucking
break
into it, maybe get it off this road, somewhere safe, I can go through it. If not, I’ve got to grab whatever the fuck I can and get out of there. Something to prove the students were behind this. The Zippo, the leaflet, something else. I already told Beeston about the car. If he’s got any sense, he’ll call the police.

But then a lack of police really isn’t the problem right now.

There’s got to be a way of saving this. And that hope is enough to keep me moving.

A stone skitters off the tarmac next to me. I react to it, swerve but keep running. My lungs already tight against the inside of my chest, I have to stop, duck behind a Volvo.

Another stone, bigger, bounces off the bonnet of the car. Whoever it is, they’re fucking aiming at me. I hazard a glance at the stone’s origin — see that the gang of Asian lads at the end of the street have started a march of their own. Moving towards me, looking to meet the ENS head on.

And me in the middle.

I hunker down, skip to the pavement side of the Volvo and duck-walk my way to the Beetle. Hoping that the mob of National Socialists will keep the gang busy.

Another object thrown, this time a brick.

Nowhere near me now, this time connecting with one of the riot shields.

The chants from the ENS grow louder. I can’t make out the words anymore, only the attitude. They’ve seen the Asian lads, the locals, and they’re spoiling for it. Like Russ and Eddie said, beered-up and looking for a little blood in their mouths. So they might as well be chanting that there ain’t no black in the Union Jack, the kind of front they’re putting on, as well as the kind of reaction they get.

Shouts from the Asian lads, running feet.

Something slams against the road. There’s a shout from the protestors. I can hear the clatter of riot shields now. Turning around, the police are trying to divert the march. It’s not happening.

These guys didn’t come here to protest anything; they came here to do some fucking damage. And these fucking busies are compounding the issue they came to shout about. So the marchers push against the police cordon. I look around and see the cop line stretch almost to breaking point. One of the coppers turns, and signals to the alley.

The roar of an engine, and one of the vans lurches out into Wilmslow Road.

I keep my head down, crouching by a car. The Beetle’s within arm’s reach, but I can’t get there without giving away my position. And as much as I’d be fine with those Asian lads in any other situation, right now I get the feeling that they’ll stomp the first white face they see.

Something’s thrown at the police line.

That something multiplies quickly.

There’s a tremendous groan from the police line. At least it sounds like that. Then a couple of the riot cops flip onto their backs. I turn to catch three coppers on the ground, trying to scrabble as the marchers stampede over their bodies. The other coppers stand as fast as they can, loose and warped links trying to bind back into a chain.