No More Heroes (29 page)

“Okay.”

“He left a message. Says can you call him as soon as you get it.”

I shake my head, look at the phone. “Won’t be important. Do me a favour. Delete it. Don’t want the … big family update.”

Plus, I’m not in the mood to share my own bad news.

Paulo moves to the answering machine, deletes the message. He leans against the table, folds his arms. Watches me.

“So,” he says, “what’s happening, then?”

“With what?”

“With you,” he says. “You going to go in for physio, all that?”

“I have appointments.”

“You going to keep them?”

I frown. “Yeah. If I can. Why?”

“Just curious,” he says. “Looking forward to having you back at the club.”

“How is it?”

“Fair to middling.” Paulo blinks. “Some problems. Nothing that couldn’t be sorted in your absence.”

“Kind of problems?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Had a guy come round looking for you, name of Frank Collier?”

“Frank, yeah.” I’m about to call him Daft Frank, but it doesn’t trip off the tongue the way it used to.

“Worked with you, am I right?”

I nod. “Kind of.”

“Well, I set him to work in the back office.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Just keeping your chair warm for when you get back. Got your new office set up, put ads in the Yellow Pages, got the press involved for when you’re up and about. When you walk through them doors again, you’ll be as official as an ex-con’s ever likely to be.”

“No,” I say.

The look on Paulo’s face doesn’t flicker. “What’s the matter?”

I have to concentrate, stare at the floor as I say, “I can’t do the … PI stuff anymore. Me and Frank.” Shake my head. “Haven’t got a …
functioning
… body between us. No way.”

“I don’t get you. Frank’s been doing great stuff while you’ve been away. And I don’t know why you wouldn’t go back to doing investigation work. From what Beeston told me, you solved the case—”

“Solved the case?” I flick ash, spiking my back. “I got blown up. Two …
arsonists
got off … scot-free. How’s that solving? Wrongs did not get righted. Wrongs just got more … fuckin’
wrong
.”

I’d stand up and walk out if I could. The way Paulo’s looking at me, feels like I’m pinned to the fucking sofa. But then I was under the impression that given everything that’s happened, I’d be coming back to a grunt job, something safe. I didn’t expect this big poof to start making decisions for me. And I know it’s a cunt’s thing to think, just as I know he’s probably put in a lot of work on my behalf, but the last fucking thing I want to hear is how anxious he is for me to go back to killing myself.

“Right,” he says. “I get you.”

“Nothing against you, Paulo. I swear to God. I’m flattered. And grateful. For what you’ve done. And even Frank … Fuck it. The bloke wants to be a PI … I wish him the best of luck.”

“You’re not in the best frame of mind right now,” says Paulo. “You think about it.”

Shake my head again. “No. Don’t need to … think. About it.”

“Cal.”

“
Can’t
fuckin’
think
. About it. You see me?”

Another pause. Him waiting. I suck my teeth, sit back.

“What did you think was going to happen?” he says. “You think you were just going to go on the sick?”

I shrug.

“Man’s got to work, Callum. You can’t sit around here staring at the fuckin’ walls.”

“No?”

“No.” He unfolds his arms, checks his watch. “I should be going.”

“Right.”

“Don’t drink too much. Give us a call on the mobile if you get into any bother, alright?”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t bother getting up.” He winks at me. “I’ll see myself out.”

I watch him leave the room, wait until he’s out of my flat before I put the cigarette in the ashtray, feel around in my jacket pocket for my pills.

And come up short.

I take my jacket off, empty the pockets. Nothing.

The bastards must’ve taken the pills off me for some reason. And there’s that twinge in my back already. I know it’ll spread given half a chance. What the fuck am I supposed to do, subsist on beer and cigarettes?

Then I remember Paulo carrying my jacket for me as he wheeled me out of the hospital.

Jesus fucking Christ. I pull myself up on the arm of the sofa, grab my stick and struggle to stand. When I get onto both feet, I hobble over to the phone.

Pick it up and start dialling Paulo’s number.

Full of hell, reckon I’m going to ask the cunt right out why he stole from me. Thinks it’s a fucking joke, nicking a man’s medication. And it’s not like I’m up and about, walking around all healthy. I need those pills to get me through the day.

My back spikes. I suck in breath at the pain. Lean over the phone table and mutter about Paulo as I exhale. That fucking bastard, he’s stranded me in the flat. He knows I can’t go out. Even if I could, I couldn’t go back to Greg again.

No, maybe I could. Maybe I could persuade him, tell him what happened. Fuck’s sake, I was concussed. He’d understand.

I grab my stick, start for the door, but the pain doesn’t let me get further than the couch. I ease down onto it, take a breath. This isn’t good.

The pain’s only just started. I grab my mobile from the coffee table and speed-dial Paulo.

“The pills,” I say.

He’s calm. “What about them?”

“Fuck you done?”

“It’s for your own good, Callum.”

“Doesn’t fuckin’ …
feel
like it.”

“You in pain?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

I scream it: “Fuck-in’
yes
.”

“I left you some cocodemol, Callum. Take those.”

There are pills on the table in front of me, alright. A box of them, prescription. A bottle of water next to them. There’s a ball of pain in my throat. I try to swallow it back.

So much I want to say to him. Want to fucking beg him to bring my pills back, because I’ve tried cocodemol and they’re nothing, they’re useless. Sticking plaster on a fucking bullet wound. He doesn’t have the right to take away my medication like this. He’s not qualified to make those decisions. If the doctor didn’t say anything about it …

“You can’t do this.” Take a deep breath, concentrate. “Got a …
medical
…
condition
.”

“No,” says Paulo. “No more excuses, son.”

Breathing hard through my nose now. Can’t make my fucking mouth work. Can’t tell him that these aren’t excuses, these are reasons. Thinking he’s a cunt for taking advantage. Trying to get a sentence out. Trying to get
anything
out.

“Take the cocodemol, son,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

“Fuck—”

“I mean it. We’ll talk later, okay?”

He disconnects.

I hold onto my mobile, stare at the pills on the coffee table. Might as well be fucking Anadin, the good they’ll do. There’s this tremendous pressure in my chest, like a scream trying to get out, and whatever burns in my throat can’t be swallowed. Water in my vision now, I can’t see properly. I press the heel of my hand to my eye and think.

There’s got to be someone I can call. Someone who’ll either sort me out or run an errand for me. Not Paulo, obviously. Can’t trust Frank to do it, either. And there’s no one else I can trust. Then I realise there’s no one else in my life.

Stare at the carpet, rub away the tears. Then I look at my mobile, search through the contacts for Greg. It’ll be okay. I’ll just call him. We’ll sort it out.

His name is missing from my phone. Someone’s been in, erased it. And I’m guessing, but that someone’s probably Paulo.

Fuck it. I don’t need to speed-dial. I’ve got the number committed to memory.

I dial the 0161, then the first three digits of Greg’s phone number. A brief moment where I think I’ve got it, then the rest of the number skips out of my head.

Shit.

I concentrate, try to remember, but it’s no use. Meanwhile, the pain in my back gets worse. I leave it much longer, I won’t be able to move.

No more excuses. Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Sounds like my bastard brother.

I lean forward, exhale slowly to kill some of the pain, then snatch the cocodemol from the coffee table. Tear into the box, uncap the water and take four pills.

Then I sit there, staring at the blank television. And hope the pain goes away.

Book #4 in the Cal Innes series see Cal looking into the disappearance of his erstwhile nemesis, Mo Tiernan, while DS Donkin looks to settle old scores.

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