No More Heroes (2 page)

“Don’t call us Francis.” Frank gets out of the car. Glares at me over the roof as he slams the door. “You had the paper. You’re the one Don gave it to. Just gave it back to me to mess with my head.”

“Okay, Frank. Whatever you say.”

“I’m just—”

“How’s about we stop bickering and do the fuckin’ job?”

Frank opens his mouth, then decides against saying anything. He nods.

“Now stay behind me and try to look like a hard bastard. Remember, no dancing.”

He laughs, and I reckon that’s me and him mates again. Which is good, because appearances are everything, and if Frank doesn’t look a hundred per cent hard, then we’re both fucked. But if he’s in character, it’s a brave or shit-stupid bloke who’ll mess with the big lad.

I lean on the doorbell until I hear movement from inside. The student who had the keys opens up. He’s wearing a Dangermouse T-shirt, hipster jeans. Longish hair, tousled like a thousand bad guitar bands, and a three-day growth on his face and neck. Friendship band on his wrist. Right now he’s shoving toast into his mouth and looking at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Y’alright?” I say.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s noticed Frank.

“You Simon” — I have to check the notice — “Standish?”

He chews with his mouth open, looking at me. “You what?”

Frank shuffles behind me. The student looks over my shoulder again, pushes the rest of his toast into his mouth, holds his fingers splayed and glistening.

“You renting this place?”

His eyes narrow. “What’s it about, like?”

Fuck it, that’s good enough for me.

I slap the notice into his butter-drenched hand. “Notice of eviction, Si. You have thirty days.”

Simon frowns, opens the piece of paper in his hand. “You what?”

“Sorry.” I nod at Frank, turn away from the door.

The student puts his hand on my arm. I shake it off. Look down, and he’s left a stain.

“We paid up,” he says.

“Doesn’t make any difference to me.” I brush at my arm, then start walking again. I can hear Simon huffing behind me. Then he breaks into a short run, his voice trembling with the effort. “Hold on, wait a second.”

“Take it up with Mr Plummer.”

Simon nips in front of us, his hands out. I back out of the way. That lad touches me again, I’ll touch him right back. Or else get Frank to.

Simon thrusts the eviction notice at me like it’s on fire.

“I don’t want it back,” I tell him. “You’ve got butter all over it.”

“No, we’ve been through this with Mr Plummer already, we’ve—”

“I don’t make the rules, son.”

A flash of disgust. “Who the fuck d’you think you’re calling son?”

“I don’t decide who to evict, do I? You want to complain about it, you take it up with Mr Plummer like I said.”

Simon mutters something, but I don’t catch it. I try to dodge around him, but Simon hangs on, gets right in my face. The smell of booze on his breath means we’re going to have a problem. This lad’s had a long night in the pub and it’s made him more than a little ballsy.

“We sort this out now,” he says.

“No,
we
don’t, mate.
We
fuckin’ leave it.”

His voice harder now. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Here, don’t get any ideas, mate. Don’t make this difficult.”

“You alright, Si?”

A new voice. I turn, see someone in the doorway to the house. His silhouette, at least. From where I’m standing, it looks like he has one long arm.

I’m about to point that out to Frank when Simon blindsides me with a short, stinging punch to the ear. I duck and twist to one side. Frank lurches into Simon, grabs him in a hug that slams the wind out of him and keeps the lad’s fists from swinging at anything but his sides.

“The fuck was that, Simon?” Rubbing my ear, trying to get the sting away, hissing in air, but the pain won’t shift. “Jesus, I’m just doing my fuckin’ job here, man.”

Simon’s face is twisted, his neck showing cords as he screams, “Gaz, fucking do him!”

And then I realise as I turn towards the house, that lad, he doesn’t have one long arm, he has a fucking baseball bat in his hand.

Gaz comes roaring out of the house, slams through the gate like a berserker, the bat raised high above his head. Obviously never swung in anger his entire life, but it won’t take much practice. One lucky shot to a bloke’s head is more than enough to put him down. But this guy’s all over the place, the booze still in his system. Means he’s way off-balance, but it also means he won’t know when to stop swinging.

“Frank. Bat.”

He’s still wrapped around Simon, can’t see me. “What?”

“Drop him and run.”

Gaz swings wild, slicing the air over my head as I drop to a crouch that spikes my back. I dig in, put my palms to the tarmac for balance and scramble out of the way as Gaz chops the bat once off the road. The vibration must’ve kicked a shock up his arms because he pauses. Shakes his hand out, adjusts his grip.

It’s all the time I need to run to the car. I pull open the driver’s door.

I shout at him, “Frank, I’m telling you—”

Frank’s broken the hug, and I see Simon stagger a few steps off to one side.

Turn back, and there’s Gaz coming for me again.

I put up a warning hand. “Hang fire a fuckin’ second—”

Have to whip my hand out of the way as he swings at it. Then again, aiming for my head this time, but I shove the open driver’s door at him and the bat goes through the side window.

He kicks the door shut and I back off, break into a run as Gaz slices at me with the bat, connecting this time, the end of the bat switching my hip out. I twist painfully and fall against the boot.

He backs up, prepares another swing. Looks like the fucker’s all set on killing me. Eyes like a purebred mental case.

Then Frank’s in front of me. Gaz swings with the bat, but he’s way off the mark. Frank launches himself at Gaz before the lad has a chance to swing it like he means it. The two of them hit the tarmac, the bat jolting out of Gaz’s hand and rolling across the road.

“Frank,” I say.

There’s a liquid thump as Frank puts his fist in the student’s face. He draws his hand back, pauses for a second as if he’s hefting the weight of his own knuckles for the first time, then lands another blow.

I grab my hip, my other hand wrapped around the empty window frame. Sucking air to kill the throb and stifle some of the fear. I’m just waiting for the martial arts expert to come out of the house now.

“Frank. Leave him. Get in the fuckin’ car.”

Frank pulls himself to his feet. As he does so, Gaz rolls out onto his side, his hands up over his face, fingers caging the mess that used to be his nose. He lets out a low guttural moan as Frank backs off across the road towards me. I slap the big lad on the shoulder and get into the Micra. He slams the passenger door as I struggle with the ignition. I’m twisting the key, but the engine won’t catch.

“Cal,” he says.

“C’mon, you fuckin’—”

“
Cal.”

A bang against the windscreen throws me back in my seat. “The
fuck
was that?”

And I see him out of the corner of my eye. Simon. He’s picked up the baseball bat, glaring at us through his guitar band hair, his mouth open. Then his lips slap shut and he takes another pass, swinging at the windscreen. The glass rattles in the frame.

Frank panics. “You want to start the engine, Cal?”

I wrench the key in the ignition again. “No, I thought I’d leave it and see if he can get through the windscreen, you
Deacon
.”

Simon backs off a few steps, the soles of his trainers scraping against the road. Still breathing through his mouth. He’s saying something to himself, but while he’s moving his mouth, there’s no sound coming from him. Then, when he’s far enough away for a decent run-up, he kicks into the tarmac and charges us, bat raised.

Another twist, the engine catches.

The radio blares at us, but at least it’s not The fucking Diamond.

I stamp the accelerator, feel the car grind and stall, the gears crunching, and pull hard on the steering wheel. The Micra lurches forward and up onto the pavement as Simon swings. There’s a loud crack, and the wing mirror on my side whips into the air.

“You fuckin’
bastard
.”

“Keep your foot on the pedal,” says Frank.

I do. Simon throws the bat at the car. It bounces off the bodywork, forcing me to flinch. In the rear view I can see it roll onto the road again.

Simon makes a move to pick up the bat. Then he straightens up, watching us roar out of there.

I watch him in the rear view. I only slow down to take the corner at the end of the street.

Thinking, next time, we keep the engine running.

Fifteen minutes of silent driving, give or take. But I can tell, the big lad’s sitting there next to me just
itching
to talk about what happened. Couple of times, I hear the sharp breath of him about to say something, but then he bottles it. Probably thinks I’m going to chuck him out of the car if he tries it on.

So he waits until we’re closer to his flat.

“Alright,” he says, “I’ve got to ask—”

“Don’t bother.”

“Where’s your head?”

“Still on my shoulders, Frank. Just about.”

“Nah, I mean it. You can tell us.”

“I mean it an’ all.” I shift in my seat. Switch on the radio. Some song about truckin’ right, and I try to do the same. But it’s difficult when it feels like my hip’s been fractured. “There’s nothing the matter with me a little quiet won’t fix.”

“We’ve been quiet,” says Frank, pushing his seat back a few notches. He’s stopped shaking out his hand now, content to cradle it palm-up in his good hand like a wounded bird. A pained look on his boat and blood spattered across his North Face — lucky for him it’s washable.

He sighs to himself and stares out of the window.

“Normally,” he says, “you’re fine. Normally, you’d be able to see a bloke with a baseball bat.”

“I did see him.”

“Before he started swinging it at us.”

“I told you. I said,
Frank. Bat.
How much more specific do you want it?”

He shakes his head. “You ask me, it’s them pills—”

“No, not now, don’t start on the fuckin’ pills, Frank.”

“You ask me, they’re making you slow.”

“You ask
me
, you keep it shut, Francis, ’cause I’m sick of fuckin’ hearing it.” I chew the inside of my cheek, keep my eyes on the road.

A pause.

Then: “You want to talk about the pills, it’s not the fuckin’ pills, alright? I’m fine on them.”

“Okay,” he says. But he’s still pouting.

“Frank, when I don’t take the pills, I’m in pain. How’s that for slow? Can’t
move
, reckon that’s pretty fuckin’ slow. What d’you think, eh?”

“I only know what I see, Cal. You don’t look well—”

“You don’t look like an arsehole, but you sure as fuck
sound
like one.”

“Yeah, see? Tetchy.” Frank sucks his teeth. “That’s what I’m talking about right there. Slow and tetchy. There’s me, I got my hand broke—”

“You just bruised your knuckles, you queen.”

“Nah, reckon it’s broke, the way I hit him. Hit him hard, y’know?”

“You’ll heal.”

He breathes out through his nose. “I don’t want to go back to prison for this.”

“You won’t.”

“Something that I’ve been very careful about, you know that.”

“You still on licence?”

Frank doesn’t say anything. I glance across at him. He’s looking at his hand.

“Are you?” I say.

He shakes his head.

“Well then, you want to look at the bigger picture, mate. That bastard was brandishing a baseball bat, right?”

“Right.”

“It comes down to it, you were in fear for your life, so you struck out. It was defensive, what you did. Anyone who says the odds were in your favour, they’re just as tapped as you.”

“I don’t know that he’s alright though, do I?”

“If he was moaning, Frank, he was breathing. Believe me, I’ve been there, fuckin’ done that. You thank your lucky stars it was just your hand.” I point around the car, checking it off: “New windscreen, new side window, new wing mirror—”

“Don’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, you think so? Because what I think is, he’ll laugh at me if I ask him for compensation. You know yourself what Plummer’s like for fuckin’ money. Get him to put his hand in his pocket for our wages, it’s like we’re stealing bread from his kids” mouths. Might as well forget about the incidentals.”

“Well,” says Frank, “maybe if you’d been a bit more on the ball—”

“What’d I tell you?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t.”

Frank doesn’t carry on. His lips bunch as he turns his face to the window. Sulking.

“You want dropped at your mum’s or yours?”

Frank grunts. “Mine. Please.”

He’s quiet for the rest of the journey. I think I hear a “thanks” and a “night” out of him, but I might be wrong. I don’t hold it against him. The lad’s in pain.

Which is probably why he slams the passenger door too hard.

I watch him head to his block, then reach for my pills. Swallow two with some bottled water, shake out the stiffness in my neck and take a deep breath. Finally. A little fucking relief. Then I throw the car into gear and head home.

I’m well into the bottle when the phone rings. Takes some concentration to pick up the receiver. A deep breath before I answer, because I think I know who this is going to be. Only one person I know who disregards the ten o’clock cut-off.

“Tell me why Frank’s just tried to phone in sick for tomorrow,” says Plummer.

“Alright, Don? How are you?” I take a drink. “You almost get your head kicked in tonight?”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I fuckin’ answered it, didn’t I? Look, you want to send us round to a place where they keep a weapon by the front door, it’d be nice to have a wee bit of warning, eh?”

“Did you serve the notice?”

“Is Frank alright? What about Callum? Is he okay?”

“Sorry?”

“Those are the questions you
should
be asking, Don. Should’ve enquired as to the wellbeing of your favourite employees.”