No More Heroes (28 page)

“Cal, your dad’s not dead.”

“My granddad, then.”

Frank pauses, a grape halfway to his open mouth, and his eyes narrow. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”

“Makes you say that?”

“You’re taking the mick out of us again.”

I smile with half my face. Must be pretty bad, because Frank looks at the bag of grapes in his lap.

Well, Christ, what was I going to tell him? That death was the ultimate nothing, as far as I can remember? No overwhelming sense of love or contentment, no feeling that I’d been a good person and could look forward to a pleasant afterlife.

Nothing.

Like there was no God, no heaven, just this eternity of darkness. And that didn’t scare me one bit, because deep down, after all those years of hard pews, fire, brimstone and guilt, it was precisely what I’d always wanted. No big man in the sky. No welcome party. No judgement day. No next life, just a lack of this one.

But I’m not about to tell Frank that. He’s a Methodist. He wouldn’t take it well.

“What about your face?” he says.

“Should be fine … a bit physio,” I tell him. “S’what they told me.”

“My nan had a stroke, like.” Frank plucks another grape from the stalk, rolls it around between thumb and forefinger, then puts it in his mouth. “She’d get words mixed up all the time, like instead of wanting chicken for dinner, she’d want pelican, stuff like that.”

“Right.”

“Her face didn’t get better.”

“She didn’t have … physio. Did she?”

“I don’t know what she had.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I raise my right hand to my right cheek. Feel the stubble growing there, rough against my fingertips. But everything else is slack there, my face dropped on one side. Now that I think of it, the doctor hadn’t mentioned the physio working on my face. He just talked about the effects of the stroke as a whole.

And what a fucked up word
that
is. You
stroke
a cat; it’s a soft, gentle movement. Pleasant. What the word doesn’t automatically bring to mind is the agony of the actual event. What it doesn’t tell you is that you’ll lose the feeling and motor skills in the right side of your body or that, when you eat, you’ll have the after-dentist dribbles because of that paralysis. And it certainly doesn’t tell you what you’ll look like if you manage to survive. Frank’s healing up, but he’s still no beauty. And if he can bear to look at himself in the mirror every morning, there should be no reason why he can’t look at me straight on now. I haven’t seen a mirror yet. Don’t want to. The sidelong glances are enough to tell me I’m not ready yet.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” says Frank.

“Not your fault.”

“Brought you a paper.” He nods at it.

“I saw. Thanks.”

“Should’ve been saving them for when you got better, but there wasn’t that much about you.”

“Hey, maybe … if I’d
died
,” I say, trying to smile.

“Maybe.” Frank doesn’t look at me, nodding. “You want me to fetch it for you?”

“Yeah.”

He moves the bag of grapes from his lap, drops them on the bed next to me, then looks suddenly guilty as he sees the grapes are now mostly stalk. “Uh, I ate some of your grapes.”

“Not a problem.”

“You sure?” Frank hands me the paper. “Still some left if you want ’em. I just get a bit uncomfortable, have to do something.”

“Hospitals, right? It’s okay, Frank. You did your bit. Appreciate it. You don’t have to … keep me company.”

“It’s my condition,” he says. “The antiseptic smell and that.”

“It’s fine.”

Frank nods to himself. “It’s just … There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

He looks behind him. Wondering if he should take his seat again. He decides against it, looks at his shoes instead.

“You’ll probably hear about it anyway, but Don’s left Manchester.”

“For good?”

“I don’t know. I mean, you didn’t read it, but the papers were being pretty harsh on him.”

“He deserved it. He’s a twat.”

“Well, he’s gone. He took his car back and he went.”

“Right.”

Frank glances at me, clearing his throat at the same time. “And, well, I was wondering, y’know, if that job offer was still going.”

“What job offer?”

“Remember, you said that maybe when you went back to the PI thing, you’d have an opening for me.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yeah. You did.” Frank moves his head, raises one hand. “Look, sorry to bring it up. It doesn’t matter, Cal. You’re probably not in the best shape right now. I’ll let you have your rest.”

He makes a move to go. I don’t stop him.

“We’ll talk. About the job. When I get out of here, eh?” I say.

“Right. I’ll leave you alone, then.” He stops, points at the paper without looking at me. “I don’t know if you’re interested, but there’s a bit about you in the paper.”

Frank holds up his hand again, this time as a goodbye wave, then heads up the ward. I can see the slight limp in his walk. Yeah, he’s healing, but there’s some damage in him they’ll never be able to put right. I don’t remember promising him anything, but he was good on the doors, so I might have something for him.

Fuck it, who am I kidding?

I open the newspaper. Try to read through a squint; the light’s too bright for me to focus for long.

David Nunn. Out of his coma. Much rejoicing. Family and friends look forward to welcoming him home.

And there’s the picture: those same family and friends with David in the middle. He’d look more like a recently-freed hostage if it wasn’t for the fact that someone’s taken the time to shave him. The skin’s taut over his cheekbones. That’s what a liquid diet does to a man.

The first thing he’s going to do?

“Have a few pints with my mates.”

Nothing about the police. No mention of Ben. No mention of Karyn. I keep looking for their names, their photos. Anything with a gaudy headline. Talking of which, there’s nothing about Donald Plummer either.

Getting to the point where I think I’ve just dreamt the whole fucking thing.

Then I turn the page, see the double-spread on the riots — THE AFTERMATH — and it’s one week on. I check the date on the front of the newspaper.

Christ. Time has a way of melting away when you’re under heavy sedation.

Back to the paper: police investigating …

I have to rub my eyes. Close them in a slow blink, then return to the newsprint.

Police investigating the car bomb on Wilmslow Road that took the lives of three Asian youths. Sources have indicated that the bomb — fucking hell — may have been a direct plant by the English National Socialists.

Sources
. A wonderfully vague term, meaning they just made this shit up.

Witnesses say that a number of suspicious-looking Caucasian men had been seen loitering around the car — a blue Volkswagen Beetle — in the days prior to the explosion. Then there’s a vague list of descriptions fitting these alleged bombers. One of them matches me, but I obviously haven’t been taken in to help police with their enquiries, because it also matches half of Manchester. The other two I recognize as David and Ben. But again, that’s only because I know who they are.

There’s a picture of Jeffrey Briggs, his face twisted into full-on denial. Playing it Nixon, refusing to acknowledge the allegations. I stop, check who wrote it.

Sure enough, with words like
sources
, it’s a Beeston byline.

And isn’t that the problem with journalists? They spend so much time making shit up, when they’re confronted with the truth, they don’t believe a word of it. Probably thought I was off my head on medication. Playing it up, trying to hold on to my hero status. Or else he does believe me and the only way he can put it out there is through
sources
.

I don’t know that I would’ve believed me, mind. Would’ve called myself deluded and left it at that, most likely.

Was I deluded, though?

According to what’s sitting right in front of me, I was. There was me thinking it was David Nunn and his mate burning houses, but it can’t have been. Had to be the English National Socialists; a militant strain of them, anyway. They were the ones who showed the foresight if not downright psychic fucking ability by planting a car bomb in the middle of a riot. It means they can be fingered for the attacks, too. After all, who’s going to believe that a couple of students were responsible for one of the biggest race riots the city’s ever seen?

Who would
want
to believe that? Especially when Briggs and his boot boys have been taking up too much airtime, making the place look bad.

No, Beeston knows his audience. They don’t want a human angle unless it’s either cute or tragic. Can’t get their heads around anything that isn’t black or white, spelled out for them in an eighteen-or-over headline font. Tell people students did the houses, the ENS did something else, that’s too much information to process. Tell them it’s all the English National Socialist party’s fault, you’re on safer ground. Now Plummer’s out of the picture, and now it’s obvious he didn’t burn his own property down, Beeston and the
Evening News
lot need to give the public someone to boo. And Jeffrey Briggs is that someone.

As for me, Frank’s right. There is a bit about me, but I almost miss it. The piece is buried on page sixteen, barely three lines. Saying I’m out of critical condition and should be back to work soon.

Above it, a huge article on the Eccles Youth Group and their new production of
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum.

Huh.

How quickly they forget.

As Paulo opens the door, this weird smell hits me. Air freshener. Bleach. No smoke, no smell of spilled lager, vodka, vomit, pasties or Pot Noodles. A clean smell. Actually, it smells like the fucking hospital, if I’m going to be honest. But I don’t say anything. The big lad’s done a lot of work in here.

“Welcome home,” he says.

He ushers me into my flat, his hand on my arm. My other side’s propped with a stick they gave me at the hospital. Just one item in a clutch of pensioner goody-bag souvenirs they foisted on me when I was fit enough to leave. It’s the first time I’ve used the stick — the fuckers wheeled me to the door and Paulo took on pushing duties after that — and I’m still not comfortable with trusting my weight to a bit of wood. Supposedly the lifetime of physio appointments they gave me will make that better.

But as Frank said, physio doesn’t help my face. Paulo hasn’t mentioned it, but there was a definite reaction when he saw me in that fucking wheelchair. I looked like a basket case, most likely. Shaved, bathed and fresh-dressed, but a basket case nonetheless. Maybe even worse for my clean and sober look — the terminal patient on one last day trip.

See, now. I should watch that. That’s just the kind of negative thinking I’ve been warned about. The kind that Paulo’s trying his best not to encourage. But also the kind that I can’t help but drift into.

Especially when my flat looks like a show home.

He probably thought it was a good idea. And, on paper, it might well have been. Clean up the place for my return, I was bound to love it. Like starting afresh, the slate wiped clean. Like D:Ream once famously sang for Blair, things can only get better.

And we all know how that turned out. For D:Ream
and
Blair. No reason to think it’ll work out any different for me. Still, it’s a nice thought.

The trouble is, I come home to a spotless house, I’m reminded of the fact that I died. That it would probably be like this if I’d stayed dead, my possessions taken out or hidden away, some other tenant shown around within the month.

I don’t say any of this. No sense in spoiling the moment, and what else could Paulo have done? Left it like the shithole it was?

“Thanks, man.”

He helps me to the couch. I rest the stick against the arm and it promptly drops to the floor.

“I got it,” he says.

I wave him off. “Not a fuckin’ … in-
valid
.” It doesn’t sound right, so I try it again: “
Invalid
.”

“Okay.”

I don’t look at him, but I can feel his stare. I need to think more about what I’m going to say. Otherwise I fuck up a word and it pisses me off.

Then we’ve got this long, uncomfortable pause. Him waiting for me to simmer down, me waiting for something to happen, sometimes drifting off.

Not now, though. Too busy feeling shitty for shouting at him. And knowing I have to swallow this back — have to stay positive.

“You want a drink?” he says.

I reach for the stick, say, “Murder one.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Stronger.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking.”

I grab the stick, lean back into the couch and realize that I’m winded. I catch my breath and put my head against the back of the couch, look at Paulo. “I think I’m entitled to a … beer. If there’s one in the fridge. Besides … I’ve got a fuckin’ throat on.”

“I thought you might say that,” he says, “so I got some in. Didn’t think you’d jump on them right away, mind.”

“Haven’t had a drink. Fuck knows how long.” I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out my cigarettes, nod at them. “Haven’t had …”

Paulo disappears into the kitchen. I reach across to the stick — thought I saw it move in my peripheral vision — and make sure it’s still leaning against the arm of the couch. Then I tug at the hospital bracelet. I hadn’t realized I was still wearing it.

“Scissors?” I shout to Paulo.

“You want scissors?”

“Yeah.”

“Will do.”

He comes back in with a beer and some scissors, holds the scissors out to me handle-first. I take them, snip off the bracelet and hand them back. Then crack the can of Kronenburg, take a drink. Bubbles scrape up my throat, my back teeth twinge with the cold. I put the can down, light an Embassy. That first drag makes me grateful I’m sitting down. Been so long since I’ve lit up, my lungs must’ve cleared out. Time to put some tar down there.

“You settled in now?” says Paulo.

I take another swig and sit back on the couch. “Just about.”

“Good. Your brother called.”