No More Heroes (7 page)

I look at the carnage, then up at him. Can’t quite believe he had the balls to do that. “Very mature. I’ve got more, y’know. And we can go on all night.”

I take out another Embassy. Frank steps back. Shakes his head as I light the cigarette. He works his mouth.

Whatever he has to say, I don’t want to hear it. So I cut him off. “How’s the kid?”

“He’s fine. Family’s here.”

“Good.”

“Should’ve seen the dad, Cal. Bloke was crying, like
weeping
.”

“What’s he crying for?”

Frank shuffles his feet. “I don’t know. Relief, maybe. People get emotional at times like this. Can’t really blame him.”

“Probably a fuckin’ stamp collection or something. People are pigs.” I press my lips together, a cough threatening to break out of my mouth. Buggered if I’ll give Frank the satisfaction.

“Someone looking for you an’ all,” he says. “Lanky bloke, says he’s with the press. I thought he wanted to talk to me, like, but it’s you he’s after. Wanted a quick chat.”

“He mention my name, did he?”

“Called you a PI.”

“Fuck that. Can’t be arsed talking to a fuckin’ reporter. I’ve got to get back, get my car, man. Can’t leave it in Longsight.”

Frank grins. I look at him.

“What’s so funny?”

He points to the car park. “Right at the back there.”

“You nick my car keys, Frank?” I pat my jacket. The prescription bottle rattles. “The fuck you doing going through my pockets, man?”

“You gave them to us.” Frank looks hurt. “Remember, before they put you in the ambulance and you conked out.”

I shake my head. “Frank, no offence, but I wouldn’t trust you to wipe straight, let alone drive my car.”

“Well, you did. You told us to bring it back to the hospital.”

“I said that?” I look at the car park. Sure enough, right at the back, I can see the Micra’s white roof. Can’t really miss it — my car’s the only one that looks fit to be scrapped. “I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, you told us. Mind you, if you’re going to be all weird about it, I’ll take it back to Longsight.”

“No need to be a fuckin’ child, Frank.” I start walking towards the car.

“It’s in one piece. Just so you know, you
can
trust us to drive your car.”

“Right.” I put the cigarette in my mouth.

Wrong move. I cough and the Embassy goes flying out onto the ground.

“Fuck.”

Frank takes the opportunity to use his foot on the cigarette. He’s quick about it, but there’s no need for the obvious fucking relish. “See, you shouldn’t be smoking.”

I stare at him. “I appreciate your concern.”

“C’mon, least you can do is give us a lift home.”

No, the
least
I can do is leave him here, but I jerk my head towards the car anyway. Frank walks out in front and starts telling me about the press attention at the fire, the number of fire engines, all the people out front. Some of it I remember, most of it I don’t, and I’m interested in none of it. I’m about to tell Frank that when I hear someone shout my name. I turn round. There’s a lanky bloke running towards us, and the movement of his long limbs is strangely hypnotic, like a slow-motion John Cleese. He’s wearing a cheap suit that probably looked good three days ago.

“That the bloke who was looking for me?”

Frank nods.

“Thought as much. Get in the car.”

“Callum Innes,” says the bloke, stuttering to a walk, reaching into his pocket.

I think about lying, but I’ve already stopped, and I can’t think of anything convincing to fob this bloke off with. It’s been a long night. “What d’you say this bloke’s name was, Frank?”

“Andy Beeston,” says Beeston. “
Evening News
.”

“Yeah, my mate told me about you. What d’you want?”

Beeston brings out a small tape recorder, clicks a button on the side, and holds it up to me. I step back.

“Just wondered if you had a second,” he says, “maybe you could give me a quote or two about tonight?”

“Okay, how’s this: nice tape recorder.”

“Not long enough.”

“Look, I’m knackered, Andy, alright? I just want to get to bed.”

“I understand that. Absolutely. But just one question. You can do one—”

“Okay.”

“How does it feel to be a local hero?”

I look at him. “I’m not a local hero, Andy. I was just in the wrong fuckin’ place at the wrong fuckin’ time.”

Reckon he’ll have a job using that. Media savvy, that’s me.

“And how come you were there?” he says.

I shake my head and start walking. “I told you,
one
question.”

“You work for Donald Plummer, don’t you?” There’s laughter in his voice that sets me on edge.

“You’re making this a piece about Plummer?”

We stop walking. Beeston rolls his shoulders, but he looks more uncomfortable than confident. Still, there’s something going on he doesn’t want to tell me about. “I’d appreciate your thoughts on the matter.”

“What matter?”

“The recent allegations surrounding Donald Plummer.”

“I’d appreciate you fucking off out of my sight, you keep that shit up. Got something to say, say it straight.”

Beeston looks off at something behind me, still got that thin smile on his face. “Alright, that was a stretch.” Back to me, and talking like we’re old mates: “But do me a solid here, Callum, and I won’t disappoint. Plummer’s not the story if you give me something else instead.”

“The fuck do I care about Don Plummer?”

“I’ll make you look good.”

“I already look good.”

Frank laughs in the car. I shoot him a glare.

“But you’ve got to give me something here, mate. All this bad news recently, the public need someone to look up to, know what I mean?” Beeston opens his free hand, the other still holding the tape recorder within range. “All I’m asking, you give me a couple of quotes that I can actually use, we’ll get a bloke round tomorrow to take your photo and that’ll be it. Way I hear it, you could probably use the publicity, right?”

“I don’t get you.”

“For your PI business.”

I stare at him. “I’m not a PI.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“I used to be. Kind of.”

“Even so—”

“Andy, I’m tired. I just escaped the Towering fuckin’ Inferno, doctor says I’ve got smoke inhalation. Now all I want to do is go home and get some sleep. You want to make up a story, you go right ahead, go fuckin’ nuts. Make it about me, make it about Plummer, whatever you want, because right now, I couldn’t give a shit.”

I move back to the car, get in. Start the engine as Beeston appears at my side. If I had a window, I’d roll it up on him and go. He makes a show of turning off his tape recorder. Puts it back in his pocket and holds his hands up, his expression approximating sincere.

“Before you go,” he says, “there’s just one thing you probably need to know.”

“Okay.”

“The kid’s fine—”

“I know. I was told. But thanks, anyway.”

“His granny isn’t.”

Beeston’s fucking smiling at me. Like he’s enjoying this.

“What granny?”

The smile disappears from his mouth, but it’s still apparent in his eyes. “I can focus on one or the other, Callum. Your choice.”

“What fuckin’ granny are you talking about? There wasn’t a granny in the house.”

“You checked, did you?” he says.

Looking at him, trying to see beyond the cocky expression on his face, and I’ve got the word
Naani
in my head, thinking it’s not that big a leap from “granny’.

There’s me, I thought the kid was just frightened. I glance across at Frank. He’s staring straight ahead, doesn’t want to be involved. It’s obvious from that pitiful look he’s wearing that he knew about it, but he didn’t want to tell me. Feel like reaching across and slapping the guilt off his face.

But I don’t. I sit there. Stare at the steering wheel.

The dad was crying. Wasn’t relief. Wasn’t some fucking stamp collection. He’d just lost his mother.

“You okay?” says Beeston.

Like he gives a fuck. It’s a story.

“Tomorrow morning,” I say.

“Great stuff. What’s your home address?”

“The Lads’ Club in Salford.”

“You live there?”

“No, but you’re not coming round my flat. You want to do some good, you mention that place a lot. And tell your photographer I’m not pulling any daft fuckin’ poses.”

I put the Micra into gear and pull away. Frank stares out of the passenger window.

“When were you going to tell me, Francis?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just as well. Otherwise I’d be dropping him off at the nearest fucking bus stop.

“Couple more, Callum. Just so’s we’ve got a choice.”

This from the bastard with the Nikon. The sun shines off his head, making him look balder than he actually is. He’s already had me standing in front of the club, throwing hero poses for what seemed like ages. If he’d had a cape and a wind machine to hand, I wouldn’t put it past him to force both on me.

“Wanker.”

“Fuck. In. Wank. Ah.”

Now there’s a gang of kids on bikes heckling me, I reckon it’s time to call it a day.

“That’s it, that’s your lot, mate. I’ve got work to do.”

There’s a chorus of catcalls as I head towards the club. When I make a move at the kids, they scatter, the fattest one almost hits a note only dogs can hear as he slips onto his crossbar and separates his balls. He waddles off, straddling his bike. I could catch him, but I don’t know what I’d do to the little bastard if I did. So I leave him, reckon his bruised nads are enough punishment.

Paulo grins at me as I walk in. “Local fuckin’ hero, eh?”

I shake my head. “Not you too, man.”

“You want me to get you a special cake, Callum?”

“I’ve just had the most humiliating experience of my life, and you’re giving me shit. That’s nice, Paulo. “Preciate it, man. Really.”

The interview with Andy Beeston wasn’t too bad, just mind-boggling. Felt like as soon as I’d said something, I forgot all about it. Heard myself talking about stuff I didn’t want to talk about, saw myself digress all over the fucking shop. Kind of like having an out-of-body experience, except the body’s acting like a twat and you desperately want to shut it up.

Paulo grabs my arm. “You loved it, you little tart. Wait until that story comes out, they’ll be offering you the key to the city.”

“I don’t want the key to the city, I want a drink. You got the kettle fixed yet?”

“Nope,” he says. “But I can offer you something cold.”

“You got beer?”

He shakes his head and gestures to a vending machine in the corner of the club. I blink at it. It’s huge. And it’s new.

“You didn’t mention that yesterday,” I say.

“I had a brainwave while you were out rescuing children. You’d be surprised how quick they can drop these things off. I thought I’d have to wait ages.”

I walk to the machine, rifle in my pocket. Look up and Paulo’s holding a pound coin. I take it from him, drop the coin in the slot and press the button. A can of Coke clatters into the trough. At a pound a fucking can, I can understand why the company were so keen to get it round — once Paulo gets some kids in here, they won’t be able to fill it fast enough. I pop the lid and take a swig, the bubbles tearing the back of my throat out.

“Listen, thanks, man,” says Paulo.

I swallow. “What for?”

“Bringing the press round.”

“I didn’t want them round my flat, did I? It’s a fuckin’ tip.”

“Still.”

“It’s not a problem. You wanted the
Evening News
, you got ’em, for what it’s worth. Not like you couldn’t do with the exposure now you’ve got a brand new rip-off vending machine to pay for.”

“Pays for itself.” Paulo leans against the machine and looks at me. “Done any thinking on what we talked about yesterday?”

“Nothing but, man.” Another drink from the can and I can feel the wind building in my gut. I give it a second, burp a quiet one before I continue. “And yeah, I’m jacking in Plummer’s job. Told him the other night if I got hurt, I was going to walk. I got hurt, so I’m walking. Simple as. Whether I’ll come back and do the PI thing, I don’t know yet.”

“You told that reporter you were a PI.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah.”

I should really watch what I tell people. Or at least try to
remember
.

“I didn’t mean to tell him that,” I say.

“Doesn’t matter. You told him. You’re committed now.”

I shake my head. “Fuck that.”

“Hey, people see that in print, they’re going to want you to work for them.”

“I really doubt it, Paulo.”

“Never underestimate the power of the press,” he says. “Look, people read about you saving a kid, that’s going to reflect well on you.”

“Suppose so.”

“They hear you’re a private investigator, they’re going to think, I’ll have to remember that name. That boy’s got balls and he’s got integrity. You can’t fake that, y’know.”

“The balls or the integrity?”

“Both.”

I guzzle the rest of the Coke and drop the can in the bin. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’ve finished working for Plummer, so if the offer still stands, I’d be glad to come back.”

“Yeah, I’ll put you on the staff list.” He pauses. Grins, his eyes shining. For a second, I think he’s about to start crying. “I’m
proud
of you, man.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was nothing, bollocks.” Paulo makes a fist with one hand, shakes it. “I ought to knock some fuckin’ confidence into you.”

“Enough. You’ll be hugging me next.”

My own fault for mentioning it.

Paulo grabs me before I get a chance to move out of the way. He hugs me so tight, the breath rushes from my lungs and my arms get pinned to my sides. For someone so affectionate, it feels like he’s about to break my fucking spine. I try to struggle, but it’s no good. This old bugger’s still got some muscle on him.

“Easy,” I say. “C’mon. My back, man. I’ve got a bad back.”

He lets me go. “You asked for it.”

“No, I fuckin’ didn’t.” I brush myself off, punch him in the shoulder. “I’m off before you try to get more familiar.”

Paulo keeps grinning at me as I turn back towards the double doors.