No More Heroes (6 page)

“What’d you do that for, you daft sod?” Frank shouts after me.

“Nine-nine-nine!” I shout back. “Easy enough fuckin’ number, Frank.”

I shake my head, reckon I shouldn’t expect anything from a bloke with a fluorescent pink brain. He’s supposed to be the muscle, but when push comes to kick, where the fuck is he? Messing with his mobile like a scally in a bus shelter. Fine for fighting — you want a student pummelled, he’s your man — but watch him shite it when it comes to tangling with inanimate objects.

I glance back at him, and Frank’s on his hands and knees in the yellow grass and dog shit, looking for his precious phone.

Can’t get the staff these days.

Round the corner, and I count houses on the other side, picking up the pace now the ache in my foot’s subsided.

The door to the back yard swings open. Footsteps somewhere in the back alley that don’t belong to me. I stop, listen. Whoever it is that’s running around out here, they’re running
away
from me. I think.

Fuck it. Doesn’t matter.

I push the back door open, head into the yard. The smell of smoke is strong out here, and there’s already a flickering light in the kitchen window, a spot-on sign the place is already burning hard.

My first idea was to put a brick through the back window, but it looks like someone’s beaten me to it. Light reflects off the broken glass in the back door, grey smoke billowing out into the night air.

I don’t want to go in there, not if I can help it. But this isn’t a normal fire, and Frank saw someone in there.

I pull my sleeve over my hand, knock some of the glass from the frame. Feel around for a deadbolt and the door swings open.

The smoke makes me squint, brings tears to my eyes, just as the heat brings fresh sweat to my forehead. And there’s that smell, unmistakeable — burning petrol, and a lot of it. A pool of fire stretches out into the hall. This might be amateur arson hour, but even amateur arson burns.

I’m about to turn back — sack it, I’ll wait for the professionals — when I hear movement upstairs like my conscience thumping in my ears.

Shit.

Frank was right. I’m not alone in here.

“Anyone home?”

Knowing I’m not going to get an answer.

Another thump from upstairs. Could be human. My luck, it’ll be a fucking dog. Risk my life to save the family mutt.

I pull off my jacket, run it under the cold-water tap, soak the material right through. Should give me a fighting chance. Pull the jacket back over my head and push through the heat, the water evaporating with a hiss. Out into the hallway, and the walls have caught. I pull my jacket further, drop low and take the stairs as fast as I can.

Stumble halfway up, a drop of cold water breaks against the bridge of my nose. My heart beats double-time as I scrabble up the carpet, crawling up to the landing.

There’s a blur in front of me, a sudden breeze. From under the jacket, I can see legs, running left to right. Small feet, uncoordinated steps. I throw out a hand, try to grab but miss. The door on the far right slams shut.

So it’s not a dog. Which isn’t as comforting as it should be, given the circumstances.

Smoke keeps me at a crawl, trying not to breathe too hard, trying to keep the panic from welling up and dropping me to the floor. I make it down the landing, start battering the door. Shouts, high-pitched and frightened come from inside. A language I don’t understand. I ease myself up to the door and batter a little higher. The door doesn’t budge. Fucking kid must’ve wedged something against it.

When I look around, I realise that whatever started this fire caught fast, now spreading like a dirty joke.

I hammer the door until my fist throbs. More shouts. Sounds like a warning now. This kid definitely isn’t speaking English — I haven’t made out a single word so far — but maybe he understands it.

Worth a try.

“Let me in, you little bastard.”

Press my ear to the door. The kid’s still at it, screaming terrified gibberish. I try putting my shoulder where my ear was at high speed. The jolt puts screws in my spine, nerves whipping tight around vertebrae. I curl like a slapped kitten, drop to the carpet.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

That hurt.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. This daft kid’s supposed to have the basic nous to open the door and let me rescue him. What the fuck does he think this is, a home invasion?

Tears streaking down my face, but I don’t know whether it’s from the smoke or the pain in my back. Probably both, because when I speak, my voice comes out cracked. “C’mon, son, open the door, eh? Do your Uncle Callum a fuckin’ favour, just so’s he doesn’t crisp up out here …”

Nothing.

I look down the landing, see the first flicker of flame against wallpaper. Soon the place’ll be crackling from floor to ceiling and we’ll both be screaming. I try to swallow, but my throat’s already parched, my sinuses clogged and painful. Pull the prescription bottle out of one damp jacket pocket and shake it. No fucking chance these pills are going to kick in any time soon. So I sack the meds, stick the bottle back in my jacket.

“Open the fuckin’ door.”

Keep saying it. More to myself than the kid, knowing I might as well be throwing shadow puppets out here, all the good it does.

“Open the fuckin’ door … Open the fuck—”

The door moves, shifting my support away. I slip against the wall, see the kid peering through the gap, brown eyes wide and shining, dirty tear-tracks down both cheeks. I smile at him. He flinches, makes a move to slam the door on me.

No fucking way, mate.

I throw my arm through the gap, catch the door in the crook of my elbow. The boy bolts out of reach. I ease myself up, using the doorframe as a guide. Cough up something thick and spit black at the carpet.

Open the door and the kid’s standing on a mattress by the far window. I wipe the water from my eyes, see pictures from magazines — dinosaurs, mostly — scattered across the wall, stuck with tape that’s already curling in the heat. The boy steps further back, turns towards the window and peers over the sill.

Must be what, six? Seven? He’s small — that’s about the limit of my kid expertise. Probably small enough to carry.
Hopefully
small enough to carry.

I hold up my hand. “It’s alright, son. We’ll get you out of here, okay?”

The kid stares at me. He’s shaking.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s alright.”

He glances at the window, like he’s seriously considering doing a bunk from the first floor. Weighing it up in that tiny brain of his, already considering suicide as a viable alternative to letting me pick him up. Be a real kick to the balls for me if he pitches out that window.

“Wait a sec—”

The boy moves and I’m there. I grab him by the throat. One hand clamped tight, shifting to move into a headlock. He lets out a scream that sets my ears ringing; I tighten my grip on him. Fuck it, I’m not going to get any awards from the NSPCC, but I’m not used to handling kids. I just hope the lad doesn’t break my hold, and that I don’t accidentally break his neck. He keeps on wriggling until I give him a swift backhand to the arse.

The boy goes limp for a second, starts kicking again as soon as I pull him out of the room.

“
Naaaaaaaani!”

I think about belting the kid again.

“
Naaaaaaaani!”

A thick layer of smoke at shoulder level now. It’s enough to choke the lad, let me get my hearing back. Through the ocean in my eyes, I can make out flashes bouncing against the wall of smoke, strobing blue. And somewhere beyond my heart beating in my ears, I can hear sirens.

Looks like Daft Frank got his mobile working.

I take the stairs, and my back spasms hard. I drop to my knees halfway down, reach out and grab at the banister, manage to correct myself before I take the rest of the flight on my head. I catch the stench of what I reckon is burning furniture. And there’s that stabbing fear that Plummer fills his properties with all manner of cheap shit just to say they’re furnished, so that stench is probably toxic. I turn to look at the kid; he’s got the right idea, his hands up over his nose and mouth.

“You okay?” I say.

The kid doesn’t say anything. He’s too scared.

He’s not the only one.

Back to my feet, the kid weighing me down. He’s tensed right up, gone rigor-mortis rigid. I hope to fuck he hasn’t died of fright. A quick glance in the kitchen once I drop into the hall, and I realise my exit’s blocked, the fire raging out of control back there.

So I head for the front door. My senses gone, packed up with snot and fear, can’t think. I pull down on the door handle. Yank it hard, but it won’t go all the way.

The bastard’s locked.

I scream for help. The boy joins in.

Nice to know he’s still with us. More volume.

I bang on the door with my fist, risk messing up knuckles that have only just managed to heal.

There’s a flash in the kitchen. Just once, blinding white in the corner of my eye. Then a mule kick of heat to the back.

A crack against the front door. At first I think it’s my head, then that it’s the entire fucking house coming down on top of me.

Another crack. Pounding the door off its hinges. I duck down as the door flies open. There’s a hand on me. I look up. A fireman, full uniform, oxygen mask, looks like a cross between those blokes at the end of
ET
and Jesus, this halo of flashing light behind his helmet. A blast of fresh air grates through me, brings up the shite in my lungs, and the fireman drags me out of the house.

I hit the grass, coughing up lumps of lung and blackened phlegm. Then I throw up. Sit back on my knees, taking deep gulps of air with my eyes closed, my cheeks wet and stinging with tears.

When I open my eyes, the street’s heaving with people. A two-engine alarm, this one. People from neighbouring houses out to see the show, hugging themselves, suddenly chilly with the idea that this fire could spread.

A paramedic comes over to me, tries to help me up.

“Fuck off.” I push his hands away, feel my knees start to give, then grab onto him.

He leads the way. Feels like my head’s packed with fibreglass. The flashing lights blur into one dull strobe. Someone drapes a blanket over my shoulders — like I need warming up, someone’s taking the piss there — and sits me down near the ambulance. Something is pulled over my face. I hear someone telling me to breathe. I do what I’m told, too weak to fight.

Frank’s sitting on the ground next to me, his arms stretched out over his knees. When I look at him, he grins at me.

“Nine-nine-nine,” he says. “Easy enough number.”

I nod, put one hand on the mask covering my nose and mouth, and concentrate on taking deep breaths.

This doctor’s a piece of work. Looks like he’s just finished his GCSEs and he has a trio of tiny scabs on his neck that shows he’s yet to master the art of shaving. He’s also patronised the fuck out of me for around the last fifteen minutes. He’d know the exact length of time, because he’s looked at his watch more than he’s looked at me.

So, I’m not entirely convinced when he says, “No harm done.”

I squint up at him, the strip light burning my eyes. I bring up one fist to meet a rattling cough. “You think so?”

“Some smoke inhalation,” he says. “We can do more tests, but I don’t think they’re necessary. You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.” I attempt a disgruntled sigh, hear the crackle in my chest. “That sound fine to you?”

“Like I said, you took in some smoke. But you should bring that up in a couple of days.” He looks at his watch again.

I don’t say anything for a moment, just stare at him until he actually looks at me. Then: “You late for something?”

“Sorry?”

“You keep checking your watch, makes me think there’s somewhere you need to be.”

“No,” he says. “Look, what I suggest you do, if you have any lingering concerns, you should see your GP.”

I pull myself from the bench, taking the tissue paper with me. “Well, thanks for your time, anyway.”

Leave the room, fumble for my cigarettes, just to make sure I’ve still got them. I head down corridors full of coughers, bleeders, sniffers and moaners with one hand over my nose and mouth. Like I haven’t got enough problems with my health, I need to pick up something nasty from this bunch of patient zeros.

Head for the exit, push out the double doors and let my eyes adjust to the rapidly fading light. Must be knocking on ten-thirty, but the sun’s refusing to go down without a tussle. Dim enough to let my headache drop in intensity, though. Just as soon as I can open my eyes properly.

I pull my cigarettes from my pocket, shove an Embassy between my lips and look around the car park. Can’t see my Micra anywhere, so it’s probably back in Longsight. Which is a major pain in the arse. Still, that taxi fare’s going to Plummer, and I don’t want to hear any complaints out of the bugger.

Daft Frank turns up just as I’m lighting the cigarette. I frown at him. “What you doing here?”

He holds up one bandaged hand and grins. He stands well out of my smoking range.

“Right. You break it?”

“One of my knuckles went out of whack,” he says, touching the bandage. “Slight dislocation, the doctor said.”

“You get anything for it?”

He frowns. “How d’you mean?”

“Painkillers.”

“Nah.” Frank pulls a face. “Got no use for painkillers, man. They make you loopy. I don’t want to take any chances.”

“So, you did that student some damage, then.”

“Don’t, Cal.”

“I’m not trying to wind you up, mate. Just saying, thanks for stepping in.” I exhale, breaking into a cough that I have to quell with one hand.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he says.

“Frank, don’t—”

He waves his bandaged hand through the cloud of smoke. Making a point.

“Don’t start that shit again, mate. We were getting along for a moment there.”

“You’re killing yourself.”

“You fuckin’ drama queen. I think I’m entitled to a smoke, Frank. Had a bit of a rough night tonight.”

“And that’s making it better, is it?” He reaches forward, plucks the Embassy out of my mouth and tosses it to the ground. Then he makes a show of grinding it into a mess of paper and tobacco.