No More Heroes (8 page)

“Later,
Mr Incredible!”

That smart arse always has to have the last word.

HERO PI SAVES CHILD FROM INFERNO

There you go, there’s the best ad I could hope for. Fuck Paulo’s “balls and integrity” stuff, the early evening edition says I’m a
hero
. And I’m making sure that everyone in the pub knows it, holding it up so anyone who wants to can see the headline over my shoulder. If they’re going to be nosey, they might as well be impressed at the same time.

Unfortunately, the headline’s about the only decent thing about the story. One picture makes me look like a puffy, drunk version of my dad. I try not to look at that one if I can help it. And after a quick scan of the interview, it sounds like even though Beeston had a tape recorder with him, he hadn’t switched it on. That, or I wasn’t entertaining enough for him, because he obviously decided to make up the whole fucking thing.

“I did what anyone would do,” said private investigator Callum Innes. “You don’t think about yourself in those situations.”

And what does Innes think about his new status as Salford’s very own  local hero?

“You do what you have to do,” he said. “I’m just an average guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

I didn’t say any of that, I’m positive. Doesn’t sound like me. Far too cool and optimistic. No, what I said to Beeston was I was sorry to be anywhere near the place, that I didn’t do anything particularly special and if Daft Frank had bothered his arse to kick down the door when I told him, I wouldn’t be suffering from black lungs right now.

Except that didn’t meet with Beeston’s approval, obviously. Not the way a “hero” should talk, so he’s gone and made it all up. And I sound like some square-jawed smug bastard who reckons his shit doesn’t stink. But then that’s what the public need, according to Beeston. They need someone to look up to. And it’s easier to believe in a cliché, because they’re familiar with them. They’re comfortable, and God help us if we make anyone uncomfortable.

Which explains why my brother isn’t mentioned, even though I was asked about how I came down to Manchester. Smackhead family doesn’t reflect well on a bloke. Neither does prison time, which excuses my dad — not that I’d mention him anyway — as well as my own experience.

It also explains why Granny Rashid made half a sentence, a glance of death buried deep in the text of the story. She was old, going to die soon anyway — that’s the implication. Doesn’t matter that she burned to death, went out screaming.

No, look at the pictures instead, people of Manchester. Look at Innes standing in front of the Lads’ Club, looking for all the world like he’s just staggered to the end of a week-long binge drink. Those half-lidded eyes, a touch of the early morning nausea, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth because the photographer told him that would hide the double chin he never knew he had.

Across the page, the Lads’ Club again, this time with The Smiths in front of it. Bring up Paulo’s place, they have to trot out Morrissey and Marr. One of the commandments of Manchester journalism — tie it to the music, might make people read the fucking thing.

Same deal with the flats that used to be the Hacienda. A mass murder in there, and they’d have a picture of Bez and Shaun to accompany it.

Still, I never thought I’d ever be in that close proximity to Moz.

I take a drink from my pint. I want a cigarette, but I’d have to go outside to have one. Still haven’t quite got my head round that yet.

I keep going through the newspaper. There’s a small, but perfectly libellous story about Donald Plummer, calling him the “Slumlord of Manchester”. And for all Beeston’s promises, it’s his name on the byline and most of the story’s pure hearsay. Next, some local spokesbastard for the English National Socialists harping on about the rise in racial assaults against whites in the city centre. Got himself a right cob on about it. Reckons these cases have been overlooked by a liberal constabulary “more concerned with policy than policing”, whatever that means.

Then there’s the gang of rude boys with baseball bats who took apart a grandmother of six, robbed her of the money she’d stashed in the biscuit tin.

And the nine-year-old Asian lad who’s been stabbed to death in Moss Side over his mobile.

Vox pops in small boxes, the average person on the street asked, should kids of nine have mobiles in the first place?

The general consensus: yes, they need ’em. Too many paedo kidnappers about.

So there it is. The good stuff engulfed by the bad. Hero news doesn’t survive when there’s tub-thumping and hand-wringing to do.

Still, it was nice while it lasted. I knock back the rest of my pint and get up from my table. I leave the paper behind, open at the story about me. One of the regulars, a fat, oldish bloke who I think is called Terry, waddles over to the table and points one chipolata finger at the newspaper. I notice he’s missing a nail on the pointing finger.

“You finished with that, son?”

I glance at the paper. “Yeah, you go ahead.”

“Ta.” He grabs the newspaper, looks at the story, then up at me. “Here, is this you, then?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth parts in a gummy smile. “Christ. Well done.”

“Thanks,” I say as I’m heading to the door, one hand on my cigarettes.

“Here,” he says, just as I’m about to leave, “you’ve not half put on the beef since they took this, eh?”

I don’t say anything. Just push outside and shove an Embassy into my mouth. Turns out celebrity means politeness goes out of the fucking window. I’ll have to get used to that. Or else develop selective deafness. Either way, I can only hope that with celebrity comes paying work.

Once I get home, I find it does. It just happens to be the last person I want as a client.

Plummer’s read the same paper I have. I know that because he’s been leaving me messages all afternoon.

“Callum, it’s Don. Give me a ring back.”

“Callum, Don. Call me.”

“Hey, come on, I know you’re there, alright? Ring me, will you?”

Variations on a theme. Now I’ve turned the ringer off, all I need to hear is the click of the machine every hour on the hour. I don’t need to hear the message to know it’s Plummer, and I don’t need to listen to it in order to know he’s no longer the suave Cary Grant wannabe. The early messages showed the strain in his voice. The last one I heard, he was beginning to sound more like Jimmy Stewart.

“Callum, this … This is important. You better — I’m warning you right now — you
better
call me back, okay? It’s really urgent that you call me. Right? Call. Me.”

Desperation will do that to a bloke. And this kind of mithering’s enough to drive someone like me to the bottle. Course, my local offy just had its shutters pulled because of rats and green lager, so I have to make do with the rest of the Vladivar.

So by the time Plummer calls back, I’ve had enough booze to feel like I’ve got something to say to him.

I blow smoke as I answer: “Good evening, Callum Innes, private investigator, speaking. How can I help you?”

“Oh, you’re a PI again, are you, Callum?” says Plummer.

“Maybe.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“About. You know me.”

“I know you’re not picking up your phone.”

“What’s this, then? ESP?”

A sigh. “You were supposed to come by the office and pick up work today. I’ve got a backlog for you and Frank.”

“Ah, I thought we talked last night, Donald.”

“Right—”

“And I thought I told you then that if I got hurt one more time, I’d walk.” I clear my throat. “So guess what fuckin’ happened.”

“You didn’t get hurt. I’ve got the paper in front of me right now. You look fine.”

“The pain’s internal, Don.”

I cough dramatically. Reckon if it’s good enough for Frank, it’s good enough for me.

“Don’t be cheeky about this, Callum. My office, tomorrow morning.”

That’s supposed to be the end of it, a direct order. No ifs, buts or questions. I have been told.

Except I catch him before he hangs up. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You what?”

“I’d love to be able to help you out, Donald, but I’m afraid I think my cup runneth over.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Let me just check my availability for the thing you just mentioned. One moment, please.”

“Your
availability
?”

I put the phone in the crook of my neck, choke back a giggle with some more vodka and pour another glass. Leave Plummer hanging for a slow count of fifteen before I put the phone to my ear and clear my throat. “Donald. Hi. Thanks for holding there. I appreciate it. Thing is, though, I checked my diary, and what d’you know, I’m all booked up for the foreseeable. Maybe some other time, eh?”

“You’re pissed,” he says.

“You’re quick.”

“And you’re not serious.”

“As fuckin’ cancer, Donald.” I tap ash, talk with the cigarette in my mouth. “I’ve had enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.”

“Come round, see me tomorrow morning, we’ll talk about it.”

“Nothing to talk about. I’m through. I’m finished. I’ve decided, the decision has been made, I’m no longer going to be responsible for chucking people out of their homes.”

Plummer exhales loud and long into the phone. There’s the rustle of the newspaper at the other end. “You’ve read what they’re saying, have you?”

“About you? I saw something.”

“So you know what they’re doing to me,” says Plummer. “Hounding me.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I can’t do business like a human being. I’m being
written
about.”

“That’s very sad, Donald. But, I’ll tell you, if you want to put your tenants in firetraps, that’s your problem. Can’t expect to get away with it forever. And it’s hardly my fuckin’ fault the place caught alight, is it?”

“It didn’t just
catch alight
and you know it.”

“Whatever. Not my problem.”

He must think I’m going to hang up on him, because he suddenly speaks quick and high. “I need your help on this, Callum.”

“You remember who you’re talking to, right?”

“Seriously, I need to know who did this to me.”

“I’m sure you do. I suggest you hire a private investigator. Yellow Pages is a good start.”

“I’ll pay good money.”

“You don’t have good money.” I sit on the couch, stretch. Try to relax, because there’s an edge to my voice that I need to control. No sense in getting upset here. I’m the one in control. “I’ve done your jobs before, Donald. All the showers I had to take, my skin’s puckered to fuck. And, hey, I lost count of all the beatings I took on your behalf. Which is, I believe, what prompted this in the first place, am I right?”

“Callum—”

“I’ve walked, Donald. This is me, having
walked away
.”

There’s a pause. Plummer sounds like he’s growling, but it’s probably interference on the line.

“This is your fault. You know that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you hadn’t been such a bloody hero about all this, it would’ve blown over. Just would’ve been a tragic accident, local landlord gets slap on wrist. But no, you had to go mouthing off, get your picture in the paper.”

“To take away from the fact that someone fuckin’
died
, Don.”

“And who’s paying for that? I’m the one they’re calling—”

“The Slumlord of Manchester.”

“Because you can’t let go of your fifteen fucking minutes. I’m the
victim
here, Callum.”

“Oh,
you’re
the victim? See, I must’ve been confused, because I thought the
dead woman
was the victim. Maybe her family, who, just in case you hadn’t noticed, are now homeless. Not that they would’ve had a place to live for very long anyway.”

“You self-righteous—”

“You finished?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you are. And you know what? You
are
a slumlord. And a prize cunt into the bargain.”

I put the phone down on him. Look at it and finish my drink. Light another cigarette and get off the couch. Keep staring at the phone.

Fifteen minutes. Fuck him.

I pour another drink. Suck the smoke out of my Embassy and grind it out. Sparks and ash fly onto the coffee table. I batter the sparks into the table.

I
did
something. Paulo’s proud of me, which is a minor fucking miracle, the way things have been going since I got out of prison. And I’m a hero PI, I’m a
name
, I am known. People actually
know
me now. And that’s not going to last, I know that, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy it while it’s happening, is there? Fuck it, if nothing else, it’ll be a story to drink on for a while.

I grab the newspaper again, realise I can’t focus on anything because my vision’s gone double, triple, all over the fucking shop. Doesn’t matter. I think I know most of it off by heart anyway. So I stare at the picture of myself looking all shitty and drink the vodka.

When the phone rings again, I pick up the receiver, slam it down once, then leave it off the hook. He can shove his fifteen minutes up his arse, right along with his job. Top up my drink and propose a toast to myself.

Here’s to living the fucking dream.

Donald Plummer doesn’t think a slam-down hang up is a strong enough response. Say no till you’re blue in the gills, Plummer’s never been one to cut his losses when he can just pester someone into an affirmative. But I still don’t expect to see him hanging around outside my block car park first thing in the morning. I also don’t expect to see Daft Frank in tow. He’s dressed in a suit, which makes me wonder who died.

When I reach the gate, Frank raises one bandaged hand in greeting. I nod to him, then tell Plummer: “I thought we talked last night.”

He does not look good. Like he’s been hanging around here all night waiting for me to show up. Plummer’s cheeks show the greyish stubble of a man suddenly grown old and tired. It’s been a while since I’ve actually seen him in the flesh, but I’d swear that he wore the same suit, except then it looked clean. Now it’s crumpled, sweat stains on his shirt collar, darker patches under the arms. Frank’s a daisy by comparison.