No More Heroes

Marvin arrived in our barren patch of turf baring the scars of life having burnt him out big time.  He stumbled into the quadrangle by the overpass, tripping against imaginary rocks and shuffling blindly through the cloud of smoke billowing from the Blacksmith’s furnace, presenting himself as if we’d booked him for an interview.  He planted two scruffy size nines before us, brushed vigorously at a suit I imagined once verged on smart and preceded to fidget like he’d taken speed to cure a bad day in the land of Tourette’s.
We never understood the reason for Marvin falling off the perch.  His life, as I remembered it, was one of wealth; fast cars, fine restaurants and a mortgage to sink the national debt.  Why he sought our aid was a mystery?  In the short time he shared the shadow of our rock he offered no clues. 
‘He’s on the run,’ Tommy said.  ‘Got to be, dude.’ 
Tommy shifted his arse, the sofa squeaking as he stretched his long thin legs out to the hot coals in the furnace.  He pushed the straw Stetson back on his head, tucking the blond forelock beneath the brim.  He dragged hard on his roll up and blew a long plume of smoke in Marvin’s direction.  He stared at the forlorn figure, nodding to confirm his righteous observation.
‘On the run from what?’ I said.  ‘He’s dressed like he’s off to work sitting behind a desk totting figures and stuff.’ 
Marvin shuffled his feet, scratched at his arse, kicked at the dirt and adjusted his tie before revisiting the itchy spots.  I grabbed the bottle from the ground to stop me aping his neurosis.  Tommy squirmed on the sofa and scratched at the hair beneath his hat.  It was endemic.  I took a small mouthful of the rocket fuel, swilling the noxious fluid, gargling and delaying the moment I swallowed and suffered the burn. 
‘He’s killed,’ Tommy said.  He flicked the butt into the fire and grabbed the bottle from me.  He drank and spat and passed it back.  ‘For sure, someone’s lying dead, probably buried somewhere remote.  I’m telling you dude, he’s a killer.’
I hadn’t seen Marvin in years.  I hadn’t seen him since he’d married my childhood sweetheart.  And there he stood, his tragic life causing him to genuflect to anybody who crossed his path, his mouth stuttering over apologies on his right to breathe.
Marvin wasn’t admitting to murder.  He wasn’t saying a lot of anything.
‘Him kill.  No.’  Van, the provider of the day’s cache of rocket fuel he called Vodka, stood tall and pointed a thick finger at Marvin.  He was foreign, so foreign he was difficult to understand.  He was the size of a craggy mountain with a mop of hair decorated with grass and twigs and minute rodents nested amongst the thick growth.  As it was the middle of winter, the hours forever dark, the chill winds strong, Van was dressed in shorts and singlet with sandals like he was partying by the beach.  ‘He ripped people off.  Bad people.’
The three of us considered Van’s and Tommy’s opinions, scrutinizing the bent figure, searching for clues as to why he stood before us, why he didn’t have a coat or scarf, his scruffy suit jacket inadequate for the chill of the night. 
‘I know this man,’ I said.  I pulled my coat tighter and moved my feet away from the furnace as the meager lining of rubber on my boots was melding to my socks.  ‘Trust me he could over dramatize the death of a bloody moth so let’s not be talking about killing.  Eh Marvin?  You haven’t killed anyone, have you?’ 
And still no response from the man.  His face had taken on a pained expression, a crooked squint and the eyes were half closed.  The mouth hung loosely with chapped lips and a scar of dribble caked his chin.  He heaved a black bag off his shoulder and dumped it at my feet.  I laughed because the gesture summed up everything I remembered about the boy I’d known as a child.  The bag had to be so heavy.  And the bag had to land with a thud so loud everyone understood Marvin’s world was in crisis.  And the bag had become the baton in a relay, the act of dumping it in my patch was Marvin telling me to take over, to run with the bag because he’d had enough of the burden.       
Tommy nudged me and pointed at the bag.  ‘Told you Ben; he’s killed someone.  There’s a head in that bag.  The head of the woman who scorned him, dude.’
‘Him, a killer.  No.’ 
Van grabbed the bottle and stood tall above us, his dark hair highlighted by the rays of the moon.  He tilted his head back as if baying like the wolves inhabiting the craggy mound of earth beyond the allotments and began to pour the clear fluid into his mouth.  He didn’t choke or cough, but reveled in the burn and splash.  The bottle was withdrawn, the mouth wiped of the excess and he gave a heartwarming burp before thrusting the bottle at Marvin.  He fumbled and clutched desperately, but dropped it when Van clapped him heartily on the back.  The impact echoed around the vast quadrangle.  Ghostly faces from the shadowed fringes of the quadrangle glared at the sofa we were sat on, curiosity aroused for a nanosecond.  You could hear the bones in Marvin’s body shuddering and groaning with the impact as he dropped to his knees. 
‘Killer.  You talk of killing.  You know nothing of killing.’ 
‘Shut up Van,’ I said.  ‘We know life’s tough where you come from.  Death, pestilence, war blah blah but Marvin’s no thief and there isn’t a severed head in that bag.  Look at him, but don’t hit him again.  He’s broken already.  You all right Marvin?’ 
He remained squatting, tugging at the bottle, tiny cat sips of the noxious fluid wetting his lips.  I didn’t care why Marvin was soiling our patch.  For sure he’d burrowed beyond his depth, misplaced the ladder, so to speak, and the walls of his tragic hole were crumbling on top of him.  But did I care?  Whatever the reason Marvin abandoned the riches he inherited its significance mattered little in my life.  I was vaguely interested in what had become of his wife, my childhood sweetheart but not enough to welcome the boy into my world. 
I kicked at the bag.  It was heavy.  My gaze found Marvin’s eyes for a fleeting second before he turned away.  Tommy kicked at the bag and nudged me.
‘It’s a fucking head, dude.’
Whatever was in the bag represented trouble.  Whatever reason Marvin chose to dump the bag at my feet meant I was in trouble if picked it up.  He was watching me, his eyes not meeting mine but he was desperate for me to reach for the bag.  I shook my head and kicked at the bag again. 
‘Fuck off Marvin.’  For the first time our eyes met.  There was no life in his eyes and he dropped his gaze soon enough.
‘That’s not cool dude.  Ben he’s an old mate.’
‘No Tommy; he’s fucking with us.’

         

The dead body the Law found half buried beneath the cuttings and brambles of the allotments confused our musings on the subject of Marvin.  Not more than a fortnight after his sad figure stumbled into our patch someone had beaten Marvin with something pretty big.  A hefty stick had been employed to thrash him beyond human resolve.  His body had been broken and buried in the allotments adjoining the quadrangle housing the Blacksmith’s workshop, the furnace and the sofa we parked our sorry arses on: Our world so to speak.  And with his death I should’ve felt a release from the sense of foreboding Marvin’s appearance caused me.  The ghostly figure we met in the quadrangle that night expected a commitment I couldn’t provide and I wasn’t ready to take the bullet he suggested we share. 
Hey, my life didn’t need complications from the past and a dead Marvin suited me fine.  The live version, the crumpled wreck prostrating before us a fortnight ago gave me the creeps.  Unfortunately Marvin hadn’t crashed our party for fun.  Marvin hadn’t forgotten to bring the booze or a significant other; no Marvin had been looking to lose the crap party his life had become:  Marvin was out of options and he thought I might give a shit.
Alas Marvin should’ve chosen another night to turn up dead because our calendar looked close to bursting.  You see the town of Ostere, our precious home, was under siege from folk who thought they'd been dealt a fairly crap hand.  Fire burnt brightly, shops and buildings literally exploded in a rampant exhalation of angst.  Hooded youths had swarmed into the streets, armed with a collection of rocks, sticks and incendiary bottles, spreading out into the suburbs like a rampant plague.  Scarves masked their faces; fluorescent guards protected their arms with baseball bats gripped tightly to be swung with venom.  Flames reached high into the night as shops were smashed open, trashed then looted. 
Loud deep throated helicopters dotted the sky their spotlights flashing out trouble and highlighting the anger dominating our streets.  Wave after wave of angst stormed late into the night, chanting a manic dirge, the reds and blues inciting their anger, the undermanned Polis force retreating with shields protecting their heads from the avalanche of rubble raining upon them. 
         The store holders of the high street made me laugh; fighting for their lives might have been at the heart of their actions but a broom isn’t going to cut it.  Bristles might have been jabbed with intent but prodding at a mass pack of feral natives that hadn’t been fed in a generation of austerity would only antagonize them.  Tommy said he watched the girls at Hair Galore slashing the idiots with combs as they attempted to nick hair gel.  And their boss hit the floor, tall and skinny wearing something slinky in leather with his shirt exposing a naked chest, an arm dramatically attached to his hip for balance as he slashed with a cut throat as if his life depended upon it. 
We aren’t talking third world here. No guns or real passion Van would say.  But rage, blood thirsty hate; and to this day no one knows the target of their anger.  It certainly wasn’t the Dead Poet Public House as it sat outside the firing line.  The Landlord had left his doors open and no rioter thought a lesson could be lectured to the Poet.  But hey rioting can be thirsty work and Jacko, hard man, scary man, welcomed all those who enjoyed a frothy mug of beer.
Van had been in the pharmacy purchasing his particular brand of high and witnessed the girls squirting the looters with deodorant as if it were mace.  It still didn’t prevent theft and destruction as the looters armed themselves with an array of scents they hoped would entice every feral feline within a cat’s meow.
‘Crazy,’ he said.  I think that’s what he said.  ‘In my country we shoot with guns, we throw bombs and we kill.’ 
Enough of Van, trust me he’s only good for Vodka.  He continually bleats on about his country, how hard, how tough, but we have no idea of his origins. 
Any other night Marvin’s death might've made the news. His murder should’ve been exceptional and horrible but full blown panic ruled the borough of Ostere.  The good residents were hiding behind locked doors witnessing the drama on television, receiving gossip through their phones and spreading the news on social media.  Marvin died in a small patch of turf where the forgotten people resided.  There were no cameras or reporters covering the dark areas of Ostere.  The attention was on the riots; the color and the noise and the battle between good and evil. 
No one, country wide, understood where the Polis had been when it began. 
‘Picking up their bribes,’ Tommy said.  ‘Thursday’s pay day, eh Ben?’ 
It was a fact of life Coppers didn’t get paid a fortune, but I thought the problem lay with the hallowed halls of the City where the suits had been sharpening knives since the Great Recession began; the notion of coppers pounding leather on pavements relegated to past history by their measures of austerity.  Emergency numbers were flooded on the night with calls from citizens fearing they were under attack but found themselves put on hold, the robotic chimes of a long forgotten Opera supposedly soothing their panic.  One paper quoted an irate member of the public being told to take a number as if they were shopping at the local delicatessen.  The Reporter editorialized about the Polis becoming a private force with shareholders to answer to.  The protection of the public was no longer a priority unless booked and paid for in advance.
We heard talk, just crappy gossip I know, but it did come from the hooded folk deep in the heart of the action and suggested the merciless killing of a lad caught stealing a loaf of bread triggered the mindless mayhem.  One irate chap, masked, hooded and spitting all manner of hate at the world, joined the crusade to lynch a Copper.  He inspired a following large enough to be called an army to carry out his mission.  Tommy, man on the spot, reckons he met a young girl, struggling to hold her loot, jabbering on about needing this and that and a girl can never have too much make-up, yet her well lacquered, glossy lips pouted otherwise.  Tommy also reckoned nothing was ever going to make her snout look any smaller, no matter how many cosmetics she nicked. 
Van was right:  The riot was for amateurs, for the looters and thugs who had destruction and theft on their minds.  There was no right or wrong involved, just bloody minded mayhem. 
A nameless commentator within the media informed us a gulf had grown between the ‘haves’ and ‘have not’s’ thus driving the ‘minions’ to rebel.  He or she or they believed the original demonstration, the peaceful protest of concerned and grieving citizens descended into anarchy because a militant section of our community, a barbaric hateful mob instigated the first act of aggression.  And we followed like sheep gleefully lusting the destruction of all symbols oppressing our simplistic existence.
I didn’t get it.  It all sounded like pompous crap to me.  I hadn’t owned two shekels I could to rub together in years yet I'd resisted the urge to rebel, to burn and trash my beloved town.  What did make me laugh were the citizens of ‘worth’ who stood proud and shook their fists and bemoaned the wanton destruction of our town.  They demanded severe punishments should be forthcoming before someone ended up dead. 
The warning came too late for Marvin, eh?  In our quiet section of Ostere, down a narrow cobbled side street not far from where the riots occurred, Marvin’s lonely wan figure had been dumped in an overgrown allotment:  Marvin’s body lay broken and battered beyond repair.