We Can Be Heroes (3 page)

‘Yep,' she says, tugging at her bunches until one ends up slightly higher than the other. ‘I know it's a bit confusing because I've got a Hindu name – apparently there was a big row about it at the time, but my mum
loved it and her great-great-grandma was half Hindu or something. And it's not like we're dead religious anyway, so I don't know what the big problem was – except Priti is a hard name to live up to, you know!'

She looks at me like I'm expected to say something here, but I don't. She tuts loudly.

I look over at Stevie's house. She's waving to us from her bedroom window. She's wearing her pyjamas and holding a princess doll. I wave back. Priti doesn't.

‘So what makes you think they're going to kill your sister?' I ask. ‘Did they tell you?'

‘No, but she's got this totally unsuitable boyfriend called Tyreese. Now
there's
a stupid name! Anyway, I'm the only one who knows about him and I have to keep it a secret or she'll be dead!' Priti tries to sound really serious, but she can't stop grinning. ‘Zara let me have some of her lipstick and a packet of cigarettes if I promised not to tell because it's a matter of life and death.'

‘Why doesn't she just break up with him if it's so dangerous?' I say.

‘She reckons she's in love with him.'

‘Is she?'

‘No way! She's too in love with herself.'

‘So has she got some kind of death wish then?'

‘Nah, she just reckons she's being cool and rebellious. Combination of having an overachieving mother and watching too much
Hollyoaks
.'

‘And they'll definitely really kill her if they find out?' I say, still unconvinced.

‘They might just send her to Pakistan and force her to marry some old bloke. Or they might kill her. Depends, I s'pose.'

‘On what?'

‘Dunno.' Priti shrugs. ‘Want some bubblegum?'

She passes me a bit of gum, pink like her shoes. We sit and chew for a bit and she picks more bits of tarmac off her socks. ‘Won't your mum mind?' I ask, pointing to her socks.

‘She's going to be well mad. My dad says the sooner they can pack me off to Pakistan and get
me
married to some poor fool the better. He reckons he's joking, but I know better. Dads!' she says.

And the way she says it reminds me of the way my
grandad said ‘Asians!' earlier and that makes me smile – because it's hard to imagine anyone who is
less
like my grandad than Priti.

At bedtime, I ask Granny how long I'll be staying, but she doesn't really give me an answer. I know it's going to be a while because, if it was only for a day or so, I'd have been sent to Grandma's (Mum's mum, who lives near to us, but she's got arthritis and has to have help with cooking and washing and stuff) or to stay with a friend. My mum doesn't like troubling Rita and Barry (that's Granny and Grandad) unless she has to. She says it's because of the distance, but I know that's not the real reason.

‘Let's not worry about how long you'll be staying for the moment,' Granny says. ‘Let's just concentrate on having a nice time while we've got you.'

‘Can I call Mum later?' I ask. I know what the answer will be.

‘Maybe tomorrow,' she says.

‘Right.'

After she's gone, I draw a cartoon of Priti on her
skateboard, being chased by two balaclava-wearing assassins, also on skateboards, waving giant swords. Then I draw me, dressed as a commando, taking out the assassins with a flying karate kick.

Kerpow!

1. What was he doing in New York that meant he happened to be there on that day? (He was at a meeting in the World Trade Center.)

2. Did he make any phone calls before he died? What did he say and did we keep any messages he left? (No. Nothing. No.)

3. Have I been to Ground Zero (the place where the Twin Towers used to be) to see where it happened? (No.)

4. Which tower was he in and what floor and did anyone on that floor escape? (Tower One. 102nd floor. No.)

5. Why haven't I seen any TV footage of what
happened? (I have actually. My mum just tells people I haven't because she always turns off the TV when it comes on, but I've seen clips and it wasn't so bad watching as I thought it would be.)

6. Did they ever find any bits of him and what did we do with them? (No, so nothing – obviously.)

7. What do I think about the people who did it? (I'm not sure – which I don't think is the right answer.)

8. What would I do if I ever met the people who did it? (Which is a silly question because they're dead anyway.)

9. Do I miss having a dad? (I always say yes, but I don't remember having one, so I don't really.)

10. What do me and my mum do on September 11th each year? (I get the day off school, and we pretend to do nothing much and just have a ‘normal' day, which actually means doing stuff like blackberry picking and building papier-mâché volcanoes – things we never normally do. Then Mum tries to talk about it, gets upset, I change the subject, we do normal stuff some more. That's about it.)

Old people fall asleep in the afternoon. This is something I've discovered living at Granny and Grandad's. After lunch today, I do the washing-up so they can put their feet up, then I sit and draw cartoons: Granny flying an old-fashioned aeroplane, wearing a cap and goggles, her scarf flapping in the breeze; Grandad in a cape with a jet pack on his back, shouting, ‘To infinity and beyond!'; then my mum lying on a bed with thorns growing up all around it.

The doorbell rings and I quickly scribble over the picture of my mum before going to answer it. Because you can't wake old people suddenly, can you? They might have a heart attack or something and I can't afford to lose any more family members.

So I open the door and there's Priti, standing on the doorstep next to an older girl who's wearing cropped jeans and a white T-shirt with little black ballet pumps on her slim brown feet. She's maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she's dressed so differently from Priti that you
have to look closely to see they actually look alike.

This must be the sister who's going to be honour-killed.

‘Zara says she'll take us to the park if you want to come,' says Priti, who is wearing a pink velour tracksuit top and what looks like her school uniform skirt rolled up short and worn over a pair of patterned leggings. She has her wheelie shoes on again, this time with orange and pink fluorescent laces.

‘I'll have to ask my grandad,' I say.

‘Well, get a move on then!' says Zara, who is chewing gum and doesn't even bother to look at me.

So I leave them waiting on the doorstep and poke my head into the lounge. Both grandparents are still fast asleep and they look like big wrinkly babies.

‘Grandad,' I whisper, shaking him gently on the shoulder. Grandad lets out a little snort and then stares at me, confused.

‘Priti's sister says she'll take us to the park. Can I go?'

I expect him to say, ‘How old is she?' or, ‘When will you be back?' or one of those things my mum
usually asks, but instead he says, ‘You sure you want to get pally with that lot?'

Granny stirs in her sleep and mutters something. Grandad glances at her.

‘They're nice,' I say.

‘
Hmmph!
' says Grandad. ‘Those are the sort that killed your dad!'

‘Barry!' says Granny, awake suddenly.

‘I'm just saying,' says Grandad.

‘Well, it's not helpful,' says Granny. ‘Don't listen to him, Ben.'

I stare from one grandparent to the other, wondering whether they mind being stuck with me all summer. Not that they'd say if they did.

‘Can I go then?' I ask.

‘Of course,' says Granny.

I glance at my grandad. ‘Yes, yes. Get along with you.'

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘I'll see you later.'

My grandad mutters something about closing the door, so I do. I get the feeling they're going to keep on talking about me after I've gone.

‘Right, come on then. I'm late,' says Zara and she's already heading off down the drive before I've even had time to put my shoes on. Priti follows her, so I'm left, half running, half hopping at the rear, as the two sisters cross the road and make their way down the alleyway that runs alongside Priti's house and leads to the park behind.

As I catch up with them, Priti whispers loudly, ‘Zara's meeting her boyfriend. We're her cover.'

Zara glances back at us and glares.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Zara tells Mum she's taking me to the park to get me out from under her feet, then she texts Tyreese and he meets her there. We have to be the lookouts.'

Zara turns around and looks at me. ‘Is that OK with you?' she asks sarcastically.

I look at her and feel myself going red as I nod.

Priti giggles. Zara tuts and turns away.

When we get to the park, Priti tells me we have to sit on top of the climbing frame or the slide, but the best view is from the climbing frame and you can fit
two of us up there – then if we see anyone coming, we have to run and tell Zara.

‘Do you just have to sit here?' I ask.

‘Yeah. It's dead boring. That's why I thought I'd ask you to come.'

‘Right,' I say.

I get out my notepad while she dangles upside down.

‘By the way,' she says, defying gravity. ‘My dad says it's right what you said about your dad and the whole 9/11 thing.'

‘I wasn't the one who said it wasn't,' I reply.

‘Yeah, well, I was well impressed. Just like a movie. Do you reckon that's where the blokes who did it got the idea?'

‘No,' I say. I start to doodle a little paper aeroplane.

‘My dad got really mad when I said it was a cool way to die,' says Priti, her long bunches almost touching the tarmac. ‘He said the people who did it are a disgrace to Muslims like us.'

I don't say anything, but Priti doesn't seem to notice. ‘Mik – he's my brother, the cool one; he's really called Mikaeel, but everyone calls him Mik –
anyway, he said the terrorists certainly got the world to sit up and listen and my dad went mad at him. He said, “If I ever hear any son or daughter of mine talk that way in this house, I will disown them!” It was well cool!' She swings herself upright suddenly, and her face is bright red with all the blood that's gone to it, and she's grinning.

‘What did Mik say then?' I ask, drawing another aeroplane, a Boeing 767 this time. Little windows with faces at each one.

‘He said there were plenty of other Muslims who thought the same as he did and my dad said, “Shame on them and shame on you if you take notice of people who talk that way!”'

‘What happened then?'

‘I thought it was all going to kick off, but then Shakeel, he's my eldest brother, he started talking about boring wedding arrangements – he's getting married soon – so it never did get into a big punch-up.'

Priti leans back so that she's horizontal and lifts up her legs, twirling her feet around so she can admire
her shoes from all angles. I scribble over my aeroplane pictures.

‘My grandad said your people killed my dad,' I say after a minute.

‘Why did he say that?'

‘Dunno. That's just what he said.'

‘Well, they didn't,' she says, sitting upright now. ‘None of my family live in America anyway.'

‘Well, my dad didn't live there either,' I say. ‘He just had a meeting in New York that day.'

‘And none of my family can fly a plane!' she retorts.

‘If you say so.' I look down at my shoes – tattered old Converse, all faded, nothing like Priti's garish footwear at all.

‘So do you reckon the people who did it are dead?' she asks, swinging upright suddenly.

‘Obviously!' I say.

‘Unless they parachuted out of the aeroplanes just before they crashed. Or had those ejector seat things that sent them flying out of the cockpit,' she says. ‘Hey! If they escaped, they might be on the run somewhere. Wouldn't it be dead cool if we could
catch them and turn them in to the police?'

Once I drew one of those thumb-flick cartoons of planes flying into the Twin Towers. The ones where there's a little picture on the corner of each page and you flick through them with your thumb so they look like they're moving. Only I drew mine backwards – manga style – so you saw the toppling towers gradually rebuild themselves, saw the planes fly back off into the distance until they were just a speck on the horizon. I wish it was as easy as that: turn the book back to front and erase history, rebuild the towers, end the war.

Bring my dad back.

Priti keeps talking and I'm thinking about all this stuff, so neither of us is watching the path and then suddenly Priti says, ‘Oh, no! It's Shakeel!' She heaves herself up quickly before jumping in one swift movement from the top of the climbing frame down on to the spongy green tarmac below. She lands on her wheels and narrowly avoids going head over heels by grabbing on to the fireman's pole to steady herself.

‘Go!' she shouts up to me. ‘You go tell Zara. I'll keep him chatting.'

‘Why me?'

‘Because he doesn't know you and you can hardly string two words together. How are you going to keep a conversation going?'

I have no answer to this, so I jump down and leg it in the direction of the woods where Zara and Tyreese are doing whatever they're doing.

Behind me I hear Priti counting in a loud voice. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .', pretending we're playing hide-and-seek, I suppose.

I stop running when I reach the edge of the wooded area. The earth between the trees is dusty and bare save for a few discarded cigarette cartons and empty beer cans.