We Can Be Heroes (34 page)

‘All because some kids want to play FBI,' says the policeman who comes to talk to us the next day. And I can't help thinking that Uncle Ian's buddy with all the tattoos was right about one thing – a little white
kid goes missing and it kick-starts a war.

Shakeel has been released without charge and the news people are now talking about ‘hoax callers' (that's us) and a full judicial enquiry into the police's handling of the case. They are also saying that the bomb hoax may have been a deliberate ploy on behalf of Mik's family to destroy evidence vital to the search for Stevie Sanders.

‘That list you gave us – the terrorist cell. Want to know what it really was?' says one police officer who seems particularly fed up with us because, apparently, we ruined his darts night.

Me and Jed nod. It seems like the right thing to do.

‘A list of wedding guests!' he says.

‘Oh,' I say, which doesn't seem like a good enough response.

We get seriously told off by the police and then we get told off again by Granny. I feel stupid, ashamed, worried about all the trouble we've caused. But also worried about Grandad.

He still hasn't come back. I told Granny he went
out for milk, but I know she doesn't believe me – Grandad never goes out for milk.

‘But even Priti thought he was a terrorist!' says Jed.

‘More shame on her then,' says Granny. ‘You know they only went easy on you because of what happened to Ben's dad?'

I nod.

‘I told them you had been brooding about him a lot since you came here,' she says softly. ‘They want you to see a counsellor.'

I nod.

‘I've phoned your mum and told her what happened,' she says.

‘My mum?' asks Jed, looking up suddenly. He's hardly said anything all morning. He just keeps watching the front door, waiting for Grandad to come back.

‘No, Ben's mum.'

Jed doesn't say anything and neither does Granny for a moment. Then she goes on, ‘When Shakeel returns home, I want you to go over and apologise to the Muhammeds for the distress you've caused. You
will no doubt want to apologise to Priti too.'

‘But she was in on it,' says Jed.

‘Don't argue with me,' says Granny in a firm voice I've never heard her use with Jed before.

Jed looks surprised, but says nothing.

‘What did my mum say?' I ask.

‘She'll call and tell you herself,' says Granny.

Grandad still isn't back when we go over to see Mr and Mrs Muhammed and Shakeel. They seem shaken and Mrs Muhammed in particular looks very angry when we first arrive, but they're both pretty nice about it when we apologise – nicer than we deserve, I reckon.

‘We are just glad one son is now cleared and we hope the same may soon be true of the other,' says Mr Muhammed.

Jed and I say nothing. It won't take the reporters outside long to work out the identity of the hoax callers. Or the identity of Stevie's abductor.

‘What happened to your father has made you see the world in a very bad light,' says Mrs Muhammed to me. She has red eyes as if she's been crying. ‘We
hope that you understand now that not all Muslims are terrorists.'

‘I do,' I say.

She looks at me for a moment and then says, ‘Do you want to go upstairs and see Priti? She has been sleeping. But I think she would like to see you.'

As we troop upstairs, we hear scurrying feet and the sound of bedsprings. We find Priti breathless, sitting up in bed in her pyjamas.

‘Were you listening in?' asks Jed.

‘Course I was,' says Priti. ‘You got off far lighter than I did too. I've got to give Zara back all the stuff she gave me for protection payment,
and
clean Shakeel and Ameenah's bedroom every week forever,
and
write letters of apology to ‘all concerned', and save up all my pocket money to buy new radio equipment for Shakeel and read
Northanger Abbey –
'

‘Why?' I ask, confused about the last one.

‘To teach me the consequences of an overactive imagination apparently. I've just started it and it's deadly dull, so I think it may actually be a cunning
plan to bore me to death! “Honour killing by Jane Austen” they'll call it!'

‘Anything else?' I ask.

‘Yup, I have to paint over all the graffiti AND . . .' She places so much emphasis on the word that I'm expecting something truly horrendous. ‘My mum says my wheelies have been confiscated for a MONTH!'

From the look on her face, I reckon her mum saved the worst for last.

‘Ben's dad got us off,' says Jed, glancing out of the window in the direction of our house. The drive is still empty. Grandad isn't back yet.

‘And you being at death's door didn't do any harm either,' says Priti.

‘What?' says Jed, looking confused.

Which is when I realise I forgot to tell Priti that Jed isn't terminally ill after all.

‘Oh, he's not dying,' I say quickly. ‘He was just meeting up with his granny . . . his other granny that is . . . who he's not supposed to see . . . well, he is, but his dad won't let him.' I can see them both staring at me. ‘It's complicated.'

‘So basically, you're not going to die?' exclaims Priti, staring accusingly at Jed.

‘What made you think I was anyway?' asks Jed.

‘Just wishful thinking, I guess,' says Priti. ‘So I needn't have gone to all this trouble trying to make your last days memorable.'

‘Guess not,' Jed shrugs.

‘Well, if I'd known that, I'd never have framed my brother as a suicide bomber!'

‘Actually, I think that was my idea,' says Jed. Then he says a word I don't think I've ever heard him use before. ‘Sorry.'

‘No worries,' says Priti lightly. ‘It was a stroke of genius – I just wish I'd come up with it myself.' I glance at her and see that she is being quite serious. ‘I can't even take credit for the honour-killing storyline because that was Zara's idea. Still, I suppose we have to be careful not to let our imaginations run away with us in future,' she says, in what I suppose is meant to be a Jane Austen voice, and I guess this is her way of saying she's pleased he isn't dying after all.

‘What
is
happening about Zara?' I ask.

‘They've been pretty cool about it actually,' says Priti brightly. ‘Turns out they don't mind her having boyfriends, so long as she tells them what's going on.'

‘Oh,' I say.

‘More importantly, what about the police, Jed?' says Priti, staring at him significantly. ‘What about Stevie Sanders?'

‘It's sorted,' says Jed.

My grandad still isn't back from the police station when my mum calls. Granny talks to her first. She's in the hall, sitting at the telephone table, and I'm in the kitchen, but I can still hear my mum's voice coming through, tiny and tinny, on the receiver.

Granny is very polite to her, but she's put on her smart visitors' voice, so I can tell she doesn't really know what to say. (I wonder if the two of them ever really got on or if they were just united in grief for my dad?)

‘How are you, dear? . . . He's fine . . . All a bit upsetting, but we are OK here . . . How about you?'

Then I hear her say, ‘Do you want to talk to
him? . . . Hang on, I'll go and get him.'

And then there she is at the doorway, saying, ‘Ben, it's your mum. She'd like to talk to you,' like it's the most ordinary thing in the world.

She hands me the receiver. It's silent at the other end and, for a moment, I think Mum's hung up.

But she hasn't. ‘Hi, big man, how are you?' she says.

‘Hi,' I say. ‘Are you better?'

‘I'm on my way,' she replies.

‘What did the doctors say?'

‘I need to keep going to see them for a bit.'

‘But you want to get better?'

‘Yes,' she says. Then she asks if Stevie is a friend of mine.

‘No, we weren't very nice to her.'

And Mum says, ‘Who's we?'

And I say, ‘Me and Jed and Priti.' And it's weird to think that Mum doesn't know who Priti is. (Although she probably knows what she looks like if she's had the TV on at all during the last twenty-four hours!)

‘Sometimes we're not as nice to people as we should be,' says Mum. ‘Even to ourselves.'

I glance in the direction of the sitting room where Jed is sitting with Granny, neither of them talking.

And then she says, ‘Did you like the postcards?'

‘Did you send them
all
?' I say.

‘Of course. You didn't think I'd forgotten you, did you?'

I pause. ‘Mum,' I say. ‘Why didn't you ring?'

I think of birds sitting on telephone wires, mobiles held up to their beaks. I think of telephone numbers circling the air around them like clouds.

‘I didn't want to put you through it,' she says.

‘Through what?'

‘I've leaned on you too much in the last couple of years. It hasn't been fair.'

‘But I wouldn't have minded, Mum,' I say.

‘I had to learn to do it on my own and to do that meant I had to let go of you for a bit.'

‘Just for a bit?' I ask.

‘I could never let go of you forever!' She laughs.

I imagine her hand, taking hold of mine, her fingers stroking the soft place between first finger and thumb. Just like she used to do.

‘So do you think you'd like to come home?'

‘Do you want me to?' I ask.

‘Very much,' she says.

‘Are you well enough?'

‘I can't promise I won't ever get ill again, but I'll try not to,' she says.

‘And you're not mad at me? You don't blame me?'

‘What have I got to blame you for?'

‘For letting you down.'

‘Oh, Ben! Don't ever say that. You didn't let me down. You are the one who kept me going for all these years.'

‘So why did you do it, Mum?' I say. ‘Why did you stop eating?'

‘I'm not quite sure, Ben.'

‘Were you unhappy?'

‘No,' she pauses. ‘I was very happy – happier than I'd been since your dad died.'

‘Then why?'

‘Perhaps I didn't feel as if I should be,' she says.

‘Because of Dad?' I ask.

‘Yes. Because of Dad.'

‘But Dad would have wanted you to be happy,' I say. And I don't see a stick man falling out of a tower: I see a smiling man playing football with a little boy on his shoulders.

‘Would he?' She half laughs as she says this.

‘Yes,' I say and I feel sure that I'm right because I know a bit about my dad now, thanks to Priti and my memory box. ‘He would.'

‘Then come home because I can't be happy without you.'

We're sitting at the kitchen table – me, Granny and Jed – when we hear Grandad's key turn in the lock. We're playing a game of cards and, for once, Jed isn't cheating. When we hear the sound of the front door opening, Jed is the first one on his feet.

Granny and I follow him into the hallway. Grandad is standing on the doormat. He closes the door quietly then turns and stands there hovering, looking as if he's about to topple.

‘Where have you been?' asks Granny. She's holding her left wrist in her right hand and the bright little
spots of colour are in her cheeks again.

Jed is staring at Grandad, his eyes fierce. I know he wants Grandad to say he got it wrong, that it was all a mistake.

But Grandad looks at him and nods. Then he turns to Granny and says, ‘It's Ian.'

Granny is still motionless. ‘What about Ian?' she says. ‘What's happened to him?'

Grandad turns to her. ‘He . . . the police think he . . . they're searching his house.'

I glance at Jed, who is staring at the ground now. His face is closed, like he's not really there.

Granny lets out a little cry and seems to stumble.

Jed takes a step towards her, to stop her falling. I do the same.

Grandad stands on the mat and says, ‘I'm so sorry.'

Granny has gone for another lie-down. Jed and I are in our room. Jed is on his bed staring up at the stars my dad stuck on the ceiling – or perhaps it was Uncle Ian who put them up there. I'm sitting on the windowsill, trying to finish my Bomb-busters cartoon.

We hear my grandad's heavy footfall on the stairs and the sound of china rattling as he pushes open the door to the bedroom opposite.

‘I've brought you some tea,' I hear him say softly.

The teacup rattles again. My granny thinks mugs are too modern – along with mobile phones and the Internet and avocados.

Then we hear Granny say, ‘Why did he do it?' Her voice sounds small and faraway.

Jed doesn't stop staring at the ceiling, but I can tell he's listening.

‘He's been through a lot,' Grandad says. ‘Losing his brother, losing Karen. It's been hard for him.'

‘But to do something like this. To kidnap a child?' There is a question in Granny's voice. ‘Didn't we teach him right from wrong?'

There's a pause. Outside, on the street, I hear the sound of a car pulling into a driveway.

‘What happened to his brother, it changed him,' says Grandad.

‘But he let the police arrest the Muhammed boy,' says Granny, her voice high and breaking on the final
word. ‘And it caused all that fighting. Riots. That's what they said on the news. Dozens of people hurt. In hospital.'

From outside, we hear a car door slamming, excited voices.

‘Maybe that's what he wanted,' says Grandad quietly.

Granny says nothing for a moment. When she speaks, her voice sounds choked with tears. ‘I just don't understand it, Barry,' she says.

From across the hallway, we hear the bedframe creak. I wonder if Grandad is lying down next to Granny.