James Craig: Nobody's Hero

Following Winnifred’s funeral, her ashes – those that Belsky hadn’t tried to smoke, à la Keith Richards – had been kept in a small Chinese lacquer box on the windowsill. He had been keen that – even in death – she should still be able to enjoy the vista. Tonight, however, there wasn’t much to see; the weather had closed in, cutting visibility to a minimum. Two hundred and fifty feet below him, even the mighty River Thames was barely visible. Jeez , Belsky thought, it’s almost June but it feels like November. More than forty years had passed since he’d left the sunny optimism of California and headed to Europe, finally settling down and making his home in London. It was a decision that he rarely regretted but sometimes, boy, this city could be hard to love. Maybe he would bring his summer holidays forward this year and head for the South of France, or maybe Barcelona – anywhere with some light and some warmth.

Scratching his two-day-old stubble, Belsky glanced over at the iMac sitting in the corner of the room. Maybe he should nip online and book something for next week. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘back to work.’ Before he could properly rouse himself, however, the strains of the theme tune from the Mickey Mouse Club began percolating through from the living room. Good old Mickey; a constant in an ever-changing, endlessly disappointing world.

Resisting the urge to sing along, he felt the merest ripple of guilt. Belsky had faithfully promised Stephanie, his daughter, that he would not use the TV as a babysitter for Joanne this evening. Then again, he was on a deadline. And floundering, at that – a not so uncommon occurrence these days.

Anyway, his daughter had gone out dancing and left Grandpa in charge. Joanne, nine, seemed more than happy with a can of Coke and a cartoon – just as her mother had been, thirty years before. Hopefully, his granddaughter wouldn’t shop him in the morning, but even if she did, what would Stephanie be able to do about it?

After carefully refilling his glass from the bottle of Bordeaux perched next to Winnifred on the windowsill, Belsky took a mouthful of wine and considered the rough sketch taped to his drawing board. The drawing – of a jolly fat woman dressed as a circus performer being fired out of a cannon – was shit, but it was too late in the day to rip it up and start again. Lifting the glass back to his lips, Belsky sighed. How much longer could he keep churning this stuff out? His editor had wanted him to poke fun at the latest politician caught fiddling their expenses – some junior minister Belsky had never even heard of. ‘The problem is,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘it’s just not very funny, is it?’ More to the point, after a long succession of such scandals, it was hardly news any more. A sense of despair washed over him. Maybe it was time to start thinking about retirement.

Belsky’s stomach growled; the wine was giving him the munchies. His thoughts were turning to pepperoni pizza when he became aware of a loud banging noise.

‘Grandpa,’ Joanne shouted over the sound of Donald Duck’s sniggering, ‘someone’s at the door.’

Putting down his wine glass, Belsky forced himself out of his chair and shuffled into the living room.

‘Someone’s at the door,’ Joanne repeated, giggling as Goofy fell over Donald’s outstretched leg and webbed foot.

‘Why don’t they ring the goddamn doorbell then?’ Belsky grumbled as he headed for the hallway. ‘That’s what it’s there for.’

Sucking down some Coke, his granddaughter did not lift her gaze from the TV. ‘It’s probably Mum.’

Belsky grunted, knowing full well that the child was most probably correct. The likelihood was that Stephanie would have had another row with her boyfriend and the dancing would be off. They were a disastrous couple, it seemed to him; unable to do anything without arguing about it, loudly and at length. Why Stephanie hadn’t stayed with Joanne’s father . . . well, Belsky didn’t want to go there.

As he switched on the hall light, there was a crash, as if someone was trying to kick the door down. Belsky shook his head; it looked like Stephanie had forgotten her key again, as well.

‘Hold on. I’m coming. What’s the hurry?’ Just as he was about to reach for the lock, there was the sound of splintering wood and the door burst open. ‘What the . . .’ The cartoonist jumped backwards as a young man appeared on the threshold. About Belsky’s height, the man was wearing a pair of dirty jeans and a heavy parka zipped up to his chin; the invader was sweating from the exertion of breaking down the door. As Belsky caught sight of the axe in the man’s hand, his mouth fell open in disbelief. Belatedly, he realized that this was the moment he had been waiting for. For a split second, he felt paralysed. Then, as the adrenaline kicked in, he turned on his heels and fled back through the flat.

A steady stream of tourists passed aimlessly through the lobby of the King’s Cross Novotel. Almost all of them stopped to admire the banner, thirty feet wide and ten feet tall, covering the wall next to Reception. Quite a few pointed. Some laughed. On the banner was an image of a spaceship travelling serenely through the cosmos, heading towards a bright shining sun in the far distance, above the rather cryptic message: A fantastic journey .

Standing in the middle of the lobby, Elma Reyes sucked her teeth in annoyance as she watched a couple of Dutch tourists in replica Arsenal shirts pose in front of it, giving the thumbs-up, while a third took a photo. As the person who would ultimately have to pay for the banner, Elma was not happy.

She was not happy at all.

The damn thing had cost more than six hundred pounds and the end result was something that looked like an advert for a Sci-Fi conference. Space – the final frontier, and all that nonsense.

The photographer turned to her, holding the camera in his outstretched hand. Unlike his mates, he was wearing the shirt of a team that she did not recognize. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t a London team, at any rate. ‘Will you shoot the three of us?’ he asked, switching on a friendly smile.

Gladly , Elma thought, and marched away. Taking the brusque rejection in his stride, the Dutchman went off in search of someone who might be more accommodating of his modest request.

A spaceship? ‘God, give us grace,’ Elma mumbled, ‘to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed.’ Not that she had much option; it was far too late to do anything about it now.

Beneath the banner was a board bearing the greeting which was the only real clue as to the event’s true purpose: The Christian Salvation Centre™ welcomes you to the First Annual Miracle amp; Healing Conference™ (Motto: ‘Believe and it will happen.’ ™) .

I should’ve just told them to put my picture up there , the CSC’s CEO and Life President thought sourly. If you don’t keep it simple , these boys are simply guaranteed to get it wrong.

A diffident-looking young man allowed himself to be intercepted by the photographer and set about taking a series of pictures of the Dutch trio. After handing back the camera, he walked over to Elma.

‘Which spaceship is that?’ she scowled, pointing at the wall.

Melville Farasin, Elma’s special assistant, was caught taking his iPhone from the pocket of his trousers. ‘Huh?’

‘The banner,’ Elma said irritably, ‘the spaceship on the banner. Where did you get it from?’

Melville reluctantly returned the phone to his pocket. ‘No idea.’

‘What do you mean, you’ve no idea?’ The woman felt her hackles rising. ‘If you’ve no idea, why did you let them put it on there?’ The boy had always tried her patience and, if anything, the problem was getting worse. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the son of her best friend, Wendy, there was no doubt that young Melville would have been sacked long ago. As it was, keeping him in gainful employ was stretching her definition of Christian patience to breaking point. Wendy had never confessed the identity of the boy’s father – Elma was sure that was because the man in question must have been an out-and-out imbecile.