HEROES


Seamus and me, we're meeting Vince today, going over to the port,
shoot a couple of ships, do the rounds.

I say to Seamus, 'You know, he's better  these last few months,
more like his old self.'

We're doing 110 on the A12, passing eighteen-wheelers sucking
at us and I'm now absolutely certain that white car up ahead is the
dawn patrol on a late shift. My foot sinks deeper and deeper into the
carpet but we're still doing a ton, and Seamus says, 'He was always
fockin mad, sure, why would he change?'


"There's no answer to that," I think, "fucking mad the pair a them, and
me with this one about to die."


We hit the brakes and shed sixty mph in three seconds, dive into the
roundabout, the Jag squatting hard, squealing gently, squirting fast out of
the exit past the white car, not Old Bill but a new Beemer full of ladies
who lunch, in hats, and Seamus waves.


'He sounds cheerful enough on the phone,' I say.


'Would we shag 'em all if they asked, what?'


'He said he was thinking of going back to work, nothing heavy, maybe
local.'

'I could find him something, sure,' Seamus says, as we pull up outside
Vince's place. His old mum lets us in, kisses all round, tea and hot
toast, and packed lunches for the boys.


"Nothing changes," I think, "Only Vince, every day."


He doesn't say much, never does now, but he looks really well today, eyes
quizzical, and Seamus flirts with Herself, "No, just like old times," I think,
and Vince says, 'Come on, let's be going.'


More kisses and we leave, the three boys, again, and Seamus throws the
keys to Vince, "Jeeezus Fucking Christ," I think, "They are fucking mad."
It's four miles to the port, and Vince drives like a vicar doing his rounds
only slower. Seamus is in the back and I catch them looking at each other in
the mirror, eyebrowing.


We spend the day out on the river, and it's like it used to be, like it was
when Vince and Seamus and me came down here to shoot ships, riding down
from London at five in the morning, death defying, the bikes screaming louder
than us and Vince taking risks you would hardly believe. I looked over at them,
heads together, doing talking about me, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Fuckers,
if it wasn't for me they'd be dead, nearly.

They were fast. Oh, I could ride, don't get me wrong, but I'm sane. We'd ride
out to the coast maybe, early start, and they'd be 3,4,5 miles ahead of me most
of the time. I'd catch up at cafes and they'd be downing the last of their drinks,
coincidentally, just as I rode in. They'd wait for me, checking watches and when
I finished we'd mount up and they'd loiter so I'd take off first into the traffic.
Yeah, you know it, couple of miles and I'd clock them in my mirrors, flashing.
They never just overtook me. Opportunities would go by and they'd be there,
in line, in my mirrors. Ahead would appear a ten year old Sierra in the outside
lane doing exactly 70. I don't have to tell you, do I?

The crash happened one summer evening. They were gone, and I would catch
the occasional glimpse of them on straights. I leaned into a long right hander and
straightened out to see a big Merc van across the road rammed into the barrier,
a fire taking hold in the engine, both bikes under it. I stopped, dropped my bike
and ran towards the accident. I could see Seamus' boots and as I pulled them
a gob of oily flame dropped onto him. I got him out and rolled him until the
flames went out. It was raging under the van. Vince was on his back, fire sputtering
on his melting visor. I dragged him out and wrapped the helmet with my jacket.
Police and ambulance guys appeared and I passed out.

I was discharged the next day, Seamus a couple of days later. Vince wasn't so
lucky. He had burns to his hands, his upper body, not too bad, but his head and
face needed a lot of work, and a lot of time. Three years later, when he knew
what his face was going to look like, he began to change. He spent most of his
time gaming, put on weight, stopped answering his phone. He's getting there, sure,
and he's OK with us. Plastic surgery is sorting him out but he's never going to be
as pretty as he was. Mind, he's going to be a pain when he realizes, as his injuries
are healing, that he's taking on a certain heroic, dashing mien . . ..

I felt in my pocket for the spare keys. It's always me drives us home. I'm the oldest.