We Can Be Heroes Read Free Page B

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 whathappened? (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.)

JULY 14TH
    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 youhave to look closely to see they actually look alike.
    This must be the sister who’s going to be honour-killed.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’ll have to ask my grandad,’ I say.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Grandad,’ I whisper, shaking him gently on the shoulder. Grandad lets out a little snort and then stares at me, confused.
    â€˜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 mumusually 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.
    â€˜They’re nice,’ I say.
    â€˜
Hmmph!
’ says Grandad. ‘Those are the sort that killed your dad!’
    â€˜Barry!’ says Granny, awake suddenly.
    â€˜I’m just saying,’ says Grandad.
    â€˜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