No Heroes

by Anna Seidl, Siobhan Parkinson

Overview

An ordinary schoolgirl with a carefree bunch of friends, Miriam's just embarked on her first relationship with her loving boyfriend Toby. She lives with her dad and she has a good relationship with her grandparents. All this ordinary happiness is shattered when one of Miriam’s schoolmates goes berserk one day at school with a handgun and kills several pupils and teachers. Toby is shot right in front of her. Shock, grief, bereavement, terror—Miriam and her friends run the gamut of emotions in the days, weeks and months following the shooting. But the worst emotion of all is guilt. "Is it our fault?" is the haunting question that tortures Miriam as she tries to piece her life together again.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781910411322
Publisher:	Little Island Books
Publication date:	10/01/2016
Pages:	280
Product dimensions:	5.10(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.80(d)
Age Range:	14 Years

About the Author

Anna Seidl wrote No Heroes, her debut, at the age of 16. It was a publishing sensation in Germany and Anna won an emerging author award for it. Siobhán Parkinson has written almost 30 books, and her books have been translated into about 20 languages. She was Ireland's first Children's Laureate.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

You can smell fear. You can get hold of it. But nobody dares to touch it. We all hold our breath.

It's under us. We can hear the shots. They're loud. Way too loud for my world of school and fun. And I don't know who it is. My best friend Joanne and I had just been told to go down to the ground floor by the teacher, and suddenly everyone is running. And then: boom. And again: boom.

Of course I know what gunshot sounds like. I am just as addicted to watching telly as the rest of the school. But it's different in real life. It's the same sound, only ten thousand times louder.

First, we just stop, Joanne and I. Then we start running too. Everyone upstairs is running. The teachers, the caretaker, the students. I can see Philip Schwarz, who is a year ahead of me. I used to fancy him a bit a few years back. He made an impression on me, always so perfect. I can see Lisa Schmidt too. I don't know anything about her. They're running as well.

I see all this, but I don't take it in. Nobody has really taken anything in. How could we? We're just kids, after all, whether we're thirteen or thirty years old. Because we've never experienced anything like this. I'll tell you a secret. My first thought was just, Shit, I have to get out of here. I thought only of myself. Not of my teachers or schoolmates. Not even of Joanne. My first thought was for myself. And to be honest, I know it was exactly the same for everyone else. There are no heroes here. Because it's not a movie. It's reality, pure and simple. Joanne, Philip and I hide in the boys' toilet. Philip doesn't seem all that great now. He's just a bundle of nerves, cowering on the floor, breathing rapidly.

Joanne and I are bundles of nerves too. My hands are wet with sweat. My whole body is shaking. And there is pure fear strangling me, bearing down on my heart as if to stop it beating. That's how I know it's real. I'm not ready to die. I'm only fifteen, I've only had my first boyfriend for five months, I'm only in ninth grade. There are so many things that I want to do. And dying is not one of them!

Another shot sends me reeling. A thud on the floor, a shout, footsteps. He's getting closer.

It's weird. You'd think he'd be running, in a hurry. But it's not like that. You can hear his shoes, soft and rhythmic on the floor. Almost as if he were on his way to the gym, not shooting open the gates of heaven for terrified people. Or the gates of hell. Or the gates of nothingness.

Maybe you can imagine what it's like to cower on the cold floor of a stinking toilet. Maybe you can feel the way the cold grips your body, making it shiver uncontrollably. Maybe you can hear the silence, the deathly silence, when everyone just holds their breath and hopes it's someone else who gets it and that they themselves are safe. Maybe you really can. Or maybe not.

I thought I could. But I was wrong. Unfortunately, I was going to find out how things really are. I used to think you couldn't smell fear.

'Miriam,' Joanne whispers. Just my name. She gestures towards one of the cubicles with her head. She wants us to hide in there. The footsteps are getting louder. He's quite close.

I surprise myself by nodding. I didn't think I was capable of nodding. I touch Philip's arm, but his whole body is shuddering and he shakes my hand off. Joanne and I stare at each other for a moment.

Her eyes reflect my feelings: shock, incomprehension, fear. And I realise it is not going to end well. Not for all of us. That he's already shot that gun at some people, maybe killed them. And that he's going to do that to more people.

My eyes fill with tears of panic. I dig my fingernail as hard as I can into my arm, but the pain is nothing. It's more a relief, because it chases away the bad thoughts, even if only for a moment.

A strange noise startles me and Joanne. Philip is crying, screeching. Horrified, we gesture to him to shut up. But it's too late. The footsteps start towards our door.

We don't hesitate. Believe me, you wouldn't either. Quickly and noiselessly, we run into a cubicle. We climb up on the loo and then hunker down so that he can't see any bit of us. Or so I hope anyway. Then we angle the door like all the other doors. And we stop breathing.

Yes, we just leave Philip behind. And yes, I know the consequences. I know this could mean death for him. Heartless as it may seem – if I stayed, I'd be writing my own death sentence. Everyone thinks of themselves first here. There are no heroes. Heroes are an invention of the film industry.

The seconds seem to stretch. Coward that I am, I close my eyes, tightly, even though it doesn't make anything any better. Joanne grabs my hand and squeezes it so hard that the bones shift. I'm listening to the steps. They are getting louder, coming nearer. When the door is kicked open, we huddle together. Philip is still lying on the floor. We can't see him now. But we can hear him. He seems not even to notice that we've gone. He seems not to notice anything.

Time is dragging. I'd never have believed that a second could seem like an eternity. Then the shot comes. A roar. The smell of gunshot in the air. Like fireworks on New Year's Eve. Only different. More intense, more biting. Joanne and I are shaking. But neither of us makes a sound.

First survive, then grieve.

Another shot. Not a squeak out of us. Silence. And then a snuffle. The sound of the murderer running up and down. He's crying. Crying! As if he were a victim!

We are still holding our breath. He could still find us. And I don't want to end up like Philip. Lying on the floor with schoolmates behind me who daren't make a sound.

He leaves. I can hardly believe it. I was about to kiss life goodbye, but he's gone. Disappeared. Maybe we'll get out of this. Alive.

We wait for a bit. Maybe a minute. Hard to say. I've lost my sense of time. Now I pull away from Joanne and realise that I have absolutely no feeling in my right hand. Joanne has made some impression on my hand. I move it carefully. Then I move my feet. Joanne opens the door of the cubicle very softly.

And there he lies. White in the face. In a pool of his own blood. His brown hair looks lank. His eyes glassy. His mouth too pale.

I read in a book that dead people look peaceful. You would think they were only asleep. Philip looks like what he actually is: violently murdered, victim of a psycho.

I feel sick. Tears prick my eyes. But they don't flow. I'm too numb for that. Too shocked. Almost like a dead person myself.

Beside me, Joanne is sobbing softly. I put my hand over her mouth. I can feel her spittle on my palm. I take her in my arms and rock her gently back and forth, the way you rock a baby to sleep. The only thing that crosses my lips is a single little shush. It echoes around the tiled walls of the room and seems way too loud. When silence saves your life you redefine what's loud and what's soft.

I sit on the floor, hugging Joanne. What else could I do? I lay my head back and pretend I'm in a forest. The trees are rustling and I can hear the animals. Everything is the way it should be.

That calms me down a bit.

Until the next shot. That startles the hell out of me. It was just outside in the corridor and it echoes through all the walls.

It would probably have been smarter to stay sitting there. But I get up and go softly to the door. Joanne doesn't follow. She lies collapsed on the floor. Like a dead person.

I open the loo door just a crack. Then, very slowly, not sure what's awaiting me, I stick my head out. And what I see is a thousand times worse than anything else I have seen this day.

Because there is a boy lying on the floor out there, and it's Toby. My boyfriend. The sweet boy who texted me this morning so I wouldn't over-sleep because it's Monday. Toby is the boy I had my first time with, who was the first to say to me, I love you.

Toby is lying there on the floor. Toby, who wanted to win a teddy-bear for me at the funfair shooting gallery, but who brought me a sheep instead, because he didn't have enough points for the teddy. Toby, who'd made me breakfast every second Saturday when we'd spent the night in his parents' mobile home. Toby, who wanted to make me a pizza for our first date, only we both ended up being covered in flour. Toby, who only has to take my hand to comfort me. Toby, who only has to smile at me to make me feel beautiful and invincible.

This is the Toby who is lying there on the floor. My Toby.

He sees me. Even though he's lying about ten metres away. Begging me to help him.

And you can guess what's coming, right? You can see the scene playing out in front of you. I, Miriam Brand, hurl myself at him, distract the boy with the weapon in order to save my boyfriend. You watch as I courageously risk my life for him. Do everything for love of this boy.

Why should I lie? I stay where I am. I can't bear to look Toby in the eye. I turn my face away. I can't watch my boyfriend die. I can't listen to his loud, panicky wheezing, while at the same time his breath gets weaker and more irregular. I can't save him. Neither can I close the door again and sit down beside Joanne. I can't do anything any more.

Boom. Paralysed, I hear the next shot. I see two girls running along the corridor. Another shot. I witness the fall of a body. The body of a child who is only in fifth grade. Can hear her friend shouting. She flees. Runs into the nearest classroom, bangs the door shut. The gunman goes on down the corridor, is about fifteen metres from me.

And then, just like that, Joanne calls my name.

The gunman swings around ...

... and looks me right in the eye.

CHAPTER 2

It only lasts a second. Only a second until he shoots. But I'll tell you what went through my head in this one second.

For the first time I'm seeing him face on. And I know him, this gunman who is on the rampage. It is Mathias Staudt. He's in 9C, a different class but the same year as me.

You know, it doesn't shock me that I recognise the shooter. What shocks me is that it is Mathias Staudt. Because Mathias had friends. OK, so he was pretty low down in the pecking order, but he had two very good friends in 9C. Or so I thought anyway. I never took much notice of him.

Mathias was just ... not interesting to me. He's a bit of a mummy's boy. And he's not really very good looking. He's pretty small and a bit overweight and has too many pimples on his face. So I paid no attention to him, either as a friend or as a guy.

I know he fancies me. He even plucked up the courage once to ask me out. He wanted to go to some boring dancing-class end-of-year ball. Naturally, I just laughed at him. I know Toby and a few of his mates taunted Mathias Staudt. They hid his clothes in PE and they wrote Mathias the Pig or something on the board.

And now, here I am at the end of my life. Suddenly I feel a cold wind blowing around me. A couple of windows are open and the rain is coming in. I realise that a girl from eleventh grade is hiding under the window-seat. She looks at me fearfully. I don't react. I feel a thousand years older than her.

I can feel my whole body again, even the hand that Joanne clutched so tightly. Only now do I realise how much it hurts. And only now do I notice that my left arm, where I dug my nails in earlier, is bleeding and throbbing.

It's as if I'm only waking up properly, now that I'm at the end of my life.

I'm sorry I didn't hug my dad this morning. It would only have taken five seconds. I'm sorry I didn't ring my grandma back yesterday. I regret not having told my mother how much I hate her for having left me and Dad. I should have made a snow angel last winter, no matter if it's childish. I'm never going to be able to do it now, and this realisation bloody well hurts.

I'm never going to celebrate my sixteenth birthday as planned. I'm never going to get married. Never going to sit on the terrace as an old woman with my equally old husband at my side, surrounded by our grandchildren.

Images pass in front of my eyes. Philip, dead on the floor. Children running. Children running everywhere. The girl sitting on the floor. The expression on Joanne's face at the first shot. So surprised, so bewildered. My boyfriend, bleeding to death just ten metres away from me. He's watching us now, and I can sense his fear. I'm ashamed, because it is fear for my life, not his own.

I feel empty. In this second, fear disappears. Makes way for something even worse. Indifference. I'm going to die. And it doesn't matter. It's all the same, whether I live or die. Whether I am in pain or not. It's over now. I wait for the shot. I just hope he doesn't find Joanne. At least one of us has to survive.

All this passes through my mind in a single second. A single but very important second. Because, even though it's only one of millions of seconds I have lived through, it seems to me that it lasts as long as my whole life so far.

I hear the shot. And then a second. And a third. Something brushes my right leg. I expect to fall to the floor. But it is Mathias who collapses, two bullets in his body. I think he's dead. He is dead. As dead as Philip.

Shaking, Joanne comes out of her hiding place. We stand together as a commando rescue squad comes pouring through the door. Ambulance men and armed police. They're wearing black clothing, kneepads, heavy helmets that look a bit like motorbike helmets. But that's not what is so petrifying. It's the guns. Everywhere. I'm stupefied.

They bend over Toby. Put him on a stretcher and take him away. Everyone's trying to talk to me and Joanne. They're pointing at my wounded leg, my bleeding arm, but I just shake my head.

And then I run after the stretcher, ignoring the protests of my leg. He's still alive. I saw. His chest is still rising and falling.

I run past a lot of people, through the school building. Until I reach the door, where I see the ambulance men disappearing with Toby. I want to follow, but then I stumble back.

It's terrible. I wasn't expecting anything like this. Journalists. So many journalists. With their microphones and cameras. They're filming us. Filming us as if it's one of those goddamn blockbusters you see on TV.

Stunned, I just stand there. Then I run to the ambulance that they are pushing Toby into. I'm almost there when I am stopped by a reporter. 'Hey, little girl. Tell me what happened in there. ... Hey, wait a minute!'

I ignore him. What he wants doesn't matter. There's something more important.

'It'll only take ...'

'Hey, what are you doing here? Please stay behind the barrier. And leave the children alone!' A policeman is standing next to me, shooing the reporter away. I search the carpark with my eyes. But the ambulance has gone. Toby's gone.

I want to cry. There's this pressure. Everywhere. And I know that tears could help to release it. But I can't. I just let myself fall. Sit on the asphalt and stare straight ahead.

More and more people are coming out of the school. Children, girls like me, Toby's pals, teachers. We all look the same. Like ghosts.

Joanne sits down beside me. We say nothing. What do we have to say? Nobody takes any notice of us. Nobody comes to treat my leg. Because there aren't enough medics. And way too many wounded. I've counted three dead bodies so far. And some children look way worse than me.

I lean my head on Joanne's shoulder and we sit there like that. Waiting for ... something. For nothing, for everything, for a miracle. To wake up? Do we think it was all a dream? It wasn't. Isn't.

CHAPTER 3

Somebody bandages my leg, takes care of my arm. My dad is here. He wants to help me. Toby's mum comes. Toby is dead. Died on the operating table.

I hear all this as if through a fog. I ought to be crying. Reacting. But I can't. It all seems so unreal, so wrong.

Is it really real? I can't understand how it could be. It's just a normal day, like any other. Everything is the way it always is, or at least it should be like that. What on earth has happened?

Joanne leaves. Her parents take her away from here. Dad puts his arms around me. Grandma and Grandpa come, and they hug me too. But even that feels false, wrong. A lot of cameras and journalists have turned up. They put their microphones under our noses, film the school.

I just switch off. I can't see anything, hear anything, feel anything. Nothing at all. Not even the beating of my heart. No horror, no fear. Nothing. I don't even feel the pain in my leg any more. Not even Grandma's hand, resting on my shoulder. They could just leave me here for the rest of my life, it wouldn't matter to me. Nothing matters.

My grandparents and my dad take me away from the school. The journalists are getting in our way. I don't react. But Grandpa shouts at one of them at one point. I don't know what he shouts.

Suddenly I'm so tired. It's a new kind of tiredness. It's dark and heavy and very, very sad.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "No Heroes"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Siobhán Parkinson.
Excerpted by permission of Little Island.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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