Phil Kurthausen - The Silent Pool

Always the same dream. Blood. A child's pale face, kohl-coloured eyes and a machete slicing. Slicing the child's limbs, which fell like timber to the dark earth. And then the child was Abby, then blood, flesh and finally soil. Soil being poured over Erasmus’ face, lodging in his nose, coursing down his throat, blocking his airways, causing him to choke, to die.

He woke with a spluttering cough and realised he couldn't breathe, panic overwhelming his senses. A weight pressed against his chest he knew he was dying. Then the weight purred and flicked its tail away from Erasmus’ mouth.

Fucking Midori. A Siamese cat, a present from Abby – read Miranda – on his last birthday, given to him with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, ‘You need to look after something to keep you sane.’ The little shitbag had nearly killed him. Erasmus pushed Midori off his chest and stumbled to bed.

He slept fitfully but was still out of the apartment by seven o'clock for his morning run. He needed to clear his head so he ran hard and fast. It was just too easy to lose his routine when he was the only person to look after. He knew from experience that once you lost discipline over the small things it could have disastrous, even fatal consequences.

His route took him across town, up Toxteth's Parliament Street with its once elegant Victorian mansions and Edwardian grass promenade and on into Sefton Park. It was a crisp, November day, sunshine and sharp breaths. Rain from the previous night's storm lay in dark puddles which he had to run round as he progressed through the park. His heavy head began to lighten.

The light was that particular diamond hard light peculiar to late autumn. Erasmus thought it was going to be a beautiful day. As the sweat began to pour he felt like the poison was seeping out of him, the night's terrors being purged. Maybe tonight they wouldn't return. He ran on.

When he arrived back at Atlantic Heights there was a text message waiting for him on his iPhone. Pete wanted to meet up at Keith's that afternoon. According to the text he had ‘the scoop on Stephen Francis’.

CHAPTER 8

Pete was sitting at his usual table at the back, facing the door and large windows that fronted onto Lark Lane, a leafy bohemian street populated by galleries, restaurants and bistros that occupied the decayed grand old buildings in this part of town. He was pretending to read the wine list as Erasmus walked into the bar. Erasmus knew he knew it off by heart. Pete was dressed as usual: immaculate in his Mod uniform of two button suit, wingtip collars and Italian loafers.

He waved Erasmus over.

‘Good night last night?’ asked Erasmus. Pete turned his head slightly to the left so his better ear could hear Erasmus more clearly.

‘It hasn't ended yet. Lock in at the Grapes, back to my laptop, and then lunch here,’ said Pete with a smile.

Erasmus never ceased to be surprised by Pete's ability to look and sound perfectly healthy despite his almost superhuman appetites.

‘You are a functioning alcoholic, you do realise that, don't you?’

‘I work better after a few looseners, clears the old synaptic pathways. That's why I've taken the liberty of ordering a good bottle for lunch.’

As if on cue an attractive waitress arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed them on the table before them. Pete smiled at her and watched her depart with a lingering look.

‘I can see why you like it here,’ said Erasmus.

‘The wine list, it's all about the wine list.’

‘You eating?’ asked Erasmus.

Pete shook his head.

Apart from the first time they had met, when Erasmus had caught Pete filling his pockets with vol-au-vents and samosas, Erasmus had never seen him eat anything in public.

‘I had a pie at the Grapes,’ he explained to Erasmus.

‘Ah, a pie, of course. Breakfast of champions,’ said Erasmus. Pete didn't seem to hear him although Erasmus suspected that this might be selective deafness on this occasion.

‘Where was I? Oh yeah, synaptic pathways. Take your man, Stephen Francis. I checked the National Criminal Database: no convictions save for a speeding offence ten years back, no county court judgements so no debt problem or so I think. So I check Equifax, nothing save for the Francis’ credit card with £500 outstanding, and Mrs Francis’ charge cards, nothing special. And then I spill a glass of red, look.’

Pete pulled out a sheath of papers from the canvas bag and waved them in front of Erasmus. He could see that half of them were covered in a dark red stain.

‘So, I spill my wine and as I'm separating the papers and I see an old Equifax report showing that twelve months ago old Mr Francis was £50,000 in debt and had been growing that debt for some time – credit cards and loans – and then bang, twelve months ago all paid off: problem solved.’

Erasmus saw where Pete was going.

‘Where did he get the money?’ asked Erasmus.

‘Well, either he got lucky and one of his bets came in big time or he did what everyone does when the wolves are at the door.’

‘He borrowed it? A bank loan?’

‘Yeah right, you know how hard it is to get credit at those levels these days and on his income, not a chance. No, think more traditional methods of finance.’

‘Loan sharks,’ said Erasmus.

Pete beamed triumphantly and put his finger to his nose. ‘Right on the money. And the biggest loan shark in this city is Purple Ahmed. I took the liberty of calling him – got through to one of his minions – he didn't put the phone down when I asked if they knew Stephen Francis, he asked who was speaking. A definite giveaway.’

‘Of course, that's the only conclusion, is that some sort of Scouse Jedi thing?’

‘Yes, you wouldn't understand being a southerner,’ said a deadpan Pete.

Erasmus wasn't one-hundred percent sure whether Pete was joking or not.

‘And Purple Ahmed?’

‘You'll see.’

Pete wrote down an address on a napkin and handed it to Erasmus.

‘Is Ahmed the type of man to use violence if someone hasn't paid their debts?’ said Erasmus.

At this Pete laughed and nodded. ‘It's rumoured the Mersey is full of people who fit that description. What are you going to do?’

‘Pay him a visit and there's no time like the present.’

Erasmus pulled five twenties from his wallet and pushed them across the table to Pete. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Are you sure you won't stay and help me drink this fine Nobile?’

Erasmus shook his head.

Pete took the money and took a sip of his wine.

‘Shame you're missing out. And Erasmus?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Be careful.’

CHAPTER 9

It didn't take him long to find Purple Ahmed's place. The address Pete had given him was on Smithdown Road, the main arterial route through the south of the city. The decaying Victorian red brick terraced houses that lined the road were regularly interspersed with churches, new and old, reflective of the city's religious past and vigorous present. New denominations that had spread like viruses from the US and Asia dominated, their steel and glass churches the only modern buildings other than the occasional petrol station. Their neon signs sold sin and salvation.

Just before the lines of terraced housing turned into the grander Georgian townhouses and the leafy avenues of the Allerton and Mossley Hill suburbs stood Purple Ahmed's scrap merchants like some rusted border crossing post. Huge piles of orange metal towered above the street from a large plot fenced in by a tall steel fence that bore the legend, ‘Ahmed's: Metals Bought and Sold’. To Erasmus’ eyes the scrap yard looked like the resting place of some giant rusting dinosaur. He parked up directly outside of the main gate.