well with his personality to be purely the result of an injury.
They had been the last to leave the Grapes that night, drunk and laughing. Pete had given Erasmus his card.
‘Pete Cross, Security Consultant?’
‘I know this city. You can never know this place as a true Scouser can, though you may think you can. I was born in Two Dogs Fighting, what about you?’
Erasmus replied. ‘Witney.’ When he received a blank stare he had added, ‘Oxfordshire.’ He had later discovered from a laughing Dan that Two Dogs Fighting was the local name for the district of Huyton, one of the city's tough outer estates.
Pete had smiled his lopsided smile. ‘If you need any help, which you will in this city, call me.’
Erasmus had needed help. He had used Pete on several occasions since then for witness location, serving summons and obtaining information in ways Erasmus had no access: Pete knew the city and its people.
He called Pete on his mobile. He knew that somewhere in the city a mobile phone would be ringing and his assigned tone was the theme from
Minder
. Pete's little joke.
Pete was where he always was when not at work or sleeping. In the Grapes, swapping stories with the other regulars.
‘Raz. How you doing?’ As usual Pete was bellowing. ‘I'm in the Grapes, come down for a pint.’
In the background Erasmus could hear the sounds of the pub: laughing, music and what sounded like tiny foot steps.
‘I would love to but listen I need a favour.’
‘
Plus ca change
,’ said Pete.
Erasmus told Pete he was looking for somebody and gave him Stephen's name.
‘OK, no problem. I'll make a call, check some things out. Sure I can't tempt you down here?’
Erasmus demurred. There was a cheer and then inexplicably some squawking from what sounded like a bird.
‘Gotta go. Blind Bob's brought his parrot in. You are missing out,’ said Pete.
Pete's techs skills were second to none. Any digital information on Stephen Francis would be Erasmus’ by the morning.
Erasmus reached for the packet of cigarettes, found they weren't there and then, disappointed, sank back into the sofa's embrace. The apartment's sole redeeming feature was the view from the floor to ceiling French windows out across the Mersey. From here Erasmus could see almost to the mouth of the river and the bright lights of the Seaforth container terminal in Crosby. Tonight the river was swollen and frothing and the bruised night sky hung over it as a storm battered its way west.
Erasmus opened a kitchen cupboard and took out a new bottle of Yamizaki, single malt. He poured himself a large glass and collapsed into the sofa. Mark E Smith was grumbling something about there being a ghost in his house. Erasmus hit the remote and the TV sprang to life: General Election coverage. It was looking like a landslide for the woman. He sank his scotch and poured another three fingers into the glass, drinking that immediately after the first. He was asleep within minutes.
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
They had been the last to leave the Grapes that night, drunk and laughing. Pete had given Erasmus his card.
‘Pete Cross, Security Consultant?’
‘I know this city. You can never know this place as a true Scouser can, though you may think you can. I was born in Two Dogs Fighting, what about you?’
Erasmus replied. ‘Witney.’ When he received a blank stare he had added, ‘Oxfordshire.’ He had later discovered from a laughing Dan that Two Dogs Fighting was the local name for the district of Huyton, one of the city's tough outer estates.
Pete had smiled his lopsided smile. ‘If you need any help, which you will in this city, call me.’
Erasmus had needed help. He had used Pete on several occasions since then for witness location, serving summons and obtaining information in ways Erasmus had no access: Pete knew the city and its people.
He called Pete on his mobile. He knew that somewhere in the city a mobile phone would be ringing and his assigned tone was the theme from
Minder
. Pete's little joke.
Pete was where he always was when not at work or sleeping. In the Grapes, swapping stories with the other regulars.
‘Raz. How you doing?’ As usual Pete was bellowing. ‘I'm in the Grapes, come down for a pint.’
In the background Erasmus could hear the sounds of the pub: laughing, music and what sounded like tiny foot steps.
‘I would love to but listen I need a favour.’
‘
Plus ca change
,’ said Pete.
Erasmus told Pete he was looking for somebody and gave him Stephen's name.
‘OK, no problem. I'll make a call, check some things out. Sure I can't tempt you down here?’
Erasmus demurred. There was a cheer and then inexplicably some squawking from what sounded like a bird.
‘Gotta go. Blind Bob's brought his parrot in. You are missing out,’ said Pete.
Pete's techs skills were second to none. Any digital information on Stephen Francis would be Erasmus’ by the morning.
Erasmus reached for the packet of cigarettes, found they weren't there and then, disappointed, sank back into the sofa's embrace. The apartment's sole redeeming feature was the view from the floor to ceiling French windows out across the Mersey. From here Erasmus could see almost to the mouth of the river and the bright lights of the Seaforth container terminal in Crosby. Tonight the river was swollen and frothing and the bruised night sky hung over it as a storm battered its way west.
Erasmus opened a kitchen cupboard and took out a new bottle of Yamizaki, single malt. He poured himself a large glass and collapsed into the sofa. Mark E Smith was grumbling something about there being a ghost in his house. Erasmus hit the remote and the TV sprang to life: General Election coverage. It was looking like a landslide for the woman. He sank his scotch and poured another three fingers into the glass, drinking that immediately after the first. He was asleep within minutes.
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
Similar Books
