The Silent Pool (19 page)

He tried the hall light switch: no response. Erasmus stepped further into the hallway and made for the door to the living room. The problem was that as he did so he would have to let go of the entrance door and the light from the corridor outside would be extinguished. Erasmus shut the door softly and then stood for a moment listening to the sounds of his apartment. Apart from the absence of the hum there was nothing he could hear to cause him any alarm. If that was the case he wondered why the hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention.

He moved quietly across the hallway and gripped the handle of the door to the living room. Slowly he pushed down and then opened the door inch by inch.

The living room was in darkness. He knew it would be useless trying the switch. The fuse box must have tripped and that was located in a recessed box at the back of the kitchen space.

His eyes began to get used to the darkness and he could make out shapes of different shades of black. Still, as he made his way towards the kitchen space he banged his shin on the side of an unopened box of his clothes that he failed to see in the darkness.

He let out a yelp of pain.

Erasmus stepped into the kitchen and immediately noticed his shoes sticking to the floor. Each step required him to peel his shoe from the floor with a sticky
thwack
. He thought back to this morning when he left the flat: it had been spotless. Maybe he had left a can of coke on the side, maybe it had spilled over. He knew it wasn't the case but he hoped he was wrong. Erasmus reached for a large knife from a block of knives on the worktop.

He felt along the worktops until he found the right cupboard. It was at head height and the fuse box was just inside at the back. Erasmus felt for the handle and then pulled the cabinet door open.

Something heavy and wet fell out of the cabinet and banged Erasmus on the head as it fell to the floor. Whatever it was rolled away into the dark room.

It had left a smear of wetness on his face. Erasmus, breathing heavily now, wiped whatever it was way as best he could and then felt for the fuse box. He found the plastic cover, opened it and quickly located the master switch. He flicked it and the lights came on.

Erasmus looked down at his hands: they were covered in blood. He turned around to face the horror he knew lay in wait in the living room.

A trail of shiny fresh blood marked the passage of the large, pale pink object that lay in the centre of the room.

Slowly, Erasmus walked towards it, ignoring every instinct in his body that was telling him to run. Almost in a trance he bent down and picked it up. Heavy and lifeless, the pig's head gave off a rotten smell of death. But what made Erasmus feel sick to his stomach, causing bile to rise, however, was not the sight of the blood or the smell of the decaying flesh but rather the eyes of the pig: one eye was black and lifeless, the other was missing and in its place there was the dried husk of an opium poppy inserted in the empty socket.

Erasmus tried to breathe but his lungs seemed to have stopped working. The air that came felt hot and heavy, suffocating him. It felt like he was having a heart attack or maybe a stroke. He knew, from past experience that this wasn't the case, that, in fact, it was a panic attack, that the things he thought he had put behind him were back.

He quickly uncorked the Yamazaki and drank straight from the bottle. He needed to dampen his sympathetic nervous response. He lay on the couch and started to shake.

Somebody knew what had happened to him.

CHAPTER 23

He wasn't sure how many hours had passed or how he got there but Erasmus found himself on Miranda's doorstep at 2 a.m. holding the nearly empty bottle of whisky and not knowing exactly what to do.

Miranda lived in a small newly built detached house on a new estate. A new, clean house for a new, clean start. Erasmus started laughing to himself and took a step back and stumbled into the black car parked on the drive next to Miranda's car. He flung his arm out to steady his fall and landed with a thump on the side of the car.

The car lit up and started to screech, the alarm piercing the quiet suburban night.

‘Shit,’ said Erasmus.

A light came on in the upstairs bedroom. The curtains flicked open and Miranda's face appeared. A look of anger turning to one of concern and then pity in the time it took him to give a huge dopey smile.

Erasmus waved at her.

A few seconds later the front door open and a tired looking Miranda appeared. She was wearing a dressing gown and a weary frown.

‘What is it Erasmus?’

Erasmus gave her a kiss on the cheek and walked past her into the house.

‘Just fancied a drink with you s'all,’ said Erasmus as he stumbled into the living room and crashed out on a leather couch.

Miranda followed him switching on the lights. She sat down on the opposite couch.

Erasmus stroked the leather. It felt cool against his cheek. ‘Is this new?’ he said.

Miranda nodded.

‘Good to see where the child support goes.’

‘Don't be such a twat. You're drunk. I'm going to get you a coffee.’

Erasmus must have passed out for a second. When he awoke there was a steaming hot cup of coffee on the floor by the couch.

‘What's going on?’ asked Miranda.

Erasmus took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like home.

‘Just stuff,’ he mumbled.

‘Talk to me. You know what happens, what happened when you didn't.’

‘What do you want me to do? How will me telling you about the stench of flesh, the hacked up children, the sobs of a young man calling out for his mother as he dies, how will that help? Will there be a catharsis that makes us whole. I don't think so. I don't tell you, I never told you because I wanted to protect you and Abby from it all.’

Erasmus sat up and then got up and sat next to Miranda on the couch.

‘Erasmus.’

‘I still love you, you and Abby.’

She sighed and put her hand to her head. ‘You should go now. I'll ring you a taxi.’

Despite the booze, despite the pig's head, despite his memories, the demons, the dark, the desert and despite the blood and fear, Erasmus felt secure here. Home was Miranda and Abby. This was the only thing he felt sure of in the world.

He put his arms round her and moved his head towards her. She moved forward hesitantly.

There were steps on the stairs.

‘Abby's awake, sorry about that,’ said Erasmus.

‘Erasmus…you don't realise Abby is…’

The door to the living room opened. A man's face appeared. He had grey hair and a healthy tan.

‘Oh, hello. Are you OK, Miranda?’

A tearful Miranda nodded.

Erasmus stood up even though every part of him wanted to curl up on the floor and weep. Thoughts of violence crossed his mind, smashing and breaking this man's body. He swayed as he considered what to destroy first, the nose or the cheekbone.

Miranda had taken his arm.

‘Please, Erasmus.’

‘And you must be Jeff?’ he said.

Jeff nodded uncertainly. ‘Erasmus?’

‘Pleased to meet you. I was just leaving. Nice tan by the way.’

Miranda put out her hand to pull him back. ‘You can stay on the couch tonight. You shouldn't be alone.’

Erasmus pushed past Jeff and walked unsteadily out of the door and into the night.

He walked uncertain of his direction for hours, stumbling along the sea wall and embracing the cold, wet waves that came sloshing over the railings and drenching him. He drank from the bottle of scotch he carried.

When it seemed like he must lie down on the road and sleep he looked up and recognised the house just off the promenade. It was Jenna's. He hadn't consciously walked this way but now he was here he knew what he would do. He stumbled to the door and pressed the bell.

After a minute the door opened and Jenna stood there assessing the sight before her. She went to say something but Erasmus moved forward and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away.

‘You're drunk. You can have the couch, Erasmus.’

He stumbled through the door.

CHAPTER 24

Pete had spent his whole adult life watching people. From dissident Irish republicans on a rainy day in Derry to laying on the roof of a white, clay baked blockhouse in Sadr city bathing a stable in invisible laser markings for a circling drone, his work had been identifying, marking, tracking, observing, and sometimes, when ordered, killing. He was used to hours passing as he waited for his target to appear.

Not only had he found out the names of two of the boys in the photographs, he was now sitting outside the house of one of them. But something was not right.

***

Pete had reasoned that if Malcolm Ford and Stephen Francis had been pupils at St Edward's then maybe the other boys in the photograph were too. So after Erasmus had left the Grapes, Pete had called a drinking pal, Terry Leahy, who had been a pupil at St Edward's too.

Terry was a postman and finished his shift by midday each day, and who would retire to the snug of the Grapes every afternoon to read the paper, place some bets and sup a few pints. Terry often mentioned his father, a retired teacher who spent all of his time out at the Allerton allotments. Terry would regularly bring in some potatoes or dirt covered carrots that he had picked up after his shift from his dad. One of Terry's continuing grumbles was how his dad was disappointed in him only becoming a postman given that his dad had slaved his guts out at St Edward's School to ensure his son got a place.

Terry had confirmed his dad was down on the allotment that afternoon. It was where he always was. So Pete had swung by to speak to him.

It had taken him a while to find them. His sat nav delivered him to a dead end street of terraced houses. Eventually he had spotted a new looking steel gate off a side alley to one of the houses. He had parked up and opened the gate. It led to a gravel path that ran along the side of a railway embankment and then swung to the right before opening out into a rich, green field of allotments: a secret garden in the midst of the city.

Terry had given directions to his father's plot but they weren't needed. Pete could see Terry's father, Gordon Leahy, on a plot in the far corner. He was standing with his foot on a spade. He saw Pete and gave him a wave.

By the time Pete reached the plot Gordon had disappeared into his shed. As Pete arrived he emerged with two streaming mugs of tea and a pack of Hob Nob biscuits.

‘Always nice to have a visitor. Terry said you were coming. Please sit down.’ Gordon gestured towards a couple of deckchairs by the side of the shed.

Pete took a seat. ‘Nice set up you've got here,’ he said.

Gordon handed him a mug of tea. ‘Thank you. I find it the most peaceful place in the city. You know people argue back and forth about which way to eat an egg but nature couldn't give a jot; it keeps growing, blooming, dying without any concern. Here I get to put my mark on things for a while and then I'll move on. It's all you can ask for really.’

‘Bit like teaching, then?’ said Pete.

Gordon laughed. ‘Terry said you would get straight to the point. You wanted to know something about St Edward's. A fine, fine place. I miss it greatly.’

Pete sipped his tea. Strong and sugary, just the way he liked it. ‘I have a client. He's trying to find someone, a missing person. I think you may have known him, he was a pupil at St Eddies, and he would have been in the fifth form in 1992. Stephen Francis?’

Gordon didn't hesitate.

‘Ah yes, Stephen, a good boy. A very good athlete as I remember, he ran 400 m for his house. I can't imagine he'd be in any trouble. He was a very well mannered and well-behaved boy. Quite religiously minded, as I recall.’

‘Ain't that the truth. Did he have many friends? Would you remember that?’

‘Now you're testing me. I can recall there was one boy that he did hang around with but he left the school some time before he took his A-levels.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Pete.

‘As it happens, I do, yes. He was a keen thespian and I directed the school play for five years. He made a very good Caliban the year we did
The Tempest
. It was Petersen, that's right, Petersen, Giles Petersen.’

Pete took out his copy of the photograph of the boys and handed it to Gordon. ‘Is he one of the kids in this picture?’ he asked.

Gordon studied the photograph. ‘Yes, that's him standing next to Stephen.’ Gordon pointed at one of the young boys smiling at the camera. He was a chubby boy, wearing bathing shorts and the ubiquitous red T-shirt, and proudly holding up an oar. ‘Yes, seeing that photograph brings it all back. Good days, good days.’

‘Do you recognise any of the other boys in the picture?’

‘No, I'm afraid, not save for the dead boy, of course.’

Pete sipped his tea. ‘You mean Ford, the lawyer who just fell to his death?’

Gordon looked surprised. ‘Gosh, is he one of these boys, that chap who fell from Beetham tower?’

Pete nodded and pointed to Ford who was standing to Francis's immediate left in the photograph.

‘Terrible shame that.’

‘One less lawyer,’ muttered Pete under his breath.

‘But no, I didn't mean him, I don't recall Ford. I meant the boy who died in the sand dunes. Terrible business that. One of Frank Burns’ victims, his face was all over the newspapers at the time.’

‘Which one?’

Gordon pointed at a boy whose face was half hidden behind Stephen's shoulder. He had a dark mop of hair and cheekbones that Pete could see were sharp and high.

‘Was he a pupil at St Eddies too?’

‘No, not at all. From memory I think he was a Bosnian boy, over here after his family were wiped out by the Serbs. He came here to escape persecution and then that nutcase Burns gets holds of him. A terrible tragedy.’

Pete knew about Frank Burns. He had been convicted twenty years ago for a string of child murders and suspected of a whole lot more across the north of England and the Midlands. The murders and his trial had gripped the nation for a while until a newer, bloodier atrocity turned up. Pete remembered that Burns had tortured a number of his victims before killing them, something to do with their eyes, he couldn't quite remember. He would Google him later on.