The Silent Pool Page 3

‘Ah. Thanks, Tony. I really don't know what I'd do without you.’

  The two sat for a moment in silence.

  The Mayor had noticed these silences growing in length in the last six months, as the depth and seeming impossibility of the financial crisis affecting the city hung over them like a hungry dog waiting to feed. He also blamed the oppressive atmosphere of the office that came with the Mayor's position, so different from the vibrant campaign offices in Bold Street surrounded by bars, bistros and the younger, more diverse population of that area. In this part of town, at the top of Castle Street, the streets were dark and silent after six o'clock and the gloom that descended on them seemed to pervade the town hall.

  The office was lined with dark oak panelling and furnished with oil paintings of Liverpool maritime scenes and Victorian merchants. In places there were pale patches of oak surrounding newer photographs of the Mayor with visiting dignitaries and local football and reality TV stars. The placing of the photographs had been the Mayor's first executive decision: replacing oil paintings that depicted aspects and notable personages of Liverpool's commercial history as a major port in the slave trade. His actions had echoed his campaign slogan: A break from the past!

  It was Anthony who usually broke the silence. Sometimes, he thought that if he did not speak the Mayor would be happy to sit in silence for the rest of his term in office.

  However, on this occasion, it was the Mayor who spoke first.

  ‘I was thinking about how we won the election. Do you remember it?’

  ‘I do indeed, Mr Mayor. It was history in the making, the first Liberal elected mayor of Liverpool, the first in the country. Your speech was very special.’ He didn't need to add that he had written it.

  ‘Remember what I said?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ said Anthony.

  The Mayor didn't pick up, or chose to ignore, Anthony's tone.

  ‘I talked about Churchill uniting the country in adversity, of this city's proud past fighting the fascists and how we would stand together, shoulder to shoulder, to face this new challenge, to build a modern, tech-based city, modern but with values, to come together in a noble purpose.’

  There might have been tears welling in the Mayor's eyes. Anthony's were dry and unblinking.

  ‘And how the best party for the job was the Liberals and I the best man. We made it a matter of principal, party politics goes in the dustbin when the barbarians are at the gates. And the city came together in a common purpose, to save Liverpool.’

  ‘Great days indeed, Mr Mayor.’

  The Mayor looked up as though only just realising that Anthony was present. The Mayor scratched behind his right ear, a trait that Anthony had come to treat as a warning.

  ‘And now we know why the Labour fuckers didn't put up a fight! They knew it was a poisoned chalice didn't they, Anthony, eh! We, you, should have seen this coming. The fucking city is bankrupt. We are the fucking hangover after the party. Crash, bang fucking wallop, eh! 2013 we haven't got fifty pence for the meter, 2014 we are going to end up a Third-World city.’

  ‘It's developing nation, Mr Mayor.’

  The Mayor looked confused. ‘Eh?’

  ‘It's not “Third World” any more, that is considered an insensitive Western expression. We say “developing nation” now.’

  The Mayor waved his hand in the air and looked at Anthony in disgust. He ignored the interruption.

  ‘I've got Craig, the snivelling little cockney twat, demanding that I don't screw up the first real chance to show that we can govern on our own but he hasn't got any cash to give me, has he? No, just wise fucking words!’

  The Mayor swept his arm across a pile of blue folders that covered his desk, the folders and the paperweight went flying onto the parquet floor. He slumped back into his chair.

  ‘We are well and truly fucked. The city is bankrupt. Unless your Oxbridge educated arse can pluck a rabbit out of a fucking hat!’

  Anthony got up from his chair and slowly picked up the folders and placed them back on the Mayor's desk. He picked up the paperweight weighing its heft in his hand before gently placing it on the desk. He took out a Mulberry wallet from his inside jacket pocket and removed a white business card embossed with grey lettering from its folds. He handed it to the Mayor.

  ‘May I present to you, Bugs Bunny.’

  The Mayor looked at the card.

  ‘Have we really come to this?’ he asked.

  ‘It's this or the city goes under.’

  The Mayor felt something twist in his stomach. Maybe it was the pill lodging in his bowel, causing an internal bleed, a contraction that would be the first step on an organic breakdown that would lead to a total system failure.

  He sighed.

  ‘Call him.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Bold Street ran north to south up a hill to the gutted St Luke's church that had been bombed out by the Nazis and left empty as a reminder of the destruction the city had suffered in the war. The roofless church was now filled with sculpture: dozens of multicolored lamb bananas – crosses between a lamb and a banana by Taro Chiezo that had become the unofficial mascot of the city, second only to the Liver Birds.

  The street was filled with small, independent shops, galleries, bistros and Paola's, a tiny espresso bar run by Mario that had been there for years before coffee became a chain store concern. Erasmus passed Paola's, waving at Mario through the plate-glass window and cursed before entering the Starbucks a few hundred yards further on.

  It was exactly the type of place that Erasmus hated. Everything about it screamed ‘contrived’. From the antiqued objet d'art that were scattered around the place, to the company's commitment to climate change that was loudly proclaimed on every mass-produced cup, coffee mat and every poster that covered the walls. Erasmus gave an involuntary shiver as he ordered his espresso and scanned the room for a Nicole Kidman lookalike. The place was busy but he couldn't see anyone who might be Jenna. Erasmus found the only empty table in the place and took a seat.

  Ten minutes later the door swung open and a woman who Erasmus instantly knew was Jenna entered the coffee shop. She had the slightly upturned nose of the Hollywood star and Erasmus instantly saw the resemblance. Red hair framed large blue eyes and a pretty, pale face.

  He waved at her and she waved back before going to order. Erasmus tried his best not to stare as she ordered her drink. He failed.

  She walked over to his table and took the seat opposite him dragging it closer to him. Erasmus suddenly become extremely self-conscious and for a second wondered if the groan he had heard in his head had actually passed his lips.

  ‘You must be Erasmus,’ she said.

  OK. First-name terms. This is good, thought Erasmus. Currently, the only women on first-name terms with him were: Abby – if you counted Daddy and he did, his PA, Sandy, and Miranda.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Mercifully a small voice in his head sent out a command to his mouth, ‘Talk.’

  ‘Hi, yes, I'm Erasmus, it's good to meet you, and green tea, I see. It's meant to be good for you, isn't it?’

  She looked at him with a hint of pity. ‘Yep, the antioxidants. I'm a debit/credit person. Nicotine debit, green tea credit. You must have walked right past me?’

  Erasmus a non-smoker for 6 weeks, 2 days and 14 hours probably had. Part of his withdrawal technique was to ignore all smokers. Service denial he called it.

  ‘I probably did. I'm trying to give up at the moment.’

  ‘A noble cause. People make all sorts of moral judgements about you because you smoke, these days. Have you noticed all the villains in Hollywood movies now smoke? They used to be either Russian, English or South African. Now they're all smokers.’

  ‘Benson & Hedges are the next axis of evil.’

  Jenna laughed. ‘I think we're going to get along,’ she said, brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

  Erasmus smiled and they both fell silent for a moment. He shifted uncomfortably in
his chair. Molly's, his sponsor's, number was in his phone, he could always step outside and call her like he had done so many times before. Let her remind him of how far he had come, the damage he was repairing.

  He looked down at the table, anywhere but at Jenna, and said nothing.

  Jenna broke the silence. ‘So to business. I presume Dan has filled you in on my situation?’

  ‘He's given me the basics.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  She looked Erasmus directly in the eye. For a moment he considered soft-soaping the matter, and just as quickly decided to give her the truth as he saw it.

  ‘OK, you know the reasons behind most adult disappearances are not foul play, it's usually down to mental illness, work problems or, top of the list, relationship breakdown.’

  This time it was his turn to look her in the eye. She didn't blink but instead lent back and sipped her tea. She maintained eye contact. He shivered involuntarily but ignored the pleasure filled adrenaline stream lapping at his nerve endings.

  ‘Stephen has worked for the city council's education department for eleven years and it's been stressful in the last couple of years with the budget cuts but nothing he can't handle. I've been married to Stephen for fourteen years. He's mentally stable, never takes a day off work, never been in trouble with the police, never had an affair or even flirted with another woman, as far as I am aware. Sometimes I wished he had some bloody faults, make him more like me. Two weeks ago, he got showered and dressed for work, picked up his briefcase, got the train to town and never made it into work. He disappeared.’

  This was going to be more difficult than Erasmus had first thought.

  ‘What's your relationship like with your husband?’

  She studied Erasmus coolly. She didn't say anything for a second but he noticed her fingers were playing with a packet of sugar on the table.

  ‘We've been married a long time. I don't want to sound like a cliché but I love my husband, I'm just not necessarily in love with him.’

  ‘And does he know this?’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘Well then, you'll know that marriages change over time. We are life companions, love sometimes changes into that doesn't it? I feel responsible for him, I always have done, and I am frightened for him.’

  For a moment her cool façade slipped. Erasmus saw the beginnings of a tear bead in her eye and she dropped her head momentarily. When she brought her eyes back to his, the mask was back.

  ‘Do you think he had a lover maybe?’

  She twisted the sugar pack into a ball and its contents spilled onto the table. ‘He is not the type to keep secrets.’

  ‘I'm sorry and I don't mean to upset you. I'm just trying to establish what caused him to disappear and if it isn't a random event, if he had a hand in it, whether by choice or not, then it must have been something that was important to him. And if you don't know what that was then I guess he kept it secret from you. People can keep anything secret from the ones they love the most.’

  Jenna's eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is that cod psychology or spoken from experience?’

  ‘It's just the way it is sometimes,’

  She lent back in her chair and took a deep breath.

  ‘Look, Erasmus, the only things important in my husband's life are God, me and his job, probably in that order.’

  Erasmus detected a note of bitterness.

  ‘He's a religious man then?’

  ‘Yes, he always was, though less so in the last few years. He was a choir boy at St Mary's when he was a kid and then when Father Michael left he followed him to the World Evangelical Church, the Third Wave.’

  ‘He's a born again?’

  ‘He's there come rain or shine every Sunday, he's a regular Ned Flanders.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Weddings, funerals and Christmas. We used to argue about it years ago, but not for a long time now. My husband is a good man. He just wanted to make sure my soul would be saved and now it's my turn to save him. He would never disappear like this unless something had happened. The police think he's run off with another woman. I know that's not the truth. I need your help.’

  She reached across the table and took hold of Erasmus’ hand.

  ‘Will you help me Erasmus?’

  ‘Hang on a second.’

  Erasmus stood up and walked across to the next table. A girl in her late twenties was busily writing in her notebook. Erasmus snatched the notebook off the table. There were gasps from the other customers.

  ‘What do you think you are doing!’ said the girl, looking up at him with large blue eyes hidden behind thick, black plastic spectacles. She looked frightened but Erasmus recognised something else there as well, defiance.

  Erasmus looked at the notepad and cursed. It was shorthand.

  The girl stood up and stretched out her hand.

  ‘Give me my book back,’ she said.

  Erasmus looked around; there were at least twenty pairs of eyes staring at him, waiting to see what he would do. He put the notebook back on the table.

  ‘My apologies, miss. Mistaken identity. I thought the notebook was mine.’

  The girl looked down and spoke quietly. ‘Bullshit.’

  As soon as the notebook was on the table the girl snatched it and shoved into her oversized bag before hurrying out of the café. Anxious silence was replaced by the regular café background noise as the threat of unpleasantness receded.

  Erasmus sat back down. Jenna looked appalled.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what that was about?’

  ‘She was listening in to our conversation and making notes.’

  ‘What had she written?’

  ‘I couldn't read it, it was in shorthand.’

  ‘How do you know it was about us then?’

  ‘There was one bit I did understand, my name, “Erasmus” and a question mark. Do you know why someone would be following you Jenna?’

  Jenna looked him dead in the eye.

  ‘I haven't got a clue. We aren't important people. But it must be connected to his disappearance surely? It can't be a coincidence, can it?’

  ‘I don't know, maybe, maybe not,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘Will you help me find Stephen?’

  Erasmus leaned back in his chair. He very much wanted to see more of Jenna Francis and the truth was he didn't think it was a coincidence that somebody was making notes on their conversation.

  ‘Yes I will.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Marcus hadn't been to a church for over ten years and even now he wasn't sure that he could bring himself to go in.

  It was a Friday service, late afternoon, and he supposed that the fresh-faced vicar standing forlornly at the entrance to the church could blame the filthy weather for the poor attendance although Marcus knew, from having walked past the city centre World Evangelical Church earlier that day, that they had no problems with attendance on such a shitty day.

  He gave the lead a tug and pulled Toby, his black Labrador, away from the tombstone of an unknown soul lost at sea. The graveyard attached to St Christopher's, here at the estuary mouth of the Mersey in Crosby, was filled with such tombstones, testament to the killing power of the sea that lay beyond.

  Toby who had been about to leave his calling card on the tombstone gave a low grumble and then rubbed himself on Marcus's leg. Marcus patted his haunches.

  ‘Good man,’ he said to the dog.

  The vicar had noticed Marcus now and was waving to him, beckoning him over. For a second Marcus considered walking over but instead he raised his hand and turned his back to the vicar, pulling Toby towards the graveyard gates.

  Outside the churchyard the eastbound carriageway was beginning to clog up with the evening exodus of vehicles from the city heading towards the suburbs of Crosby, Formby and Southport. It was almost dark at 5 p.m., and black clouds were rolling in from the Atlantic carrying rain destined for the west coast. Mar
cus drew up the high collars of his overcoat and decided that he would cut Toby's walk short this evening. A quick stroll down to the beach, let him do his business and then home to a four-pack of Stella and Coronation Street.

  He cut down Shore Drive and soon he was on the beach. It had been transformed with the arrival of the Gormley statues a few years previously. Part of the whole Capital of Culture thing. Most of it a massive waste of money, in Marcus’ opinion. There were people starving in this city, you only had to open your eyes to see it, and yet it was acceptable to have millions of pounds going into the pockets of non-local celebrity artists for a pile of junk.

  But, the statutes, even he had to admit, were an impressive and moving sight. The work was called Another Place. One hundred ghostly, life-size cast-iron figures dotted along three kilometres of the Crosby shore, sparse in some areas and becoming more congregated as they reached out far into the sea. The statues were cast from a mould of the artist's own body, his genitalia on open show. And had the church spoken out about it? Not a dickybird, as usual. It seemed anything was allowed these days, except criticising the deviants. No wonder everything was going to Hell in a handcart.

  Marcus led Toby across the sand dunes and down onto the shore. The beach was deserted and the incoming tide was already covering some of the statues. Soon they would soon be completely submerged.

  Toby sniffed at a dead seagull and then took an exploratory nibble. Marcus dragged the dog onwards along the shore. He wanted to get away from the orange sodium streetlighting that cast its soft glow on the sand.

  The rain was getting heavier. It was slating in off the sea almost horizontally and straight into his face. In the distance the Seaforth Atlantic terminal was lit up with arc lights, like a cityscape from some future metropolis. In front of it, huge wind turbines were revolving in the first of winter's real storms.

  Out of the gloom another dog walker appeared, his face almost totally obscured by the hood of his Berghaus jacket. The man was being led by a Malumute. Some people had no idea about dogs, thought Marcus. He would never be led by Toby.

  He gave the chain a tug. Toby's muzzle was cast downwards now as though even he wanted his walk to end. Marcus turned his face towards the rain driving in from the dark sea and pulled Toby out towards the shadows where there was a statue not yet surrendered to the advancing sea.