Erasmus shook his head.
‘Nope, I don’t do that. The club has asked me to look after Wayne and that’s all I intend to do and that doesn’t cover providing him with women. If it’s any reassurance I can tell you that when I’ve talked with Wayne all he wanted to do was talk about music, martial arts and well, you.’
Not strictly the truth but Erasmus’s dad had told him you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but he had a feeling that his dad had never met someone like Steph though.
She pursed her lips to one side as though chewing.
‘I tell you what, Erasmus – and what kind of a name is that anyway? – I think you’re full of shit but I want to believe you so I’m making a choice that I will, but let’s be clear, if I find out you are lying to me I’ll have your balls,’ she mimed the cutting action of a pair of scissors with her fingers, ‘in a bag and mounted above that fucking picture do you understand?’
Erasmus smiled.
‘Crystal clear. Any chance of a cup of tea?’
Steph laughed and the in-your-face, hard, Scouse façade dropped for a second and Erasmus could suddenly see the young girl, not yet twenty-one surely, who lived under the glitter.
‘Do I look like a scivvy to you?’
Her mouth remained open, her ruby red lips hanging there in a pout of mass destruction that she had no doubt employed effectively many times before.
Erasmus never got to answer the question. Steph raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m vibrating,’ she said. She slid a hand into her top and pulled out a tiny, gold-plated phone from between her cleavage. ‘Hi ya love?’ As she listened her face became stern again. ‘What? Are you fucking kidding me? With that twat! You promised you would be back here. And I’ve got your fucking gopher sitting her looking at my tits, as well. What do you want me do with him?’ Another pause. ‘Cunt!’ she said and threw the phone on the couch.
Erasmus worked on the basis that the ‘cunt’ was not meant for the gopher.
‘Was that Wayne?’
Steph leapt to her feet and nodded quick and angry.
‘Oh yeah, it was His Majesty. He’s decided to stay at the golf club with that tosser Gary Jones and Kristos and get pissed instead of coming home and having dinner with me!’
Steph was pacing now.
‘You’ve got to go. I need you to leave now.’
Erasmus stood up.
‘Which golf club is he at?’
For a moment he thought she was going to ignore him.
‘Formby Golf Club. He won’t be home for the night now.’
‘If I bring him home will you do something for me?’
For a moment he thought she was going to tell him to get lost. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and looked directly at him, challenging him, it seemed to Erasmus.
‘You’ll never get him home now. This happens. A lot.’
‘If I get him home will you talk to me about Wayne. About why he’s playing so badly? Anything might help?’
She stopped pacing and looked at Erasmus.
‘Read the back pages of the newspapers. They’ve all got a theory.’
‘I want to know what you think.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘I’ll tell you what, love. If you bring him home, I’ll think about it.’
Erasmus stuck out his right hand.
‘Is it a deal?’
She took hold of his paw with her doll-like hand. Long red nails with golden stars stroked the inside of his wrist. She held his gaze.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
‘I’ll see myself out.’ He turned and headed for the door. ‘And by the way, I wasn’t looking at your tits.’
She arched an eyebrow. He decided not to push the point.
As he drove away from the house he noticed a black saloon car parked in the street that hadn’t been there before. That wasn’t unusual of course, what was unusual was that he could have sworn he saw someone quickly slide down behind the steering wheel as he turned out of Wayne’s drive way. Erasmus looked back in his rear view mirror. There was no one visible in the car. Perhaps, he had imagined it, he wondered, knowing for certain that he had not.
CHAPTER 8
Erasmus parked his car near the clubhouse and for the second time that day he couldn’t help but feel that his vehicle was actively lowering real estate values. The clubhouse looked new-old: recently built but with a false patina of age brought about my using recycled materials. Erasmus didn’t like the place. It gave off a manufactured air of superiority. He snorted as he realised an old combination of inverted snobbery and aggression had been activated. Did realising this make him less culpable of being a twat? He suspected not.
Golf, the third in a deadly triumvirate combining with football and nightclubs as things Erasmus despised, and had, in his opinion, no merit. Golf could be used as a useful social barometer of whether someone was an absolute tosser or not. Not that Erasmus was prejudiced too much, some of his best friends were golfers, a term that even thinking about caused Erasmus to feel slightly queasy. He reminded himself that even Hitler had liked dogs, so maybe golfers too had some redeeming features.
Erasmus breezed through the reception area. There was a guard on the desk and he looked up and started shaking his head.
‘No, no, no. Oh most certainly not. Sir, I say, sir. You can’t come in here dressed like that.’
Erasmus stopped in his tracks. He was wearing his weekend uniform of dark blue Paul Smith Jeans, an old and worn black wax jacket and black Chelsea boots.
‘I’d say I’d just raised the tone, wouldn’t you?’
He glanced up and down at the guard in his beige slacks and black and blue diamond patterned wool jumper.
‘The rules say collared shirts and trousers only in the bar, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,, sir.’
Erasmus pretended to take out a pen from his jacket and began to write in the air. The guard looked confused.
‘Here’s a note. It explains my position clearly.’
He offered the invisible note to the guard.
‘Very funny, sir, but you’ll still have to leave. Rules.’
The man looked ex-military to Erasmus. His posture, his bearing and his doggedness sticking to the most inane rules in the face of unpleasantness. The sort of doggedness that saved and lost lives in the army.
For a second Erasmus weighed up his options. There was a palm punch in the face, always a favourite but the consequences in this environment were not conducive to the mission. He could ignore him but he could tell that this man wasn’t the type to let it go, or he could try the third way and appeal to the man’s better nature.
He stepped closer to the desk. The man looked at him with a mixture of hostility and concern.
‘You’re ex-military, aren’t you?’ asked Erasmus.
‘That’s right, sir. Cheshire Regiment. Duke of Westminster’s own infantry. Retired.’
‘Well listen, apologies for being a bit of a berk there it’s just that I need to get into the lounge. I’m an ex-military myself, you know, lawyer now that I’m on civvie street, and I need to speak with one of my clients urgently.’
Erasmus had pulled out his wallet and he slid up the top half of his old warrant card to show the guard. He hoped he didn’t ask him to show him the whole card as the expiry date was four years ago.
The guard smiled.
‘I’m most sorry, sir, I would love to help out an old soldier like myself but, you know … ’
‘Let me guess, rules?’
‘That’s it, sir, unless that is of course you have anything else in your wallet that might, ahem, change matters.’
There’s always another option you didn’t think of, thought Erasmus. The world is full of surprises. Who would have though backhanders would be at play in a posh golf club? Austerity maybe. He pulled out two twenties and placed them on the desk.
‘Thank you, sir, and if any of the members ask you to leave tell them Tom h
as granted you dispensation on account of your war wound.’
Erasmus gave Tom a mock salute.
He heard them before spotting them. It was the sound of drunken braying and loud laughter. Wayne was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the bar by the snooker table accompanied by a loud and leery group of men. They were surrounded by empty glasses. Erasmus recognised Gary Jones and Kristos but none of the other three men. They didn’t look like they were built like footballers, more like body builders. Erasmus’s first thought was doormen. Erasmus hated doormen. He snorted unconsciously.
As he approached Gary Jones looked up from the snooker table.
‘All right look who it is! It’s Ted Wright’s very own arse wiper, Erasmus.’
Erasmus let a fake smile crawl up onto his face and stay there.
‘Gary, good to see you setting a captain’s example as usual.’
Erasmus could see that Wayne was asleep in the armchair. There was a long string of drool hanging from his bottom lip.
Gary noticed Erasmus looking at Wayne.
‘Play a drinking game and there’s always a loser. Talking of losers are you going to buy us a round? I have to warn you it’s expensive in here, a dogsbody’s wages might not stretch to it.’
Erasmus breathed in and concentrated on exhaling the anger instead of letting it transmit to his fists, which he felt twitching in anticipation.
‘I’ve come to take him home,’ said Erasmus nodding at Wayne.
‘He’s fine and he’s staying here, aren’t you, buddy? We are going to have a few more drinks.’
Gary placed his hand on Wayne’s shoulder. His head lolled forward.
‘A feeww more drinhks,’ repeated Wayne.
‘You think this is good for him, for the team, do you?’
Gary stood up and let his arms fall to his side, palms facing Erasmus.
‘Good for the team? You fucking lowlife, what do you know about the team or football? This is team bonding. Now get the fuck out of here before I throw you out.’
Kristos stood up and though Gary was at least six foot he was dwarfed by Kristos.
‘Iz good for you if you does as he sez, no?’ said Kristos.
Now the other three men stood up. Erasmus didn’t fancy the odds but he had been in worse scrapes.
‘Ted Wright wants me to look after Wayne. That’s what I’m doing. Wayne, stand up and come with me. Steph’s waiting.’
Wayne started to stand up but Gary pushed him hard in the chest so he fell back in his seat.
‘Whdda fuk?’ said Wayne.
‘I don’t give a shit what Ted thinks or wants. I’m the captain and he stays.’
Gary shoved his head forward in a quick darting movement that reminded Erasmus of a hungry rat he had caught chewing on his boot in a Sangar in Afghanistan. Erasmus had the same urge to do to Gary what he had done to the rat.
‘I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll make you a promise. Let him come with me now and I won’t break your kneecap and bring to a premature end a career that I’m reliably informed is coming to an end soon anyway.’
Gary flushed and there was a pulse above his eyebrow that told Erasmus that this was only going to end one way. Erasmus shot out his right hand and picked up a snooker cue. He would make good on his promise to Gary.
The three doormen types stepped forward. The one to Gary’s left smiled at the anticipation of violence. Erasmus decided to break his arm first before moving on to the others.
‘Gentlemen, gentleman, are we all not on the same team? What is this all about?’
Erasmus looked around and came face to face with the man who had been staring at him the day he first met Ted at the match and who had been sitting on his own in the Blood House: Babak. He was in his late fifties at least and had short, jet-black hair. He was dressed immaculately in a tailored suit and lingering behind him was Steve Cowley hoping from foot to foot and looking anxious.
Babak extended his hand.
‘Babak Badalian, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones. Ted has told me all about you and your role at the club. Gary, sit down, if you please.’
Gary looked uncertain for a second and then grimaced, but he sat down. His goons followed suit. Wayne had woken up and started laughing at nothing in particular.
‘Erasmus, Greek yes, it means “to love”, this doesn’t look like love to me.’ Babak chuckled. ‘Come and join me at the bar.’
Erasmus put the snooker cue back on the baize and walked to the bar with Babak. Steve Cowley followed but Babak turned to him.
‘I think Erasmus and I would speak alone.’
He didn’t wait for an answer from Cowley.
Once they had ordered their drinks, Babak a mineral water and Erasmus a Coke, Babak leaned in conspiratorially towards Erasmus.
‘I love athletes, footballers. They are like the very best hunting falcons but sometimes you need to put a hood on them, stop their more savage behaviour.’
‘I saw you at the match watching me,’ said Erasmus.
Babak’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
‘Ah yes, I always wonder when a client has a new “contact”, it’s my business to keep my clients happy and to do that I have to know what and who is important to them, yes?’
Erasmus sipped his Coke.
‘And what is your business, Babak?’
Babak rolled his eyes.
‘I am an Armenian. My country has been the pathway for invading armies for centuries. Some of us learnt that the best way to survive is to provide the invaders with what they want. My family has traded everything, precious metals, livestock, commodities and now we deal in talent.’
Babak nodded towards Wayne.
‘I thought Steve was his agent?’
‘Indeed he is, I am merely the means by which people who want something speak to those who have it. I bring people together. I make things work.’
‘Are you working for Real Madrid, I heard they wanted to buy Wayne?’
‘I work for no one but my family. If there is a deal to be done then I will always help the parties along, to come to a mutual understanding over the commodity. But Real Madrid, no. They are old money. There are new, more profitable markets.’
‘I think the commodity needs to come with me and go home.’
Babak’s expression was one of concern. He held Erasmus’s shoulder.
‘I like you, Erasmus. I can see that this is more than work, yes? Of course you should take him home to be with his family if that’s what they are.’
Erasmus wondered what he meant by the comment but decided not to ask. Babak clearly carried the authority here and he had given Erasmus the pass he needed.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Maybe you will return the favour one day soon, yes?’
Erasmus went back over to the group and pulled Wayne up out of the chair.
Gary Jones sneered at him.
‘You’re a cunt, a nothing, and this isn’t over.’
Being called a cunt twice in a day wasn’t quite his best record but it wasn’t an everyday occurrence either. Erasmus turned his head away from Gary and towards two of the goons sat next to Wayne.
‘Big girls say what,’ whispered Erasmus.
‘What, what did you say?’ said Gary.
The goons began to snigger.
‘Nothing, just leaving.’
Erasmus pulled Wayne out of the chair.
‘Rasmus, karate moves, I wanna see them now!’
‘Maybe later,’ said Erasmus, ‘you’re coming with me now.’
‘OK, but I feel sick.’
Erasmus put his arm around his shoulder and walked him outside.
The cold December air seemed to have a little sobering effect on Wayne and he managed to walk unaided to Erasmus’s car.
‘Get in, it’s unlocked.’
Wayne got in and slumped down into the passenger seat.
Erasmus turned up the heaters and set off. He selected the first Stone Roses album and slippe
d it into the single slot CD player.
The opening bars of ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ kicked in and the bass flooded the car. Wayne, who Erasmus thought had fallen asleep, began to hum along to the bass.
‘I love the Roses, my dad loved them. He was at Spike Island.’
Spike Island. A grotty piece of land stuck in the Mersey near Runcorn where the Stone Roses had held a legendary gig in 1991. Erasmus had been to the gig. It had been chaotic and the sound had been washed away by the winds swirling around the site. Somehow, it had become legendary, the nineties version of the Sex Pistols and the 100 Club.
‘I was there too, it was quite a day.’
‘Maybe, you saw my dad there,’
Wayne had opened his eyes now and was looking at Erasmus hopefully. Surely the kid didn’t think he had actually bumped into his father?
‘It’s a long time ago now but maybe, how old were you when he died?’
Wayne’s head fell back against the seat. He shut his eyes again.
‘I was eleven.’
‘I’m sorry, Wayne.’
Erasmus decided to take a calculated gamble, a dangerous one in the age of the internet. He lied.
‘My father died when I was a young boy too. It was tough growing up without him being around. Did you find that too?’
The truth was that his father was still very much alive and kicking. He was a retired journalist who lived in Oxford and who, a widower, was still, to a mixture of admiration and disgust on Erasmus’s part, very active on the senior dating scene.
Wayne gave a derisory snort. It wasn’t what Erasmus had hoped for.
‘My dad was a coward. He hanged himself in our shed in the back yard. He left me and Mum alone, the fucker.’
Erasmus felt his mouth open but then his brain applied the brake. He had been engaged by Ted to find out if there was a reason behind Wayne’s loss of form. Was it possible that there wasn’t anything untoward behind that loss of form, couldn’t it be the case that Wayne had a depressive tendency like he assumed his father must have done given he hanged himself? He was certainly drinking too much on his day off but didn’t a lot of teenagers when they got the chance? Erasmus had certainly spent many weekends in his local park as a teenager smoking illicit cigarettes and drinking cider. Maybe the email was just a red herring. It could just be the case that Wayne had slept with a couple of the girls who threw themselves at him and the other players but in the grand scheme of things, so what? He wasn’t married and, sure, Steph would be furious but it didn’t amount to blackmail type material surely? Erasmus was reaching the conclusion that what Everton Football Club had on their hands was a teenager going through a period of angst. Plus cą fucking change.
Sudden Death Page 7
