Sudden Death

by Phil Kurthausen

  The voices stopped and for a few seconds there was silence and then the door opened. A middle-aged and immaculately groomed Asian man in a dark grey suit stood before Erasmus. His lips were pursed in annoyance.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ said the man in the finest public school accent that money can buy.

  Behind the man, sitting on a treatment table, was Wayne. His left shirtsleeve was rolled up and he looked flushed. He waved at Erasmus.

  ‘Raz, how are you?’

  ‘Hi, I’m Erasmus,’ he said to the Asian man and then smiled at Wayne. ‘Hi Wayne, how’s your head?’

  ‘Bad, but not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t got me out there in time. I am rubbish at those drinking games!’

  Cheery as ever, even with a needle in his arm. Wayne was similar in so many ways to the squaddies he had worked with over the years. Take away the fame and the fortune and you were left with the same raw material, a young, idealistic kid who needed training to deal with the trials life was going to put in your way.

  ‘I am Dr Khan. We are in the middle of a session here.’

  Polite but assertive. Very officer class, thought Erasmus.

  ‘I didn’t know Wayne was injured?’

  Dr Khan’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘I can’t talk about his treatment. Patient confidentiality. You understand, of course.’

  Wayne leaned over the side of the bed.

  ‘I’m not injured, Raz, Dr Khan just gives me vitamin shots, tests my blood, that sort of thing.’

  Dr Khan’s eyes flickered ever so slightly in annoyance but he still stood blocking the door to his domain.

  ‘Is Steph around? Ted wants her to do a piece in the programme about being Wayne’s girlfriend that sort of thing,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘Good luck with that, she hates Ted, thinks he a tosser! But she likes you so you may be in luck. She usually waits for me outside in the main stand seats, directors’ enclosure. Try there.’

  ‘I will do, good luck for Saturday if I don’t see you before.’

  ‘I won’t need luck,’ he pointed at his left foot, ‘I’ve got this.’

  Dr Khan had begun to close the door, and it was shut before Erasmus had a chance to reply. He retraced his steps and then took the stairs up to the main stand, directors’ box. He followed the stairs to the pitch and stepped out into the cold night air.

  The fog had settled all the way to the bottom of the pitch and was slowly twisting and turning in the darkness of the stadium’s belly. The stadium, which seemed so vibrant and full of life when full for a game, seemed desolate and eerie now. There were no floodlights on and in the gloom Erasmus couldn’t see anybody in any of the seats. He looked further down the rows of seats and then realised he had come out too high up. He heard the sounds of a muffled conversation and looked more closely at the rows below him and he could see that there were two people about fifty rows down. In the gloom it was impossible to tell who they were but one of them must be Steph.

  Erasmus started to walk down the stairs, his shoes slapping against the concrete echoed loudly in the deserted arena.

  One of the people below turned around, looked at him and then got up from the seat, and walked along the row to an exit before disappearing out of sight. It was too dark for Erasmus to make out who it was.

  The other figure waved at him.

  Twenty yards away Erasmus recognised Steph. She was wrapped up tightly in an expensive looking leather jacket with a fur collar.

  He slid down the row of seats and sat next to her.

  ‘I didn’t mean to scare your friend away,’ he said

  Steph smiled.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  Erasmus said nothing, leaving a gap in conversation he hoped she would fill, but she didn’t oblige.

  ‘So, I’m here to collect. You said you would tell me your theory on why Wayne’s lost his form?’

  The smile on Steph’s face vanished. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Straight to business, eh?’ She fixed him with a stare that he couldn’t even begin to decipher and then smiled. ‘Oh well. I did, didn’t I. You’ve signed that fat tosser’s waiver, haven’t you?’ she asked.

  Erasmus knew what she meant. It had been a term of the contract with Ted that Erasmus agreed to complete confidentiality in his dealings with the club and any disclosure of information to a third party was strictly prohibited. A gagging clause, in other words.

  ‘I have. Why have you got it in for Ted, by the way?’

  Steph lit a cigarette and inhaled before ejecting a tight, band of smoke from her pursed lips.

  ‘Real Madrid wanted to buy Wayne last January. Ted wouldn’t let the sale go through. He said he wanted him to play for Everton for a few more years. But Ted didn’t realise that Wayne is bigger than this club now, he’s a fucking global superstar but he’s regretting it now though.’

  ‘Because of Wayne’s loss in form.’

  ‘No shit Sherlock.’

  ‘Why has he lost his form, Steph?’

  She dropped the cigarette on the concrete floor and ground it out with her leather heel and then she leaned in close, her scent filling Erasmus’s nose.

  ‘If Ted had let the sale go through none of this would have happened.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She looked away towards the Gwladys Street end of the ground and then back at Erasmus.

  ‘If I tell you what I know you can’t tell Ted, do you promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ he said too quickly, although she didn’t seem to notice. He had no idea whether he would be keeping his promise, it depended, as it always depended, on what the price was of keeping the secret.

  ‘Last March Wayne was injured and missed three games. He strained a calf muscle at the Villa game while warming up.’

  ‘A muscle strain, that’s not serious?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You don’t get it. There was nothing wrong with him. He pretended to have a pulled the muscle. The club flew him to the US for three weeks to have treatment but he was fine.’

  ‘So why did he do it?’

  ‘He told me he wanted a break. Gary Jones was properly injured at the time. He’s at the end of his career and is injured every other game it seems, so he went with Wayne. They just had a holiday for three weeks.’

  ‘I can’t believe Ted sanctioned that?’

  Steph laughed.

  ‘Ted doesn’t know. He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on half the time. Khan signed him off as unfit and away he goes.’

  ‘But Khan’s the club doctor?’

  ‘No, Khan is Wayne’s doctor as insisted upon by Steve Cowley in Wayne’s contract.’

  Erasmus was thinking about what he had seen in the treatment room.

  ‘How did this affect his form?’

  It had become colder now and the fog had grown icy fangs that bit into Erasmus’s spine. He shivered.

  ‘I don’t know. I said I’d tell you what I know and I have. He came back from the States and he hasn’t been the same player he was since. At first his form was terrible then towards the end of last season it picked up, and this season, well, you were here last week, you heard the boos.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  She smiled again and looked straight into Erasmus’s eyes.

  ‘We had a deal.’

  If there was one thing that Erasmus was sure about more than anything at this moment it was that Steph Besant had her own reasons that had nothing to do with any deal with him.

  She stood up.

  ‘So we’re quits now,’ she said.

  ‘Sure.’

  She leant down and pecked him on the cheek.

  ‘See you around, Erasmus.’

  She left him sitting there and walked up and away towards the exit.

  He looked out at the pitch. You couldn’t see the grass now the fog had become so thick. To a fanciful mind the way the grey air moved in the wind almost looked like ghosts pl
aying a game.

  There was something that Steph had told him that had rattled a door handle in his mind but it wouldn’t open. Erasmus believed that insight often came when the mind emptied or indeed when it was stimulated with chemicals. Erasmus smiled to himself and let his mind wander.

  After a minute or two he knew it wouldn’t come, but it would at some point he was sure. He shivered again and this time left his seat and made his way out of the stadium. He saw nobody but the security guard on his way out. The stillness of a place built to be filled with people was disconcerting and he was glad to be leaving.

  In the car park there was another car parked next to his and getting out of it was De Marco. He was wearing a leather flying jacket and a blue silk scarf. He looked like a dashing aristocratic pilot from the First World War.

  ‘Ehhh, Erasmus! Come sta?’

  Erasmus shook his hand.

  ‘Not bad, and you, Marco?’

  ‘Va bene. I have to come in though on such a cold Engleesh night. I have a cold. I need to see the doctor. Is very bad. I miss Italy sometimes, no?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Can I ask you something, Marco? Does the club doctor give you vitamin shots?’

  Marco frowned.

  ‘Vitamin shots, no. I hate needles, even if he wanted to I say no!’

  ‘What about the other players?’

  Marco shrugged.

  ‘You have to ask them, no?’

  ‘OK, thanks Marco. See you later.’

  ‘Ciao!’

  Marco walked off towards the entrance to the stadium. Erasmus let his hand rest against the bonnet of Marco’s car: it was icy cold. He stood still for a moment thinking about that fact and then shrugged: time for home.

  CHAPTER 12

  He had meant to drive home, pour himself a large measure of Yamakazi and relax over some early nineties grunge, maybe a bit of Pixies or some selected Sonic Youth. Instead, Erasmus found himself pulling up outside the Blood House Bar.

  As he stepped out of his car he could hear the Mersey – only three hundred yards away – slopping against the river walls. The sound of the waves echoing along the tall buildings that lined Water Street together with the underwater feeling of being enveloped in fog gave the street a surreal air.

  Maybe it was the wrong night of the week, maybe it was the crushingly cold fog that hung over the city like a hungry dog, but the place was almost deserted: almost but not quite. As Erasmus walked to the bar he noticed a girl he recognised but couldn’t quite place, seated in a corner table, alone, nursing a tall drink.

  Erasmus sat at the bar and asked the barman for a Coke. When it arrived Erasmus put down a twenty.

  ‘That’s fine, keep the change.’

  The barman, early thirties and sporting a goatee, smiled and reached for the twenty-pound note.

  ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions.’

  His expression changed instantly to one of hostility.

  ‘We don’t talk to the press here.’

  ‘I’m not the press, I just want to ask you about the Blue Room. I was hoping to get a look at it if no one is using it?’

  The barman snatched the twenty away and brought back the full amount of change. He then walked away to the far end of the bar and began to polish glasses.

  Erasmus swivelled around on his seat. He could see now that there were a few more people scattered around the bar, hidden away in booths or dark corners. The girl on her own looked up and caught his eye. He remembered where he recognised her from now. Erasmus hopped off his seat and made his way across the room to her table.

  ‘Can I join you?’

  She didn’t look at him.

  ‘It’s a free country.’

  She was pretty with large dark eyes in an elfin face and an almost impossibly thin frame with large breasts. It seemed to be the type of starved, gym-sculptured body shape that all the girls he saw in here had. It made him hungry. The thick make-up she wore couldn’t quite disguise the dark circles under her eyes though.

  Erasmus sat down.

  ‘Quiet tonight, isn’t it?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘There’s still time.’

  He took a sip of his Coke.

  ‘I met you a couple of weeks ago, with Gary Jones. It’s Natalie, isn’t it?’

  Her face lit up and she looked at him directly for the first time since he had sat down.

  ‘I remember you, you wouldn’t jump, you pussy.’ She didn’t smile but then looked at him with renewed interest. ‘You’re with the club, aren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Has Gary mentioned me?’

  ‘What’s your surname again?’ he asked.

  ‘Cole.’

  Erasmus considered lying. It would be easy but something stopped him. There was a fragility about her that made it seem too cruel.

  ‘I don’t really speak to Gary that much.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked away again.

  ‘But, if you like I can mention that I saw you when I speak to him?’ Not quite a lie. Erasmus had no intention of speaking to Gary Jones, nor, he suspected, would Gary speak to him even if he wanted to.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her eyes were moistening.

  He waited for a second.

  ‘But I need you to tell me something.’

  The hunted animal look returned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What goes on in the Blue Room? What goes on with the players?’

  Tough she may have been but she still blushed and looked down at her feet. She snorted, a harsh, cigarette sound, at odds with her carefully manicured and made up appearance.

  ‘You know the players don’t call it that.’

  ‘What do they call it?’

  ‘They call it the abattoir.’

  ‘Why?’

  She flicked her hair to one side.

  ‘Coz it’s where they bring the new blood, the new girls, the fresh meat.’

  Erasmus looked over at the blue door at the back of the club.

  ‘Nice, and what goes on in there?’

  ‘Just stuff. We party with them you know, that’s all.’ Her voice faded away.

  ‘Sure, sure. Tell me, have any of the girls ever sold their stories, or – ’ he picked his words carefully but there was no sugar coating this ‘ – asked the players for help in not selling their stories to the newspapers?’

  Erasmus braced himself for a slap or a drink in the face but it didn’t arrive.

  ‘Are you talking about Jess?’ she said.

  ‘Jess? Is she your friend?’

  Natalie clamped her lips around the straw.

  ‘Dunno,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth while sucking.

  ‘Does Jess go into the abattoir with the players?’

  Natalie removed her lips from the straw.

  ‘Jess was a silly bitch who ruined it for us all.’ Natalie was looking over Erasmus’s shoulder. He turned around and saw that Mr Goatee – the barman – was looking at them and talking into his mobile phone.

  ‘What happened?’

  Natalie sucked the last of her drink up.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘Wait, let me buy you a drink.’ Erasmus pulled out another twenty and put it on the table. Natalie’s little hand shot forward and the note disappeared.

  ‘What happened with Jess?’

  ‘She was a stupid cow who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She blabbed and told everyone she was going to the papers about what happened when we partied with the players, that’s all. We were stopped from going for a while but now things are OK again.’

  Erasmus pulled out a business card and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Where can I get hold of Jess? Can you write down the address?’ He handed her the business card and placed the pen on the table. She took the card.

  Natalie stood up.

  ‘I haven’t seen her in months, and I don’t know where she lived, somewhere posh like Aigburth. If you’re a friend
of Gary’s why do you need to know?’

  Despite his earlier misgivings Erasmus lied.

  ‘Because it will help Gary. You want to help him, don’t you?’

  Her face, beautiful and damaged, lit up again.

  ‘Yes, I love him.’

  Behind Erasmus there was a noise of a chair being moved to one side. Erasmus turned around and there was Mr Goatee. Two things were apparent: first the barman was well built – stacked he thought it was called – and had muscles growing on his muscles; second he was holding a metal baseball bat in his right hand, which hung down by his side.

  ‘You, leave now,’ said Mr Goatee to Natalie. She picked up her bag and didn’t look back as she scurried out of the bar.

  ‘I’m not sure what this is about but I’m leaving too so there’s no need for that,’ Erasmus said, pointing to the bat.

  Mr Goatee chuckled and raised the bat menacingly.

  ‘There’s always the need for the rat basher when there are rats sniffing around.’

  Erasmus took a step forward. As he did so Mr Goatee moved to the side, blocking off any escape from the corner table.

  ‘Are we really going to do this?’

  ‘Fucking aye!’

  Erasmus sighed. He hated violence. People got hurt. Admittedly, it was usually other people.

  His right hand dropped to the table and picked up the pen, as he did so, he looked straight at Mr Goatee. He clicked the pen top so the nib was exposed.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve turned off the CCTV cameras I see scattered around this joint, and I don’t think we need to worry about witnesses. Last chance, move aside and let me leave and you can go back to thinking that being a barman is part of the creative industries. What do you say?’

  Mr Goatee swung the bat behind him. Amateur hour, thought Erasmus, who stepped forward inside the arc of the swing, brought his right leg up and then smashed his foot against the side of Mr Goatee’s kneecap. He felt it shift, which usually signalled the end of a fight. But Erasmus had been trained to win fights with overwhelming force, so he didn’t check his momentum and his hip crashed into Mr Goatee’s pelvis, and using Mr Goatee’s own weight he flipped him so that he landed spine down on a cocktail table.

  Mr Goatee was still holding the bat so Erasmus drove the pen deep into his palm where he knew a bunch of nerve endings came together. Mr Goatee’s scream was even more high pitched than Erasmus had expected. The bat hit the floor.