The Silent Pool (31 page)

‘I can't help you. I'm afraid I packed them in last year. I still miss them though,’

The man shook his head. ‘That's not the question.’

There was a flurry of activity as a gaggle of drunken students poured out of the Pilgrim and onto the street they were laughing and stumbling into each other. They stood there smoking and laughing.

Erasmus turned to look at them and when he turned back the stranger had gone.

Another lonely person lost in the city
, thought Erasmus. He resumed his walk lost in thoughts of opium fields, mud walls and death.

He made it back to the flat quickly and was surprised to see Rachel standing at the gate to his complex, holding a bottle of wine and her computer case.

‘Two things: I've just dumped my boyfriend so you better have a corkscrew. And I've found the
Everlong
.’

CHAPTER 39

Dr Chisholm hadn't meant to work so late. It was his son's birthday at the weekend, and he had meant to go shopping after the clinic closed and pick him up a present. Specifically, to pick him up a video game that he wasn't sure he approved of entirely, but which his precocious nine-year-old had been insistent that he receive.

It hadn't been an ordinary week at Allerton Womens’ Health Centre. They had, over the years, become used to the occasional protest by religious groups but normally these were, albeit upsetting for the women who had to run the gauntlet of their hateful comments, never violent or physically threatening.

All that had changed in the last week. A new group had appeared outside the clinic on Monday morning. There were more of them, perhaps thirty in total, and they carried placards with vicious slogans and pictures of aborted foetuses. Intimidating and vocal, they screamed and spat at the staff and the women who entered and exited the clinic. Matters had escalated to the point where one of the protestors had thrown a bucket of blood over two of his nurses, Sandra and Eileen, the day before and today both of them had phoned in sick. They had both been tearful and upset at letting him, and more importantly, the women down, but their families and safety came first.

He had been disappointed but he understood why they felt that they couldn't come in.

At the beginning of the week Dr Chisholm had called the police and asked for protection. They had sent a patrol car and two officers but they had a habit of disappearing just when things turned really nasty, and true to form they had been absent when the blood had been thrown.

To add to his woes, the only other clinic in south Liverpool had been similarly besieged and the director there, Dr Harnett, had taken the decision to temporarily close until the situation calmed down. This had led to more women turning up at his clinic, desperate for his help.

Chisholm had considered making the same decision as Dr Harnett. But it was his wife, Emma, who had summed up his choice. Lying in bed she had taken his hand and looked at him with those pale blue eyes that he had fallen in love with and asked him, ‘If you don't help those women, who will?’

The choice had been easy. He had gathered together his staff the day before and told them that anyone who didn't want to come in was welcome not to, and he would not think anything less of them. To their credit, apart from the two traumatised nurses, everyone had come in today. He felt immensely proud of all of them.

Tonight, he had stayed behind, escorting each of them in turn to their cars and then staying behind to wait out the protestors. It had been bad but if the week ended in just a dry cleaning bill for cleaning spittle off his jacket then maybe that was as good as he could have hoped for.

He sat in his office on the first floor and occasionally looked through the blinds. It was now 8 p.m. and dark. He was glad it was a cold night as the last protestor had packed up and left. If it had been summertime he had a feeling that he may have been waiting a long time to leave.

He packed some papers into his suitcase and got ready to leave. First he called Emma. ‘Hey honey, it's me, I'm leaving now, be home in five.’

‘Are you OK? How did it go today?’ she asked.

He paused. ‘I'm still alive. How is Josh?’

‘Let him tell you.’

Chisholm heard Emma call Josh to come to the phone.

‘Hi Dad,’ said Josh.

‘Hey son, how are you? You had a good day at School?’

‘Yeah OK. Did you get my game?’

Kids, always cutting to the chase
, thought the doctor.

‘Hey, it's not your birthday yet!’

‘Dad, I gotta go, I'm playing Call of Duty with Mike. Mum!’

He heard Josh running off and then Emma was back on the line.

‘Dinner's in the oven and I have got a lovely bottle of Pinot Noir waiting here for you.’

‘I love you, honey,’ he said.

‘I love you too. Hurry home.’

He heard Josh shout for Emma in the background.

‘Got to go,’ she said and the line went dead.

The doctor checked the blinds. No protestors. Just some placards and empty cans marking where they had been.

He picked up his briefcase and took his mac down from the peg on the back of the door. He turned the light off and opened his office door, coming face to face with a tall, thin man with grey eyes. His head was bowed slightly and his long limbs and bony features brought to mind some hideous oversized insect from the darkest corners of the rainforest. Chisholm shuddered involuntarily.

‘Hello Dr Chisholm,’ said the man.

‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’ Dr Chisholm began to edge back towards his desk. There was an emergency call button under the desk that would set an alarm ringing at the local police station.

The man followed him into his office.

‘I am the Pastor, and I let myself in with a key provided to me by a friend of the church. Any other questions?’

The Pastor carried on walking forward slowly shrinking the space available for the doctor.

Dr Chisholm moved around his desk, never taking his eyes off the stranger. He hadn't tuned the lamp back on and the only light was the glare from a street lamp that shone through the blinds. It gave an eerie orange glow to the Pastor's milky skin.

‘What do you want?’

The Pastor took a seat in front of the desk. Dr Chisholm sank into his own chair and felt for the button under the desk. His fingers searched, without luck, for the button.

‘What do I want? I want for nothing for I have the Lord's guidance and love. You, on the other hand, want for everything.’

The Pastor's eyes narrowed giving him the appearance of a bird of prey.

The doctor's index finger found the small metal housing of the emergency button. He inched his finger forward and pressed the button. He kept pressure on the button.

‘The Lord's guidance tells me that I should save souls. I have harvested many souls. It is my burden and I gladly accept it.’

A look of fervour, trancelike, similar to those he had seen on the protestors outside the clinic, had appeared on the Pastor's face.

Dr Chisholm was afraid. He was clearly dealing with a psychopath. He pressed the button again.

‘A member of our congregation mans the office you are trying to alert. She will be taking coffee right about now. You are alone, without friends, without God's love.’

The Pastor stood up and he was now taking something out of his jacket pocket. Chisholm recognised what it was and his insides froze.

The Pastor was gently running his fingers along a shiny black object with a mother of pearl crucifix inlaid. He clicked a button and a long steel blade snapped out of the handle.

‘This knife is Azazel. It is named after one the fallen angels who taught mankind how to make knives and weapons of war. The angel Rapheal punished Azazel for giving this knowledge to man by binding him hand and foot, and strapping him to a rock in the darkness to await Judgement Day when he will be hurled into the fire. I call this knife Azazel because it casts souls unto the fire. Are you ready for the fire, doctor?’

The Pastor's cold, grey eyes fixed on the doctor's.

‘Now listen here, this is an outrage!’

Dr Chisholm raised his right hand just in time for the knife to pass through it and from there into his eye.

CHAPTER 40

Erasmus awoke to the sounds of running water. He rolled over in his bed and came face to face with Midori's yellow eyes. She licked her lips and purred softly.

At the same time, Rachel stepped back into the bedroom, she was wearing a towel wrapped tightly around her slim curves.

Erasmus cursed inwardly.

One of the many, but perhaps the key, symptom of his marriage breakdown following his return from active service was the womanising. It was something completely new to his personality, something dark and compulsive. He had felt compelled to seek out sexual encounters whereas before he had never even contemplated cheating on Miranda.

The first time it had happened was a week after his return from Helmand. Miranda had been at work, Abby at school, and a young woman had knocked on his door asking him if he would answer some focus questions on behalf of the Labour party. She had been attractive and straightaway flirtatious. Erasmus had invited her in. Twenty minutes later they had fucked in Erasmus’ martial bed. After that, things progressed to a stage where Erasmus couldn't engage with a woman on any level other than sexual.

The encounters had mounted up and it had only been a matter of time before Miranda found out, and she had. And the kicker, the real killer, was that it had been because of Abby. He had forgotten to order the birthday present that Miranda had asked him to get so Miranda had borrowed his laptop. A simple case of not clearing his history had led her to emails and hotels. When confronted he hadn't resisted. It was as though he was admitting to the crimes of another person. For Erasmus it was as though he has been inhabited by a jin, a sexually addicted ghoul that he had picked up somewhere in the hot, bloody, killing fields of Helmand. Miranda hadn't thrown him out either; she had understood on a level he had failed to, that this was a war wound, a consequence of his experiences. She had given him a shot and he had taken it, enrolled in a programme for sex addicts. He had worked hard, and with the help of his mentor, Molly, he had seen his behaviours for what they were, a search for comfort and meaning. And when he was well, recovered, no longer searching for stray encounters with strange women, Miranda had told him she was moving to Liverpool. He had followed and to this day hadn't strayed and now, here was Rachel in her bathtowel.

He sat up in bed. ‘Er, so we…’

Rachel grinned. ‘Good morning, and yes we did. Don't sweat it though. I think we both needed to let off some steam.’

Erasmus wanted to say sorry but past experience had taught him that apologising after sex wasn't always endearing to the other party. The previous evenings events started to come back to him.

‘Ah, your boyfriend, your ex-boyfriend Graham, yes, I remember now.’

His mouth tasted of wine and mouthwash.

‘We've got work to do. You do remember that?’ She cocked her head and pulled a fake serious expression.

‘I do, yes.’

‘Well, come on then.’ She carried on drying her hair and padded through to the living room.

Erasmus watched her go and then jumped out of bed, slipped on a pair of jeans and followed her. Rachel sat on the couch. In front of her on the coffee table were her open laptop and the police report on Tomas’ murder.

He got up and went straight to his iPod dock selecting a Doves track ‘There Goes the Fear’. For Erasmus, a hangover was best dealt with head on, turn up the stimuli and pretend it didn't exist. With the pounding drums and bass reverberating around the flat he psyched himself up for the unpleasant task that awaited him. He pulled open the curtains and took in the view of the Mersey. Today, it was turbulent, broiling and frothing in the winter winds.

‘I've got the feeling that today is going to be eventful,’ said Erasmus, ‘so we need a big breakfast. Do you think your hangover can cope with that?’

‘I've never had a hangover that couldn't,’ she replied and visibly perked up. ‘And just before you get all serious or think about asking me out,’ she smiled, ‘don't. This was a one-off deal.’

‘Roger that,’ said Erasmus and a second later they were both laughing at his unintended pun.

After a breakfast of grease Rachel left. He asked where she was going but all she would tell him was that she wanted to pursue a lead.

Feeling energised he jumped in his old Golf and drove to Aigburth following the dock road alongside the path of the river.

When he arrived at Jenna's house the street was empty. Above him the tall oaks swayed in the wind and leaves fell, covering the ground with a crisp, scab-like patina.

He parked up outside the house but instead of walking straight up to Jenna's house he walked the twenty yards down to the railings that marked the barrier between land and water. He leaned on the iron rail and breathed in the salty air. A large cargo ship loaded with container freight was slowly making its way along the river. He felt a state of calm descend upon him. He was beginning to understand what may have happened to Stephen.

Erasmus gave a start as a man started talking.

‘Quite a view, isn't it? That ship, the Atlantic Conveyor 3, is carrying Jaguars to the States. Two hundred years ago it would have been slaves from West Africa on their way to Virginia. Some things change but some things always stay the same: the quest for money, status and answers. I know you are Erasmus Jones so I have you at a disadvantage. I'm Theo Francis, Stephen's uncle.’

Erasmus turned to the tall, elderly man with a dignified almost regal air standing beside him. Theo offered his hand and Erasmus shook it.

‘I saw you arrive and then walk down here. You obviously have some things on your mind. Jenna isn't at home but perhaps we can have a coffee and maybe talk for a bit?’

‘I came to see you actually, not Jenna, so that suits me just fine,’ said Erasmus.

‘Ah I see,’ said Theo. He didn't sound surprised. ‘You better come with me then,’ he said.

Erasmus followed Theo back to the house. This time he wasn't taken to the lounge but into the kitchen. It was light and airy with wooden floors and steel surfaces. A large AGA was giving off a blasting heat.