The Silent Pool. Phil Kurthausen
across all demographics? Sure there may be different ways to God but one thing is certain, everybody wants to believe in something. All we're saying is give the kids of this city a chance to learn about alternative viewpoints. We'll even supply the teaching materials. It's a no-brainer.’
The Mayor's headache returned. He mentally rehearsed the familiar argument.
‘And supposing that everything you say is right that the central funds are not forthcoming, that the unions agree, when would this all happen?’ asked the Mayor.
Bovind grinned. ‘Immediately. Half your schools are shut now because of strikes. I will arrange for the Foundation to provide full training and materials to all science teachers and the funds will start to flow. You will have a school system that works and funds freed to clear the streets of rubbish. It will be a great deal for the city and for the Bovind Foundation. Faith can be like a tsunami. This world senses it needs salvation. You can ride that wave, Richard, or try and hold it back.’
Anthony was squirming in his chair like an eager child wanting a parent's attention.
‘After Liverpool, Mr Bovind plans to role this programme out across the country. People will be demanding it once they see the success in Liverpool. It will give us the Christian vote and it'll give us a national platform. No one has done this yet. We could have the Christian votes all to ourselves!’
Yes, the Mayor could see that if the plan were a success then he would be the man who saved the city from bankruptcy and revitalised its school system. Most people did believe in something, didn't they? Really, in the end, what was the harm of teaching an alternative version of the origins of life? Maybe it was even true. No, he couldn't believe that. As a life long rationalist he could no more believe in a divine creator than Father Christmas but who was he to judge, after all?
‘Anthony, I want you to ring the minister for local Government and get an update on those funds and then I want Ted Coyne on the phone, see what his members think of this. I'm making no promises though.’
‘I'm on it right now,’ said Anthony, taking out his ever-present BlackBerry® and clamping it under his jaw as he walked out of the room to make the calls.
The Mayor turned back to Bovind.
‘Tell me. There's something I don't understand though. You will be spending millions and will get next to nothing in return save maybe a street named after you. What's it in it for you?’
Bovind's smile disappeared. He let go of the Mayor's hands. For a moment he was silent and then he began to speak softly. ‘I grew up in this city. For better or worse it made me and then I left. I prayed to leave this city and God answered my prayers and more. He made me richer than Croseus but it was for a purpose. I want to save souls, Richard, and one thing life has taught me is that you need to save souls before they become fully formed and corrupted. A child's soul is the purest form of God's love but it turns black quickly and I intend to capture as many as possible so that when the Rapture comes the streets of this city are empty of God's children.’
Mad as a box of frogs, thought the Mayor.
From the chair next to the Mayor's came a low, rumbling noise. It took the Mayor a second to reconcile the fact that it was a man's voice, the Pastor's.
‘“He who hath no soul I will blot out his name from the book of life.”’
The Pastor was looking at him. His pale grey eyes held the Mayor's gaze until he was forced to look away.
‘Revelations,’ said the Pastor.
The Mayor was lost for words.
Anthony was talking in low tones in the corner of the room.
‘You save the city, I save the souls,’ said Bovind. ‘A deal made in Heaven!’
Anthony finished his call.
‘Well?’ said the Mayor.
‘Ted Coyne said the union is on board, his exact words were, “If you pay his members you can teach the kids that the Flintstones is a fucking documentary.”’
Bovind's hand was extended.
‘Do we have a deal, Richard?’
Reluctantly the Mayor extended his hand.
The lonely evening stretched out ahead of Erasmus. He fumbled with his iPod deck, selected some early The Fall and contemplated how he could fill his time. As Mark E. Smith's, grimy laconic voice filled the room he came up with two choices: drink and read or drink and watch the TV. He decided to call Pete instead, postpone the inevitable.
Erasmus had met him at a wine tasting evening the firm held for its clients. He had always hated those sorts of occasions and only attended as the Bean thought them marvelous opportunities to network. Work masquerading as a social event should, in Erasmus’ opinion, be added as the eighth circle of Hell but he had been eager to please and grateful for the job given his immediate references. Erasmus had attended but had occupied himself by skulking at the back of the room, drinking wine and eating as much as possible in order not to have become engaged in small talk.
He had met Pete at the buffet table where he was adopting the same technique: drink, eat and avoid small talk. They had eyed each other cautiously at first, each jealous of their own space at the back of the room and threatened by an interloper who may drag them into conversations about house prices, schools, work or any of the other of the chitchat that usually accompanied such networking events.
Pete had spoken first, asking Erasmus whether he had been in the Army. He had shouted the question. Erasmus, busy chewing a vol-au-vent, had nodded and then Pete had yelled that it was obvious to him because that he still stood like he had a Sergeant Major's boot halfway up his arse.
Pete had followed this by suggesting that they get out of there and go for a proper drink at the Grapes. Erasmus had agreed if only to get Pete out of there. Everyone else could hear Pete's views on the party and the Bean had looked disapprovingly at Erasmus as though he were guilty by proximity to the loud, brash guest who nobody owned up to inviting.
He found out that night that Pete had been at the event because he had swept the premises for bugs on behalf of one of the firm's clients, a young South African business man who had set up a string of private alternative health HIV clinics and who was looking to open up clinics in Liverpool and Manchester. He had hung around purely to get access to the buffet and he confided in Erasmus that he ate this way two to three times a week.
‘I live off samosas and tiny wraps of mayonnaise,’ he shouted between mouthfuls of an egg sandwich.
The shouting was, Erasmus later learned, as a result of Pete's previous career as a pathfinder in the Parachute Regiment. He had been honorably discharged after he lost 75% of his hearing when an IED exploded ten feet away from him in a compound in Helmand Province. As he got to know Pete, Erasmus began to suspect that he had always been loud. It went too well with his personality to be purely the result of an injury.
They had been the last to leave the Grapes that night, drunk and laughing. Pete had given Erasmus his card.
‘Pete Cross, Security Consultant?’
‘I know this city. You can never know this place as a true Scouser can, though you may think you can. I was born in Two Dogs Fighting, what about you?’
Erasmus replied. ‘Witney.’ When he received a blank stare he had added, ‘Oxfordshire.’ He had later discovered from a laughing Dan that Two Dogs Fighting was the local name for the district of Huyton, one of the city's tough outer estates.
Pete had smiled his lopsided smile. ‘If you need any help, which you will in this city, call me.’
Erasmus had needed help. He had used Pete on several occasions since then for witness location, serving summons and obtaining information in ways Erasmus had no access: Pete knew the city and its people.
He