The Silent Pool. Phil Kurthausen
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.’
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. Marcus 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.
The statue was over six foot tall. It faced the oncoming sea as though in silent expectation. Marcus stood for a moment looking at the eyeless statue facing the Atlantic and the New World. Maybe he should have left all those years ago when he had the chance.
‘Bollocks to it all!’ he shouted into the wind and rain. He took a nip from his hip flask, the brandy was cheap but it felt like home.
Toby wagged his tail.
The sand was mushy here but it would be twenty minutes or so he reckoned before the sea covered this statue.
Toby sniffed around the base of the statue and then settled on his haunches.
‘Good lad,’ said Marcus. He patted the dog.
The water was lapping at this feet and he would have to get out of here soon. Maybe a pint and a packet of cheese and onion crisps in the Hangman's Noose, his favourite pub on the front. That would be just the ticket on a night like this. He gave a shiver, part from cold and part in greedy expectation of his pint.
And then a hand gripped his shoulder.
Marcus froze, an image of the statue coming to life filled his mind. The muscles in his legs loosened. He thought he might collapse but the hand remained on his shoulder.
Slowly, he turned around.
There was a man standing next to the statue, his arm outstretched, gripping Marcus's shoulder tightly. The man was wearing a black balaclava and only his eyes, dark against a pale skin, could be seen.
Marcus didn't need to see any more of the man's face, he knew instantly who he was: he was judgement. Marcus felt his knees begin to buckle. Toby had adopted a submissive position sprawled by Marcus's feet on the wet sand, ears back and whimpering.
‘What do you want?’ Marcus managed to splutter.
The man had something in his hand and he was teasing it back and forth. Marcus, an ex-soldier, recognised it for what it was: a ligature made of black leather.
Marcus crossed himself. ‘I'm so sorry.’
The man asked Marcus a question.
For Erasmus, home was an apartment