The Silent Pool. Phil Kurthausen
mix of new build apartments and regulation town houses built on the site of an old cotton warehouse as part of the process of Capital of Culture gentrification prior to the crash. Post-crash the tide had started to come the other way and now the complex was on the outer rim of what was considered acceptable housing for the middle classes who had moved into the city from the surrounding suburbs. It stood like a Roman fort at the edge of the city, abutting the neighboring ‘problem’ estate of the Dingle with its black bricked terraces, survivors of slum clearances, and sixties tower blocks.
Built quickly and running to seed even quicker, the apartments were originally intended to be the first apartment for a class of young professionals that simply didn't exist post-crash. Now the complex was for the lonely and those whose relationships had broken down: the last apartment.
At weekends there was a seemingly never-ending procession of deliveries from the IKEA store. When he thought of his new home Erasmus thought of broken people putting together flatpack furniture.
Erasmus’ apartment didn't suffer from this surfeit of Swedish pine. It didn't suffer from a surfeit of furniture full stop. There were two bedrooms, his, which contained a bed, some clothes rails and lots of books scattered on the floor, and Abby's which he had painted pink and filled with cushions, a large bed and some of her favourite toys liberated from Miranda's house. The living/dining area had an old couch and a small TV. Erasmus refused to buy anything that suggested permanence. This was not his life, not yet.
He plugged his mobile phone into a charger and it blinked into life. He had three new messages.
The first message was from Miranda asking him how Abby's ‘show and tell’ class had gone. As soon as he heard the message he shut his eyes and cursed Dan, Jenna and most of all, himself. How could he have forgotten?
The second message was from Miranda and was more strident and urgent and eventually pleading that her appointment schedule meant she couldn't get to the school without letting down her patients and he had promised Abby and her that he would be there.
On the third message her tone had changed. She told him that she had ducked out of her meeting, handing over her work to a junior colleague and gone to Abby's class, and thanked Erasmus ‘for his kind fucking assistance’.
Erasmus clicked off his messages and as soon as he did so his phone began to ring. He recognised the tone immediately as one that Abby had downloaded as her identifying tone on his phone. It was a sickly saccharine pop song version of the Smiths ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ from the latest X Factor winner.
Erasmus hit answer.
‘Hi Daddy,’ said Abby.
‘Hey sweetheart, I'm sorry I missed your class today. I was caught up in work.’
‘I didn't get a chance to do it, Daddy. The teachers sent us home. Mum had to come and pick me up with Jeff.’
Erasmus felt sick. Jeff was a name he didn't know. He took a deep breath.
‘Daddy, what's a scab?’
He decided to duck the ‘scab’ conversation. ‘I'll tell you when I see you, better yet, ask your mum. By the way, honey, can you put your mum on?’
‘OK, Daddy, I love you! Are you still not smoking?’
Her anxiety for him caused Erasmus’ stomach to churn. She shouldn't have to worry about him.
‘Honey, of course. I made you a promise and you know what they are?’
There was a pause.
‘I remember. It's the most important thing in the world. Mum, Dad wants to speak to you!’
‘Love you, Abby,’ he replied to an empty line.
The phone crackled as it was passed from daughter to mother.
‘Erasmus.’
Miranda's tone of voice was one that Erasmus had filed under ‘Disappointment’. It was a resigned and frustrated tone that had not appeared in their marriage until after he returned from Afghanistan. She had plenty to be disappointed about. The word ‘irresponsible’ was repeated over and over. She had a point and Erasmus had been prepared to let her vent but there was a ‘Jeff’ in the equation now.
‘Why was your phone switched off?’
An image of Jenna popped into Erasmus’ head. He dismissed it. ‘The battery was dead and I had a meeting with a client. And what's so important that you can't get away?’
‘Patients. You know I was lucky to get a job with the breaks in my CV. I can't let people down.’
‘Yeah me too especially in a place two hundred miles away from home.’ A cheap shot that made Erasmus wince even as he said it. They both knew why she had moved north.
‘Look, we need to keep things as normal as possible. Liverpool represents a new start for all of us, including you.’
‘You chose to come here. I only came to be near Abby!’ Even as he was shouting he hated himself, he knew how petulant it all sounded but he couldn't stop.
Miranda sighed. ‘Look, just try and keep your phone switched on. The two of us have to look after Abby.’
He knew he was going to say it, knew it wouldn't help, but he couldn't stop himself. ‘Aren't you forgetting to count Jeff.’ He spat out the name.
There was a catch in her voice when she responded and for a second Erasmus thought that Miranda was going to cry.
‘Jeff's not important.’
‘Except when you're fucking him.’
‘Goodbye, Erasmus.’
The line went dead.
Erasmus banged his mobile phone on the dining table repeatedly. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
Across the city, on the steps of the town hall, Mayor Lynch stubbed out his cigarette and then popped a mint into his mouth. He had promised his wife Daphne that he would give up once in office, but, like many of his election promises, it was proving harder to deliver than promise.
The Mayor hesitated before opening the service door that led back into the council offices. He didn't want to have to make the decision that was waiting for him inside. He looked up into the cold blue skies as though hoping for inspiration. None was forthcoming.
‘Sod it,’ he said to nobody.
He opened the door and stepped back into the building. When he reached the antechamber outside his office he noticed that his door stood ajar. Andrea, his PA, was standing outside looking flustered.
‘I told them you weren't in but Anthony was with them and said it was fine. I told him that they should wait out here but you know Anthony. I'm sorry Mayor Lynch.’
He gave her wrist a sympathetic squeeze. ‘Don't worry, you did the right thing. I told Anthony to take them straight in.’
He had told him no such thing and he felt a wave of angry blood break across his cheeks. He pushed the door to his office open and was initially relieved to see that no one was sitting behind his desk. He had expected Anthony to be sitting there with his feet up.
The Mayor recognised the sound of Anthony's polite cough and turned to face him. By the window were four armchairs. He recognised the occupants of two of them. The third was a man he had never seen before.
The Mayor put on his game face and smiled at his guests. ‘Mr Bovind and Mr?’
The third man didn't speak or indeed move a muscle to register the Mayor's presence. He was wearing a black suit over a tough wiry frame and the way he sat in the armchair reminded the Mayor of a cat: relaxed but poised, ready to strike. The man's head was bowed, his hands resting in his lap. He looked asleep, or at prayer. The Mayor noticed a roughly inked tattoo of an angel on the man's