Sudden Death. Phil Kurthausen
Ted was beaming. He walked around his desk and slapped Erasmus hard on the shoulders with one of his bear-like hands.
‘Excellent!’
‘One question, what is the Blood House?’
The Blood House Bar or, as Pete explained, the unofficial home of the city’s Premiership footballers, the hangers-on, WAGS and wannabees, was the type of place that made Erasmus fear for western civilization.
He had no objection to music, albeit the music here seemed to be a sickly RnB, totally unrelated to what he thought of us as RnB: Franklin and Mayfield this was not. He was not against people dancing and having fun as long as he wasn’t forced to participate. No, what he really objected to was people wanting to be seen, to be photographed, to be vindicated by attention. ‘Posing’ his dad would have called it, and the Blood House Bar seemed to be the capital of the city’s posing fraternity.
Pete had cried off. He had a day pass from Debs to come to the football as it was work but an evening in a nightclub was never going to fly. So Erasmus sat with Ted alone in his Maybach on the way to the club.
In the back of the car, his bulk amply supported by the thick leather upholstery, Ted had reclined and had explained Erasmus’s cover story.
‘You are Wayne’s scorta.’
‘What is a scorta?’
‘It’s an Italian term, it means you do things for him, like a batman in the army.’
‘A bodyguard?’
‘Yes, that and more, you look after him.’
‘Do the other players have a scorta?’
Ted shook his head.
‘Footballers are not always educated but they are football smart. They understand the dynamics of a club clearly. Wayne may be young and he may be under the influence of the older players, but make no mistake, they all understand the pecking order of talent and value. The best players get a scorta, particularly if they are young.’
‘And what qualifications do you need to be a scorta?’
Ted smiled, the fat on his eyelids almost obscuring his eyes.
‘A willingness to do anything that is asked. You’ll be fine.’
Erasmus knew the building; he had passed it many times as he made his way to his office in the Cunard Building. Once home to the city’s only abattoir and prior to that the base for the merchants who dealt in African flesh, the grand India Building was now home to Blood House.
The car stopped outside and the driver came around and let them out. Outside the chilly night air, edged with the sharpness of an Irish Sea wind, had not stopped hundreds of people, dressed in clothes more appropriate for a summer’s day, queuing outside on the pavement. Erasmus noticed eyes flicker with interest and then fade into cold boredom as they realised Erasmus was a nobody.
There were two doormen, one older and presumably the boss, and the other young and gym muscled. The older bouncer nodded at Ted and the younger lifted up a braided gold rope that marked the entrance to the club.
‘Evening,’ said Ted.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Wright. Pity about the result today. The boys are already inside letting off steam.’
Ted stuck out his hand and Erasmus saw that a note was being passed.
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
The rope was clicked back into place by the younger bouncer blocking the progress of two young girls wearing short, gossamer thin dresses and whose goosebumps were visible through their fake tans like seeds on a loaf.
Erasmus followed Ted through the entrance hall, which was lined with floor to ceiling purple velvet drapes. If they had been going for an ambience of expensive decadence crossed with brothel chic then they were bang on the money, thought Erasmus. Ted seemed to know exactly where he was going. He pulled aside one of the drapes revealing an aluminium door, cheap and incongruous. He opened it and stepped through. Erasmus followed him and walked into a wall of pulsing beats, strobe lights and the smell of money and sex. They were standing at the top of a wide metal staircase that overlooked a dance floor that filled with swaying, sweating bodies. The effect from up here was of one many-limbed organism moving in time. The bass that filled Erasmus’s chest was provided by a DJ whose booth was at their eye level, hung from the ceiling by steel wires, suspended over the flock.
Ted leaned in and shouted into Erasmus’s ears.
‘I hate it here, I’m going to introduce you to Wayne and then I’m going. I have to get my helicopter back to London.’
Erasmus nodded. It was useless him trying to speak. Ted would never hear him.
Ted descended the staircase. He seemed oblivious to the revellers who he bumped and barged past, but they also seemed unaware of him, their saucer eyes fixed on the DJ as they danced as one.
Ted carved his way straight across the dance floor, like a shark through an ocean of krill, until he reached the opposite side. Here there was a door with another bouncer stood outside except this one was professional. His dark eyes registered Erasmus and then immediately flickered back to the heaving mass of flesh on the dance floor, scanning for threats. Erasmus could tell from the guy’s bearing that he was ex-military.
‘This is Dave, the player’s general bodyguard.’
Dave tipped his head ever so slightly in Erasmus’s direction.
‘Let us in, Dave.’
Dave let his left hand drop to his side and he hit a button hidden somewhere behind him. His eyes stuck to the dance floor. The door swung open. Ted beckoned Erasmus forward. He followed Ted into the room beyond and the door swung shut behind them.
‘And this is the Blue Room. Wait here.’
Ted scuttled away.
The pounding music outside had been reduced to a far away bass thump by the soundproofing of the room and it also took a second for Erasmus’s eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. When they did the sight was one he hadn’t been expecting. There were two large booths dominating the room, both facing the door that had closed behind him. The first booth was filled with a mixed group of young people and some of them greeted Ted with high fives and handshakes. Next to it was a second booth. In that one, a man sat on his own nursing a glass of mineral water.
Erasmus realised with a start that it was the same man he had seen staring at him at the match earlier that afternoon. The man caught Erasmus’s eye and a smile crawled up his face like a spider moving towards its prey.
Before Erasmus could respond Ted had returned and had hold of his elbow.
‘Come on, come and meet Wayne.’
Ted propelled him forward.
Seated at the first booth were five men and seven women. The woman seemed to be draped around the men in a way that suggested to Erasmus that they had been partaking of some sort of downer, a lugubrious ketamine pall hung over them.
Ted pushed Erasmus forward.
‘Everyone this is Erasmus Jones. He’s Wayne’s new scorta!’
The man seated at the centre of the circular seats and directly opposite Erasmus was older than the other men, he looked like he was pushing thirty, and he sneered at Erasmus.
‘So what?’ he said.
‘Erasmus meet Gary Jones, team captain.’
Gary looked away, ignoring the introduction, and kissed the ear of the blonde girl sitting next to him. Ted pretended not to notice.
‘This is Kristos, central