Sudden Death

by Phil Kurthausen

  ‘Sure thing, he does need dropping though,’

  Ted hadn’t stopped and showed no sign he heard the comment. He was now disappearing down the stairwell that led from the stands.

  Erasmus and Pete followed.

  The stairs led down into an empty lounge area full of set tables awaiting the post match influx of hungry and, by the sound of the groans coming from the stands above, disappointed spectators. The room reminded Erasmus of a shabby but once grand hotel, posters of ex-players covered the walls and there were lots of shiny plasma screens dotted around the room. But look a bit closer and you could see flaking paintwork and worn carpet.

  Ted turned to check they were still there.

  ‘This way,’ he said and he pushed open a service door before stepping through.

  Pete and Erasmus exchanged a bemused glance before following.

  Beyond was a corridor dimly lit by industrial low wattage bulbs. Pipes and bundles of cable lined the walls. Some of the cabling had long streaks of copper wire that had burst through the perished rubber.

  Ted was chuckling.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking! How do we get the Fire Safety certificate each year? Let’s just say the inspector is an Evertonian and the council leader brave enough to piss off half his constituents hasn’t been born yet.’

  Ted didn’t look at them as he talked, he kept walking at his eerily fast pace, his little legs scuttling along the narrow corridor. They followed him along the corridor, which twisted and turned through the bowels of the stadium, for a couple of minutes. Finally, they came to another service door. Ted stopped, pulled out a key on a silver chain from under his shirt and used it to unlock the door.

  ‘Through here,’ he said with a flourish of his arms.

  The door opened out into what looked like a large study more appropriate to a country home than a football stadium. The back wall was made up of bookshelves and a rich brown mahogany desk sat in front of them. But what was really impressive was the outer wall of the study. This was a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto the pitch.

  Pete whistled.

  ‘Nice,’ he said.

  Ted manoeuvred his bulk around the desk.

  ‘Assume you’re not talking about the team. It’s one-way glass.’ He jabbed a fat finger at the window. ‘The buggers can’t see us. Drink?’ he asked.

  The fans outside might not be able to see in but they weren’t insulated from the cacophony of boos and jeers rolling down from the stands at the hapless home players.

  Pete nodded.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Erasmus.

  Ted poured out two large glasses of whisky and passed one to Pete. He then crashed back into his chair and let out the sigh that comes to all men of a certain age when they return to a sitting position.

  Erasmus decided he had wasted enough time here. He hated football and so far the cruel pettiness and barely restrained violence he felt had done nothing to change his view of the sport.

  ‘So, I know that you instruct one of the magic circle firms for your corporate and transfer work and you use a local firm, Cuff Roberts, for the smaller stuff just so you can boast you support local businesses, so why in the world would you want to instruct us?’

  Erasmus noticed Pete suck in his bottom lip.

  Ted stared at Erasmus for a second during which Erasmus wouldn’t have been surprised if he had told them to get out right away. Then pointed out at the pitch.

  ‘Look,’ he said.

  Erasmus turned and watched as the final whistle went and the players in red held up their arms. The Everton player’s body language told him everything he needed to know – hunched shoulders and downcast eyes – as they trudged slowly off the pitch. The booing and jeering was of the kind usually reserved for child killers as they sped off in a van from court.

  ‘Fuck, we lost,’ said Pete.

  ‘Again,’ said Ted. ‘Do you know what this means?’ He didn’t wait for answer. ‘This means we are second from bottom in the week before Christmas and do you know how many football teams have been second from bottom at Christmas and then not been relegated? Well, you won’t know Erasmus so I’ll tell you. None.’

  ‘It’s Wayne’s fault,’ muttered Pete.

  Ted took a large slug of his whisky.

  ‘If we are relegated this club won’t survive. We will lose £125 million, be forced to sell our best players and we will be as welcome in this city as a Mancunian Tory.

  Erasmus felt his thinner than most patience start to give.

  ‘So, what has this got to do with me and Pete? Other than Pete’s obsession with a football club.’

  Pete shook his head and smiled ruefully.

  ‘You’ll never understand this place, Raz.’

  Ted licked whisky from his lips.

  ‘Pete was right. It’s Wayne Jennings. Something is wrong.’

  Erasmus considered for a second and then decided that, yes, on balance, he had heard him right.

  ‘OK, I have no idea how a small, two-man firm of lawyers can help one of your poorly performing footballers. Care to enlighten me?’

  There was a glint of rage in Ted’s eyes and Erasmus guessed he was used to being given what he considered due respect when holding forth.

  ‘Wayne Jennings is the greatest thing that ever happened to this club. I believe your colleague Pete can give you his history.’

  Pete smiled.

  ‘Youngest ever goalscorer in the Premier league, youngest and quickest player to reach thirty goals in a season, England cap at seventeen, England hat-trick at eighteen. Voted Europe’s best young player at eighteen. A local boy, a Scouser and the future and hope of this club.’

  ‘And what is he playing like this season?’ asked Ted.

  ‘Like a drunken paraplegic.’

  Erasmus shot Pete a glance.

  ‘Nice.’

  Pete looked at his feet.

  ‘Well he is, Roy needs to drop him.’

  ‘Roy?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘Our sorry excuse for, and soon to be, between you me and the whisky, unemployed manager.’

  Ted drained his glass.

  ‘This club is worth what, say £80 million. We had a bid last summer from Real Madrid for Wayne. They offered £65 million. Wayne is this club; he is the most valuable asset we have. It’s no secret that the club has borrowed against him and now he is playing like he’s never seen a ball before.’

  ‘Is he injured?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘Our doctors say he has never been fitter.’

  ‘I don’t know what to suggest. Sports psychologist? A trainer? Again, how can we help?’

  Ted filled up his tumbler with more whisky. This time he didn’t offer any to Erasmus or Pete. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He looked at it.

  ‘Lawyer client confidentiality. I need to know that applies here.’

  ‘It does,’ said Erasmus, ‘unless you tell me you’re about to commit a crime.’ He smiled.

  ‘I was sent this three weeks ago.’

  Ted handed the piece of paper to Erasmus. It was an email printout. The recipient was Ted. The sender was x546fg@hotmail.co.uk. Erasmus read it.

  Wayne has become sick on The Flesh at the Blood House. Stop him or he will never play again.

  He passed it to Pete.

  ‘A classic of its oeuvre,’ said Pete. ‘It’s a shame though that email has all but made extinct the fine art of cutting out newspaper print and gluing it to paper. A real shame.’

  Erasmus shrugged.

  ‘Yes, but no request for payment, which is unusual if it is an attempt to blackmail? Have you asked Wayne about it?’

  Ted shook his head.

  ‘I can’t and neither can the manager. Contractually we are forbidden from raising any non-football issues with Wayne directly. They have to go through his agent, Steve Cowley. I asked him and he said he would take care of it.’

  ‘Take care of it?’ repeated Erasmus.

  ‘That’s exac
tly it. If it was rubbish he would have laughed in my face. Like you say, these things are ten a penny. But he didn’t, he said he would take care of it. There is an “it” and I want to know what “it” is!’ He slapped his palm down against the rich mahogany. ‘Something’s happened and I think it’s the reason Wayne’s form has dipped. He’s a sensitive kid and something is bothering him. When normal teenagers are troubled you get dirty sheets and late nights, with this one, he could bankrupt the club. I want your firm to find out what’s going on. I need to protect my asset!’

  ‘But why us?’ asked Erasmus, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘You are lawyers, you can’t go running to the press, and well I know your history, Mr Jones, I know how far you will go.’

  Ted looked directly at Erasmus.

  ‘You want us to find the blackmailer?’ said Pete.

  Erasmus shook his head.

  ‘No, that’s not it. You want us to get Wayne scoring again, isn’t that right?’

  Ted placed both hands face down on the table.

  ‘Will you do it? Peter explained your hourly rates. They are not a problem.’

  Erasmus hesitated for a second. He didn’t like this environment, didn’t understand it, but wasn’t it ever thus? Wasn’t it always the appeal of the unfamiliar that attracted him, that usually ended up nearly killing him?

  He looked over to Pete and nodded.

  ‘This one is for you, Pete, we’ll try and save your club.’

  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?’

  CHAPTER 5

  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 h
im 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 defender,’ Ted said gesturing towards a tall, bearded and long haired giant who nodded at Erasmus. ‘This is De Marco, centre midfielder, Charley Bake, goalkeeper – ’ a well tanned and then a pasty ginger-haired men nodded in turn at Erasmus ‘ – and this is Wayne.’

  Erasmus recognised him from earlier that day. Out of his kit and now dressed in a white shirt and jeans he looked like any pimply teenager you might see hanging around a bus shelter or park bench. He had a lank dark fringe that hung just short of bright blue eyes. Wayne stood up and put out his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Erasmus,’ he said and gave him a generous smile that didn’t seem to Erasmus to be the product of a PR company’s brief.

  Erasmus shook the boy’s hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you too, Wayne. Sorry about the result today.’

  Wayne gave a half smile and looked down at the floor. Erasmus hadn’t expected the footballer to be so shy.

  ‘It was my fault – ’

  A wet napkin hit Erasmus square in the face. It smelled of stale alcohol and tobacco. Gary Jones was laughing, clearly the originator of the missile.

  ‘Rules of the Blood House: We never talk about the game after the game if we’ve lost!’

  He leant back and looked to his teammates for laughter. Erasmus noticed that De Marco didn’t laugh along with the others.

  ‘Guess you haven’t had much to talk about for a while then,’ said Erasmus.