The Silent Pool

by Phil Kurthausen

  Giles held the photograph and studied it for a moment. Then he laughed. ‘You two miss the obvious, don't you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Erasmus.

  ‘My lawyer first and then I'll tell you what you need to know. Put this number on your phone.’ He recited his digits. ‘Call me at 6 p.m. tomorrow.’

  Giles got out the car.

  Erasmus watched him walk up the garden path.

  ‘Do you want me to go and get him,’ said Pete.

  ‘No, let's get back to Liverpool. We will pick it up with him tomorrow.’

  ‘I don't need to be told twice to leave here.’ He revved the engine in agreement before driving off.

  Neither of them saw the Mercedes that had been parked in Petersen's road. And neither of them saw it pull up slowly a hundred yards behind them in Manchester.

  CHAPTER 26

  Giles Petersen had never really liked his sister Martha and the truth was she didn't really like him. There was an age difference of five years and Giles had always resented her controlling ways ever since he was a child. Things hadn't improved with age and they kept in contact mainly because of Giles’ elderly mother who lived in a granny flat – a converted garage – annexed to Martha's house.

  Martha had been surprised to see him. Normally his visits were highly planned affairs, co-ordinating her and her husband Bryan's diaries and depending on whether her children had any real illnesses or the more imaginary kind when she needed an excuse not to have Giles in the house.

  To her credit she had taken one look at Giles and invited him inside. He had mumbled something about a partner and drink and she mercifully had decided to probe no further. His lifestyle choices had never really fitted in with her worldview. She was a Third Waver, one of the first to sign up to the evangelical Christian movement when it landed in the UK four years previously.

  Giles had long since given up on organised religion and the new super wealthy happy-clappy media savvy denominations were even less to his taste than the old-fashioned fire and brimstone Catholicism that he had grown up with and been so passionate about until he went to university and discovered drugs and sex.

  But it seemed that religion hadn't quite given up on him.

  Somebody had disturbed something that should have stayed buried in the sand and those men had wanted to know if it was him. It wasn't and he had told them that. He thought they had believed him, to drag that up would be to condemn himself as well as the rest of them. He had read about Malcolm but he hadn't made any link to him but now this and Erasmus Jones asking about Stephen disappearing? Could it be possible that somebody else knew what had happened? Was the past catching up with them? He didn't plan on hanging around to find out.

  He was glad that the investigators had turned up when they did. It had saved him a beating and he was grateful to them. But he was equally certain that he was never, ever going to tell them why those men were there and what they wanted to know. To that end, Giles had booked a flight out of Manchester Airport for the following evening. A few weeks lounging in Barcelona sounded just the thing. He needed to make a few calls to the office first, make sure that some of his important clients were looked after by his business partner, Mark. Then he went to sleep on the sofa bed his sister had begrudgingly made up for him.

  Surprisingly, he had slept well, woken late and to an empty house and a list of chores left by his sister: she didn't believe in charity without payback.

  His first chore, and Giles really did see it as a chore, was he had to make lunch for his mother. She was eighty-nine and though not very mobile due to crippling arthritis she was as bright as a button and acerbic with it.

  He had popped in to see her that morning and the first thing she had asked him was whether he was still munching mattresses. He had given her a smile that he used to mask the mixed feelings of hatred and love, and asked her about her arthritis.

  And she had told him all about it at great length.

  He walked into Martha's well-appointed kitchen. She was tidy, obsessively so, and it was virtually impossible to figure out that two small children lived in this house. All the toys were hidden away behind smooth pine cupboard doors.

  Giles opened the fridge. His mother had asked for a cheese sandwich for lunch. He looked in the cavernous American-style fridge and took out a block of cheese. He had less luck with the bread as the bread bin was empty.

  He cursed. Maybe she'd have some soup instead. He checked the cupboards. There was a wide selection of cans of soup in there.

  He made his way down the passageway that joined the kitchen onto the utility room and then through into the converted garage that was his mother's flat.

  His mother was sat in an armchair, a blanket drawn up over her knees. She was about three feet away from the television set and was in the process of changing channels by using her walking stick to push the buttons on the set.

  ‘Mum, there is a remote control for that. Let me find it for you.’ Giles made a move towards the bed upon which there seemed to be a pile of blankets, throws and sheets. Anything could get lost in there.

  ‘Keep away from my bed!’ she barked and waved the cane in his direction. ‘I'm quite capable, you know. Your Father knew that,’ she gave him a leery look that made Giles feel quite sick.

  ‘Mum, there is no bread in the kitchen so I wondered whether you'd like some soup. There is minestrone or a nice vegetable broth.’

  She looked at him like he had announced the outbreak of World War III. ‘I want a cheese sandwich. Martha always brings me a cheese sandwich.’

  ‘But Mum, there's no bread and I haven't got time to go to the shops.’

  She turned back to the TV. A quiz show had just started and there was annoying theme tune playing. She used the stick to increase the volume.

  ‘There is bread in the freezer in the outhouse. Martha keeps it in there in case of bird flu.’ She didn't divert her attention from the screen.

  Giles sighed. ‘I'll go and get it.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Your friend says hello,’ she said.

  He spun on his heels. She was still watching the game show.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘Pick box two,’ she said to the television. Giles saw a contestant on the screen open a large red box marked with a blue two.

  He hesitated but she didn't even register that he was still there. ‘OK, I'll be five minutes and then you can have your damned cheese sandwich.’

  The outhouse was attached to the house but Giles would have to go out into the back garden to access it. He put on his trainers and stepped outside. It was a beautiful sunny day, but cold. He shivered and then walked across the grass to the outhouse. He smiled to himself. In Liverpool parlance this wasn't an outhouse it was a shithouse.

  There was a black door to the outhouse. He pushed it open and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him. Martha had expanded the space knocking through the old WC and the coal shed so there was an area big enough for a large chest freezer and some shelves along the wall holding dried foodstuffs and cans. More Armageddon supplies, thought Giles. One thing you could say about Third Wavers was that they certainly planned for the worst.

  There was a bang behind him and Giles spun round. The door to the outhouse had blown open and was banging against the wall.

  Giles let out a sigh of relief. His nerves were shattered after the events of yesterday. He pulled the door to and slipped on the catch.

  He moved back to the chest freezer and opened it. It was a bit tough at first as the ice had bonded with the seal and he realised that Martha must not use the freezer very often.

  He pulled it open and it swung upwards with a thump. He peered inside and saw the post-Armageddon rations. Lots of bread and chicken that would rot or be eaten in a week, he thought. The chest freezer was a commercial unit, maybe four or five feet deep. Martha's husband, Bryan, worked at a food distribution company and Giles made a mental note to tease Martha as to how it looked like a lot
of this stuff had managed to fall off the back of a lorry. She didn't take such jokes well and at the thought of her creased face Giles gave a little smile of pleasure.

  He reached in and grabbed a frozen loaf. Nothing a few minutes in the microwave wouldn't sort out, he thought, and after that he better pack and ring for a taxi. He gave it a tug but to no avail. It was jammed in place. He tried for a few minutes but nothing. The loaf wouldn't budge. It was frozen in place like some glacial Ice Age man.

  He looked around for an implement and saw an old toolbox in the corner of the outhouse. He went across to investigate. Inside was an old rusty hammer. Perfect. He took it out and returned with to the freezer with a hammer and steely determination.

  He picked his spot, a particularly thick piece of ice that bonded together a pack of peas and the loaf, and began to hit it furiously with the hammer. Bits of ice flew off. He would have to be careful, one of the flying shards could easily take an eye out.

  Giles started to chuckle and then began to laugh hysterically at how ludicrous it was. Suddenly he found himself crying as he pummelled the ice way beyond what was required to free the loaf. It must be the stress of it all, he thought. Beaten up in his own home and then having to flee the country.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said out loud.

  ‘So, you still believe, do you, Giles?’

  Quickly a loop of material was slipped over his neck and pulled tight. He gagged as it bit into his Adam's apple.

  Giles was leaning over into the freezer and tried to turn his head. The fingers of his left hand pulled at the leather rope gnawing at his trachea.

  A hand grabbed his head and held it down. At the same time his body was slammed into the side of the freezer by the weight of the man behind him. His right arm holding the hammer was pinned under his own body and he dropped it into the freezer. His left arm was grabbed and held down, deep in the ice.

  He tried to speak, to shout, but his face was pressed hard into the spiky, cold ice at the bottom of the freezer. The ice burnt his cheek. He could feel the weight and heat of the man holding him down as he pressed heavily, almost intimately into Giles back. Blood dripped from his cheek onto the ice by his face and pooled by a frozen sausage.

  ‘I'm going to ask you a question.’

  ‘I told the other men I know nothing about the letter, I would never try to blackmail him, never. It must have been one of the others. It's got nothing to do with me!’

  Silence. Giles could hear the sound of the man breathing. He felt a warm sensation flooding his pants.

  The man gave a low chuckle devoid of mirth. ‘You still don't know what this is, do you?’

  He tried to scream but there was no air. He banged his hand on the freezer. The ligature loosened a little. He gasped. ‘What, what, what do you mean?’

  There was a rasping sound, like dry lips being licked. ‘This is about complicity. This is judgement.’

  A hand forced Giles’ head down into the ice. He felt the shards cut into the soft flesh of his face. A piece of chicken leg rearing up out of the ice pierced his left eye, blood and gore spilt out over the white ice.

  His mouth couldn't open to scream.

  ‘Are you ready for your question?’

  Giles tried to nod but the pressure driving his head down was too great. His head was forced to the side and he could see the hammer he had been hitting the ice with laying by a pack of fish fingers. If he could just bring his right arm from underneath him where his own weight was pinning it against the freezer door then he might be able to grab it and strike his assailant.

  ‘You scream, you die.’

  The pressure on the back of his head lessened. He let out a groan.

  Giles nodded and as he did so he managed to slide his right arm free. It hung limply by his side, pins and needles running up his arm to this shoulder. He was not even sure he would be able to life his arm if it came to it but he knew he had to.

  ‘I'll take that movement as a yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Giles. He felt blood returning to his arm. If he was quick he could swing his arm up grab the hammer and then he would smash it into his attacker's face.

  Giles’ assailant laughed. ‘Hope is a cancer, it destroys you, Giles. Let me remove your cancer.’

  Giles was slammed hard in to the freezer again as the man's full weight bore down on his back. He watched as a large pale hand reached down into the freezer and grasped the hammer. The hand disappeared from sight.

  ‘I don't know anything!’

  Giles screamed as he felt the hammer impact with the fingers of his right hand and smash bone to gristle.

  ‘Shush, be quiet now. It does not matter.’

  Giles passed out for a second and then came to almost immediately, the pain slicing up his arm like molten fire. He looked down at his shattered right hand; one finger had almost disappeared. All that remained was a bony stump sticking out from his hand.

  He started to faint again.

  The man grabbed his head and banged it into the ice.

  He screamed.

  ‘Maybe there is some hope left. Answer the question and you may alive up to see tomorrow's sunrise. I'll walk out of that door and you will never hear or see me again. Do you understand?’

  Giles started crying.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Do you believe?’

  Giles started crying. He knew there was no way out now. He knew what this was about; he knew who was holding him down.

  ‘Why do you care what I believe? I don't know what I fucking believe myself!’

  The hammer came down on his bloody stump.

  Pain unlike anything he had ever thought existed became the only thing in the world. He blacked out again and then came round. His screams were halted by the crush of ice in his mouth. Something that he realised was the remains of his eyeball, flopped onto the side of his face; it was still attached by the optic nerve.

  ‘Answer the question!’

  Through the agony Giles tried to think. The only way to stop the pain was to answer the question. What answer would save him? He thought about school. He had been in no doubt about the existence of God then. In fact, he had had an unhealthy teenage obsession with him, almost his first love affair. But then he'd drifted away from God. Was this his vengeance for his abandonment? He didn't care. He just wanted to give the right answer to make this madman go away. Did God exist, how the fuck did he know?

  ‘Yes or no, give me your answer now,’ said the man behind Giles. He placed the hammer on Giles’ cheekbone. ‘The truth now!’

  Giles head span, he remembered Pascal's wager: You may as well believe in God because if he does not exist it makes no difference but if he does you've covered your bases. He'd remembered; he could live.

  Through blood and spittle Giles gave his answer.

  There was no response.

  ‘Well?’ he cried.

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  The hammer cracked Giles’ skull on the first blow.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was a bright sunny morning, one of those days when you think winter isn't so bad, a mere blip between sunshine before it reveals its true character, thought the Mayor. But the weather wasn't improving his mood one little bit.

  ‘Seriously you're all kidding me, right?’

  Bovind's smile remained fixed in place. The Pastor carried on looking at the Mayor with those grey eyes that spoke of no forgiveness or mercy.

  The Mayor turned to Anthony. ‘You, you're my adviser, you tell me, this is a joke, right?’

  Anthony, for once in his life, looked unsure. ‘We have a legal opinion from the council's lawyers, this falls within the curriculum. Just.’

  Bovind reached for the Mayor and placed his hand on the Mayor's shoulder. His fingers slid gently down his arm. The Mayor instinctively moved away.

  ‘It's at times like this, Richard, you need to have the Lord's strength. Sure, you are going to receive some slings
and arrows but so what, think of the suffering of Jesus on Calvary Hill. You will prevail, you are the saviour of this city.’

  The Mayor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The itch in his backside was playing up; he had an urge to scratch it.

  ‘This textbook, the new standard issue textbook for all secondary schools in our authority's control was issued by a publishing company owned and funded by your Foundation, Kirk, and it has replaced the standard text on an executive order from my fucking office. Who did this?’

  ‘It was me but you had already signed it off last week. It was among your executive briefing documents,’ said Anthony.

  ‘You know I never read those, you are meant to tell me what is important and what is not. This, Anthony, is important!’

  Kirk put an arm around Anthony's shoulders. ‘Hey, come on, Richard, don't blame Anthony here. It's a great book, we had top, and I mean top, scholars working on it. It's in thirty-two states back in the US. I think the kids and their parents are going to love it. Remember this is what parents want and it is fair to all other competing theories.’

  ‘I want to read some passages to you, if I may?’ said the Mayor. He opened the textbook at the page that had caused him to spit out his cornflakes earlier that morning when he opened his newspaper and discovered what he had allegedly ‘forced through’. ‘This is the section headed the “Origins of Life – Intelligent Design” “The theory of Intelligent Design holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, not an undirected process such as natural selection”.’

  The Mayor paused for a reaction. Only Anthony betrayed any discomfort, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘It gets worse. Evolution is mentioned after all. Four pages in, ah here it is.’ He held the book up, open across two pages. In the bottom right-hand corner of the page there was a box. ‘The writing is in purple on a blue background and this is what is says. “There are alternative theories to that of Intelligent Design such as Evolution but these are susceptible to criticism – see the argument against evolution and irreducible complexity on page 29.”’