The Silent Pool

by Phil Kurthausen

  A cold hand gripped Erasmus’. A head moved close. ‘Don't hope,’ he whispered, wet lips brushing Erasmus’ ear.

  The shock when it came was unlike any pain he could have imagined possible to endure. It was like time stopped, the pain holding him in a silent embrace above the bed. He tried to scream but he couldn't. When the current stopped he sank to the bed, his limbs convulsing erratically, his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. He vomited and then passed out.

  He awoke to the sound of a question.

  ‘Tell me, Erasmus Jones, do you believe?’

  Erasmus was almost delirious. He blacked out again and then came around almost instantly.

  For a moment he thought he was back in Afghanistan, with the smell of blood and fear ripe in the air. His mind was careering, he was finding it almost impossible to focus. An image, long buried, over a row of little corpses, their arms hacked off, their heads removed and replaced with pigs heads, came rushing from his memory. Erasmus could hear screaming, and with a start he realised it was his voice, his screams.

  Suddenly, there was a face inches from his. It was so close he could feel the man's hot breath on his face. It was so close it was difficult to focus and all he could see was a white ribbon, a scar that ran across the man's cheek.

  In that instant Erasmus realised that the man would kill him. He no longer cared if Erasmus could identify him.

  ‘Answer my question!’ Warm spittle fell onto Erasmus’ face.

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘No,’ said Erasmus.

  There was a pause as though he were being studied.

  ‘I believe you,’ said the man.

  Erasmus went to speak but before he could open his mouth he felt the sting of a needle in his arm. Warmth of a thousand desert days flooded his veins and chest, comfort, and dark beauty enveloped him. Erasmus recognised the fearsome pleasure right away: opiates.

  He woke with a raging thirst and a headache like a thousand hangovers. For a second that's what he thought he had, just a bad hangover, and then the tsunami of memories of the night before came rushing back.

  He was still strapped to the table but he could tell instantly by the lack of sound that the man was no longer there. How long he had been out was anybody's guess but he felt some strength had returned so he presumed it was a long time. There was a strange fluttery feeling in his chest. Erasmus thought back to the electric shocks he had received. He realised that there was a possibility that his heart had been damaged. His second thought was that he wanted more dope. He dismissed that thought as best he could and tried to focus. The man could return at any time and this was probably his only chance to escape.

  He tried moving his hands and feet but to no avail: they were tied tightly. He tried to raise his head but it was still strapped down. He sank back and then tried again. Nothing. This time he pushed so hard he felt his neck muscles bulging and constricting his windpipe. His air supply began to dry up and he thought that he would pass out. But just as he reached the limits of what he thought he could bear, the neck binds gave half an inch. He could just see his left hand and what he saw filled him with hope.

  He collapsed back to the table, taking in huge lungfuls of air. His chest pain was getting worse but if he was to get out of here alive he would have to ignore it.

  What he had seen were police issue plastic handcuffs binding his wrist to a metal brace on the table. His captor had made a mistake. If Erasmus had tied up a prisoner with such cuffs he would have made sure that the prisoner had no watch on: Erasmus was wearing a watch on his left wrist.

  He began by using his fingers to turn the cuffs around so that the locking mechanism, a simple ratchet that bit on the plastic, was lying on the same side as the palm of his hand. With his middle finger he pushed the locking mechanism so it lay next to the pin on his leather watchstrap.

  This was the easy part.

  Next, he tried to guide the locking mechanism so the small gap between the ratchet and the plastic cuff was aligned with his watch pin. His finger straining, Erasmus pushed. The smooth surface of the plastic glided along the side of the pin missing the gap he was aiming for.

  It took him five minutes of turning his wrist and manipulating the cuffs to get them back in a position where he could try the manoeuvre again.

  Once it was in place he tried again. The same result, the plastic sliding over the pin.

  An hour passed. Each attempt yielded the same outcome. He was sweating heavily now and the fluttery feeling in his chest had turned to a tightness that was beginning to scare him.

  He fell back on the table, tears of frustration filling his eyes. He didn't want to die here on this table. He summoned up an image of Abby and pulled up his head, immediately blocking his airway again.

  He had the cuff in position. The pain in his throat as the weight of his crushed his windpipe was causing him to gag but he focused on his wrist and slowly pushed the cuff forward towards the watch pin.

  This time it caught, maybe half of the pin tugging gently at the tiny gap. He felt bile rising but unable to find its way past his constricted muscles, it burned his oesophagus. It was now or never. He pushed the cuff and watched the pin slide deeper into the ratchet. Quickly, he twisted the cuff around and pulled with his index finger and thumb. It began to slide, the ratchet failing to catch because of the pin.

  A second later his hand was free. He sank back and the bile came. He didn't care because he knew he was getting out of here.

  Not allowing himself to rest, he used his free hand to pull apart the other cuff and moments later tear and rip away the bindings that held his head and his feet. He was a free man.

  He could see now that the room, which had seemed so forbidding, was actually just a stock room, dusty metal shelves lining the walls and cardboard boxes scattered around the floor.

  The surface to which he had been strapped which he had thought of as an operating table was a cheap wooden table. Erasmus swung his legs off the table and stood on them for the first time in hours, maybe days for all he knew.

  His legs trembled but held. On one of the shelves he could see his clothes neatly piled up into a bundle.

  There was no sign of the battery or any evidence that anyone else had been in the room with him. The only noticeable evidence of what had happened was Erasmus’ outline in sweat and dark fluids that was ingrained into the table.

  He reached for the door and his hand had clasped around the handle but a noise from somewhere beyond the door caused him to pause. There was unmistakably the sound of footsteps and they were getting closer.

  From his chest there came a pang of pain so sharp that it caused him to double up in agony.

  There was the sound of a key being placed in the lock.

  In his poor physical condition he had only one advantage, surprise.

  He jumped back on the table and lay prone as though still tied down. He still had the remains of the tags on one hand he just had to hope that the illusion would work, even for a second.

  He heard the door swing open, someone enter the room and walk to his left.

  Suddenly, the man stopped and let out a gasp. He knew.

  But Erasmus was already moving his legs, pivoting. His right foot connected hard in the small of the man's back, propelling him forward. Erasmus used his momentum to carry himself up and off the table. His captor had staggered forward and was turning to face him. Erasmus flattened his palm and smashed it hard into the man's face. The face was that of a hard man, wind burnt and weathered, dark brown eyes sat above a cruel nose and a vivid burn scar ran the length of the man's right cheek. A loop of leather rope hung from his belt.

  The blow would have floored most men and even though he felt and heard bone break, it barely slowed this man. He swung a punch at Erasmus who ducked it and dove to his left. Erasmus skidded on the wet floor and fell on his back. Pain shot through his left arm.

  With an almost physical jolt he realised that he recognised the man but could not work out from where.r />
  His assailant walked around the side of the table. He kicked out at Erasmus, aiming at his back. Erasmus managed to move his body and the blow landed on his thigh. If it had connected with his back Erasmus knew it would be broken by now. Even so, the pain in his thigh was agonising.

  The man had the leather rope, now unmistakably a ligature, in his hand. He flicked it like a lasso at Erasmus’ neck. At the last moment Erasmus moved his head but it still caught the top of his skull and his attacker pulled it tight. The burning sensation was agonising. Erasmus kicked his foot out and his boot connected with the man's right kneecap, smashing it.

  The man screamed and fell back behind the table out of his sight. The ligature went slack as the man dropped it. Erasmus removed the rope from his head and threw it onto the floor.

  His chest felt like a large weight had been placed on it. He struggled to his feet, grabbed his clothes and began to limp out of the storeroom. He didn't look behind him. He knew now that if he didn't leave here right now he would never leave.

  He tried the door. It wasn't locked. He opened it and stepped out into the display area of a furniture store. Sofas, armchairs and beds stood as the silent witnesses to his survival.

  There was daylight streaming through the large plate glass and he could see people outside, it felt like early morning.

  Erasmus slipped on his jacket and trousers before trying the front door: it was locked. A passerby gave him a strange look and Erasmus supposed it must look odd, a dishevelled, battered looking man trying to get out of a closed furniture store so early in the morning.

  There was a sign for toilets in the corner of the showroom. Erasmus ran across to the door and was relieved that it was not locked, even greater relief followed when the inside revealed a window held shut by only a catch. He opened it and squeezed out through the gap tumbling to the floor of the store's rear car park.

  His mobile phone was still inside his jacket.

  It occurred to him that there weren't a lot of people he could call. He wasn't sure he could trust Pete. He considered Miranda but that was still too raw and who knew whether Jeff might be in residence. Erasmus called Rachel. No response. He tried Dan. Another voicemail message.

  Erasmus felt far away, like an observer of his own actions. Something was not right.

  He called Jenna.

  ‘Hi, is that you, Erasmus?’

  ‘Jenna please come and get me, I've been hurt.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  He looked up and saw a street sign.

  ‘Renshaw Street. A furniture store.’

  She told she would be twenty minutes and then she hung up. Erasmus crawled into the doorway of the car park kiosk and passed out.

  He dreamt he could hear Jenna's voice soothing and soft as he passed in and out of consciousness.

  Images of pigs’ heads and blood filled his mind. He started to sweat heavily, the pain in his chest flaring until he felt his breath stop.

  Then Erasmus Jones died.

  CHAPTER 44

  ‘It's going to be a blast,’ said Kirk Bovind. ‘We've got folks coming from all the major news channels and I've called in a few favours from some buddies in the States so we are going to have CNN covering it live. Can you imagine that, Mayor? CNN covering a story in Liverpool and a Beatle hasn't even died!’

  Bovind threw his head back with laughter, his long blond mane streaming behind him. From this angle the Mayor could see where the hair was attached to Bovind's scalp. The hair was the finest money could buy from a Chinese gene factory, or so Anthony had told him, and it looked almost superhuman in its shine and lustre.

  Anthony was checking a schedule on his iPad. ‘Where will the, er folks, from CNN be staying?’ he asked.

  That ‘folks’ caused the Mayor to reach for his Vicodin container.

  Bovind looked up from his own iPad. ‘Hey, Richard, go easy on them things, we do want you here on Saturday, you're giving the keynote speech and we don't want you drooling as you do it.’

  Bovind wasn't smiling. The Mayor decided to ignore him.

  ‘I'll be fine but given there is likely to be a riot I don't imagine that any one will be listening to my speech. You know that since that doctor was killed the city is like a tinderbox. Professor Cannon's lot, and many others, think that there are religious death squads operating. They blame me!’

  Bovind walked over to the Mayor and placed his hands on the Mayor's shoulders, he began to rub hard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the Mayor. He tried to move away but Bovind's hands pressed deep into his flesh.

  ‘Listen, Mr Mayor. I have it all under control, the non-believers and their leader Professor Cannon will be contained at the east end of Hope Street. You will be addressing the godly, the Third Wavers and our invited members of the Islamic community at the west end of the street. There will be a police cordon running down Hardman Street keeping the two sides separated. There will probably be a bit of jeering from the ungodly as you speak but, trust me, Mayor, that will be drowned out by the clarion call of the faithful who you will be addressing.’

  The Mayor pulled free of Bovind's grasp. ‘I'm the mayor of this city not a fucking preacher!’ he shouted.

  Bovind's eyes flashed.

  ‘Anthony would you leave us, please. Now!’ said Bovind.

  Anthony looked at the Mayor and then back to Bovind before scurrying out of the room.

  Bovind turned to the Pastor who was seated in a chair in the corner of the room and nodded. The Pastor stood up and walked over to the Mayor until his face was only a few inches away from the Mayor's. The Mayor could smell expensive cologne, musky and heavy mixed with a sharper smell, it took a second for him to realise that there was a sharper undertone, something almost faecal.

  ‘You like fucking Elena, don't you, Mr Mayor. It's the only thing that brings you pleasure these days, isn't it, you impotent, little shit. You will read out the speech written for you by me or video of you trying to spoon your cock into Miss Karpinski will be on YouTube by five o'clock tonight. Do you fucking well understand, you worm?’

  ‘You haven't…she wouldn't!’

  ‘Remember the porcelain cat?’ sneered the Pastor.

  Bovind came over and put his arm around the Mayor.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas. Take a seat, Richard.’

  He guided the Mayor to an empty chair and slowly eased him down into it. The Mayor felt stunned, unable to speak.

  The Pastor returned to his chair and resumed reading his Bible as though nothing had happened.

  ‘You see, Mr Mayor, this project is too important to God to let our personal feelings get in the way. We've come so far and we only have a little way to go. Your speech will go down in history as you will be setting out an agenda for the rights of the religious that will echo around the world. You, Mr Mayor, are going to be famous. Now let's take a look at the speech, I think you are going to be impressed.’

  Bovind picked up the Mayor's Vicodin box and poured out two pills into his hand

  ‘Thomas, if you please.’

  The Pastor got up and went to the water fountain in the corner of the room. He returned with a small plastic cup of water, and wordlessly, handed it to the Mayor.

  ‘On second thought, maybe you do need these after all,’ said Bovind.

  The Mayor suddenly realised that his arm was outstretched, palm open. He hadn't been aware of doing it.

  Bovind gently placed the pills in the Mayor's outstretched hand.

  CHAPTER 45

  Erasmus came around to the sound of a beeping heart monitor and the low industrial hum of an intensive care unit. There was a tube in his mouth. He spat it out and tried to call for help. His throat was burning dry and he struggled to make any sound.

  His eyelids seemed to be stuck together by some waxy substance and he struggled to force them apart. Slowly, they separated. When they opened a face slowly came into focus.

  It was Jenna. She smiled, a look on her face of what? Concern? Affecti
on? Erasmus didn't know for sure but he liked it.

  ‘You gave us quite a scare there.’

  ‘Water,’ was all he managed to say.

  She reached for a jug on the bedside cabinet and poured him a glass of water. He drank it greedily. The pain in his throat, which had felt full of glass, began to ease.

  ‘What happened to me?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, technically you died. Your heart stopped and if the police hadn't been called by someone who thought you were a burglar then you probably would have died on the pavement. The policeman restarted your heart. By the way he wants to speak to you, find out why you were in that state and so do I.’

  ‘I was tortured, electrocuted by…’ He paused.

  ‘By whom?’

  Erasmus thought back to the storeroom and that face. He knew it from somewhere, he was sure, but from where?

  ‘I don't know, I think I recognised him but I'm not sure I only saw his face for a second before I got out of there.’

  Jenna's eyes flashed to one side. ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Hospital. Look at all this,’ he turned his head towards the monitor on his right.

  Jenna winked at him. ‘You were in hospital. You've been unconscious for two days. A medically induced coma to allow you to recover. I had you moved here once you were out of danger. Look up.’

  Erasmus looked up at the ceiling. There was a delicate chandelier and ornate cornicing.

  ‘You're at Theo's house.’

  This didn't make any sense to Erasmus. But there was another pressing concern: Abby. He had been due to pick her up yesterday evening.

  ‘I was meant to pick Abby up from school. I need to call Miranda.’

  Jenna saw him getting anxious and she held his hand, her skin felt smooth and cool.

  ‘I know, you were babbling about it all day yesterday. I took the liberty of calling Miranda and explaining that you were assisting me on a sensitive matter and that you would be out of touch for a few days. She was very understanding, Erasmus. I can't imagine why you broke up with her. I'm going to leave you to sleep now. ’