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Authors: Phil Kurthausen
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that Wayne has taken to you.’
Erasmus shook his head as though this might help dislodge the sharp crack of pain that seemed to be forming on the right-hand side of his brain.
‘Didn’t you hear? I quit. Those fuckers nearly did what the Taliban couldn’t manage.’
‘I’ll double your hourly rate.’
Erasmus stubbed out the cigarette in the nearest receptacle, a chipped tea-stained mug with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it: a relic from a past life. Briefly, an image of his daughter, Abby, came into his mind. He dismissed it quickly, he hadn’t seen her in over six months. He wanted to put all the blame for that on his ex-wife Miranda but the truth was that the fault lay squarely between them.
Double rates. Truth was that the firm only had one client at the moment that was actually willing to pay their standard rates and Erasmus was speaking to him right now.
‘I usually take silence as agreement,’ said Ted, chuckling again.
Erasmus looked around. At the age of thirty-nine he had finally managed to buy a flat with the last of his resettlement money from the army that he hadn’t blown on his two-year voyage of self destruction around the globe. It was in an old Victorian mansion, with high ceilings, damp and a panoramic view of Sefton Park and the local patch of a skag dealer called Eric. The decayed grandeur of the place had appealed to Erasmus and although it still did, waking up cold and shivering most mornings because the place leaked heat was starting to lose its appeal. But it was all he had, and what little it was depended on the mortgage being paid on time.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to go and see Wayne. Turns out that the boy was quite impressed with you. You see Cowley also represents him and he let it slip that Wayne hasn’t stopped taking about the fact that you took out that bouncer. I mean you could have jumped as well but never mind, you’re in, Erasmus! Now all you need to do is find out what’s up with the boy. It should be a stroll in the park.’
Ted gave Erasmus Wayne’s address and told him that Wayne was expecting him. Grudgingly Erasmus agreed he would go and see him.
He flopped off the couch and reached over to his Mac and selected a Doves track, ‘There Goes The Fear’, in the hope it might actually be a statement that would assist with his hangover. He hit play and cranked up the volume. He needed music to get going and it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain. The other two apartments in the building were currently empty. Ali, who lived above him, had moved out four months ago to go and work with a cousin in Iraq. Mark and Sue in the flat below had taken career breaks and by Erasmus’s reckoning would now be either buying beads in Macchu Picchu or selling small beers to large Aussies. They wouldn’t be back for six months. Erasmus liked the fact that he had the building to himself, it meant there were fewer judging eyes.
Before he went to Wayne’s house though there was something far more important he had to do. He dialled the number. It was answered on the third ring, as it always was, by Miranda.
‘Erasmus,’ she said in the clipped tone that conveyed ten years of disappointment, heartbreak and the suspicion that any contact with him brought her and their daughter closer to chaos and darkness then she was willing to allow.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
She ignored his question. ‘Abby’s not here. You’ll have to call back.’
He felt tension in his chest.
‘This happened last week as well. What’s going on?’
He despised the way his voice rose an octave as he finished his sentence but he couldn’t help it.
‘She’s having a sleepover at her friend Rachinder’s tonight. I told you about this last week.’
He had a vague memory of her saying something about a friend but he had been hung-over on Sunday when he thought she may have mentioned it.
‘Who’s Rachinder?’
There was a pause and a sigh from Miranda.
‘Rachinder
Erasmus shook his head as though this might help dislodge the sharp crack of pain that seemed to be forming on the right-hand side of his brain.
‘Didn’t you hear? I quit. Those fuckers nearly did what the Taliban couldn’t manage.’
‘I’ll double your hourly rate.’
Erasmus stubbed out the cigarette in the nearest receptacle, a chipped tea-stained mug with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it: a relic from a past life. Briefly, an image of his daughter, Abby, came into his mind. He dismissed it quickly, he hadn’t seen her in over six months. He wanted to put all the blame for that on his ex-wife Miranda but the truth was that the fault lay squarely between them.
Double rates. Truth was that the firm only had one client at the moment that was actually willing to pay their standard rates and Erasmus was speaking to him right now.
‘I usually take silence as agreement,’ said Ted, chuckling again.
Erasmus looked around. At the age of thirty-nine he had finally managed to buy a flat with the last of his resettlement money from the army that he hadn’t blown on his two-year voyage of self destruction around the globe. It was in an old Victorian mansion, with high ceilings, damp and a panoramic view of Sefton Park and the local patch of a skag dealer called Eric. The decayed grandeur of the place had appealed to Erasmus and although it still did, waking up cold and shivering most mornings because the place leaked heat was starting to lose its appeal. But it was all he had, and what little it was depended on the mortgage being paid on time.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to go and see Wayne. Turns out that the boy was quite impressed with you. You see Cowley also represents him and he let it slip that Wayne hasn’t stopped taking about the fact that you took out that bouncer. I mean you could have jumped as well but never mind, you’re in, Erasmus! Now all you need to do is find out what’s up with the boy. It should be a stroll in the park.’
Ted gave Erasmus Wayne’s address and told him that Wayne was expecting him. Grudgingly Erasmus agreed he would go and see him.
He flopped off the couch and reached over to his Mac and selected a Doves track, ‘There Goes The Fear’, in the hope it might actually be a statement that would assist with his hangover. He hit play and cranked up the volume. He needed music to get going and it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain. The other two apartments in the building were currently empty. Ali, who lived above him, had moved out four months ago to go and work with a cousin in Iraq. Mark and Sue in the flat below had taken career breaks and by Erasmus’s reckoning would now be either buying beads in Macchu Picchu or selling small beers to large Aussies. They wouldn’t be back for six months. Erasmus liked the fact that he had the building to himself, it meant there were fewer judging eyes.
Before he went to Wayne’s house though there was something far more important he had to do. He dialled the number. It was answered on the third ring, as it always was, by Miranda.
‘Erasmus,’ she said in the clipped tone that conveyed ten years of disappointment, heartbreak and the suspicion that any contact with him brought her and their daughter closer to chaos and darkness then she was willing to allow.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
She ignored his question. ‘Abby’s not here. You’ll have to call back.’
He felt tension in his chest.
‘This happened last week as well. What’s going on?’
He despised the way his voice rose an octave as he finished his sentence but he couldn’t help it.
‘She’s having a sleepover at her friend Rachinder’s tonight. I told you about this last week.’
He had a vague memory of her saying something about a friend but he had been hung-over on Sunday when he thought she may have mentioned it.
‘Who’s Rachinder?’
There was a pause and a sigh from Miranda.
‘Rachinder
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