Erasmus wasn't one-hundred percent sure whether Pete was joking or not.
‘And Purple Ahmed?’
‘You'll see.’
Pete wrote down an address on a napkin and handed it to Erasmus.
‘Is Ahmed the type of man to use violence if someone hasn't paid their debts?’ said Erasmus.
At this Pete laughed and nodded. ‘It's rumoured the Mersey is full of people who fit that description. What are you going to do?’
‘Pay him a visit and there's no time like the present.’
Erasmus pulled five twenties from his wallet and pushed them across the table to Pete. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Are you sure you won't stay and help me drink this fine Nobile?’
Erasmus shook his head.
Pete took the money and took a sip of his wine.
‘Shame you're missing out. And Erasmus?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Be careful.’
It didn't take him long to find Purple Ahmed's place. The address Pete had given him was on Smithdown Road, the main arterial route through the south of the city. The decaying Victorian red brick terraced houses that lined the road were regularly interspersed with churches, new and old, reflective of the city's religious past and vigorous present. New denominations that had spread like viruses from the US and Asia dominated, their steel and glass churches the only modern buildings other than the occasional petrol station. Their neon signs sold sin and salvation.
Just before the lines of terraced housing turned into the grander Georgian townhouses and the leafy avenues of the Allerton and Mossley Hill suburbs stood Purple Ahmed's scrap merchants like some rusted border crossing post. Huge piles of orange metal towered above the street from a large plot fenced in by a tall steel fence that bore the legend, ‘Ahmed's: Metals Bought and Sold’. To Erasmus’ eyes the scrap yard looked like the resting place of some giant rusting dinosaur. He parked up directly outside of the main gate.
The gate to the yard was closed but unlocked. There were two signs on the front of the gate, one stated trespassers entered at their own risk and the second was just a picture of a dog's snarling jaws. Erasmus felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't like dogs.
When he was seven years old he was bitten by a neighbour's Border collie. Not a bad bite but it had drawn blood and he had to pass that dog every day on the way to school. His neighbour, Mr Whitmore, had no job, bad skin and had refused when politely asked by Erasmus’ father to keep the dog tethered. Instead it ran around the front garden snarling and drooling and Erasmus had had to walk a different, longer route to school until a week later the dog disappeared upon the same day that Mr Whitmore nose was mysteriously broken. Erasmus’ father was the type of man who only asked politely once.
He pushed open the corrugated iron gate and entered the yard. There was no sign of life. In every direction there were piles of twisted, broken metal that had once been washing machines, cars, radiators, bicycles. The piles were separated by small gaps of perhaps two metres, enough room for a fork lift truck, supposed Erasmus, and these gaps formed paths through the towering junk. One of these paths was directly opposite the front gate and at the end of it stood an old decrepit caravan. It was the only structure that looked like anything resembling an office. An old tattered orange armchair sat in front of the caravan.
Erasmus headed towards the caravan. The piles of scrap blocked out the November morning's weak sun, making it. Feel a few degrees colder.
He had covered about half the distance from the gate to the caravan when the door opened and a large Asian man wearing dirty jeans and a white vest stepped out. The man was carrying a cup of something hot: Erasmus could see steam rising from the drink. He gave Erasmus a quick glance and then sat down in the orange armchair. Even at this distance Erasmus could make out the large dark purple birthmark that covered half of the man's face. One mystery solved, thought Erasmus.
The man searched in his trouser pockets, pulled out a lighter and held it to the large cigar he held between his teeth. He took a few puffs and then settled into the armchair in the manner of someone relaxing in front of a television set. Erasmus wondered if he was about to become the entertainment.
No sooner had the thought occurred to him then he heard something that made the hairs on his neck leap to attention: a primal growl that was the noise of a thousand nightmares. Slowly, Erasmus turned around. At the point where he had entered the narrow path between the garbage heaps now stood a man barely holding back a huge Rottweiler straining at a taut metal chain. Erasmus could see drool running off the dogs jaws and forming small pools next to its enormous front paws.
Think calm and you are calm, Erasmus told himself. He didn't feel calm.
‘Hello, do you know where I can find Mr Ahmed?’ asked Erasmus, addressing the man with the dog.
He didn't answer. Instead Purple Ahmed spoke.
‘Who wants to know?’
Erasmus was loathe to turn his back on the dog but he forced himself to. He remembered his Army Psych training had drummed into him the precept that 90% of human beings will do what they consider ‘normal’ or what they are told even when the situation demands that they do the opposite. If you told people to get on board the cattle wagons they usually did: being polite could get you killed. Erasmus hoped that this wasn't one of those occasions.
‘I'm Erasmus Jones. I was hoping to ask you some questions about Stephen Francis?’
Purple Ahmed crossed his arms and chewed on his cigar clamped. Erasmus didn't like the body language one bit.
Through gritted teeth Ahmed mumbled, ‘Tell me, you can read, can't you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, if you can read, you should have read the signs on my front gate. One of them says beware of the dog, well I can see you're aware of the dog now at least. The second sign and this is the important one, that sign, that sign says trespassers enter at their own risk. Now put those signs together and what do you get?’
A witty riposte was only a second away but before it arrived on Erasmus’ tongue he heard the click of a chain being released and the excited bark and movement of a large animal rushing towards him.
‘Dog meat,’ said Purple Ahmed.
Erasmus’ legs were moving before the word ‘run’ had even entered his mind. There was only one way to run and that was towards Ahmed.
Erasmus could hear the sound of the dog grunting and the noise of its claws as they scraped over pieces of metal that littered the ground. He risked a quick look back and there it was: a head the size of a watermelon, but a watermelon filled with razor sharp teeth and black soulless eyes, and all just five yards behind him.
He wasn't going to make it to Ahmed and what to do when he got there? There was only way out and that was up. There, about eight feet up, overhanging the path, providing a link between the two piles of rubbish, was an old exhaust pipe. Erasmus jumped for it. He made the jump and his hands gripped the metal. His fingers grasped the pipe desperate to keep hold on. He risked a look down. The dog was jumping up on its hind legs, jaws snapping back and forth in between its manic barking.
His fingers began to slip, there was engine oil on the pipe. His hands slid off the pole and Erasmus came crashing down on top of the Rottweiller, which splayed out beneath him, winded and defeated. Erasmus rolled off the dog quickly and gave it a sharp punch on the nose. The dog whimpered. Erasmus stood up and added a kick in the dog's ribs for good measure.
The dog got up on unsteady legs and turned tail, its head bowed. It ran back towards the man who had let it off the leash.
‘Princess,