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.
A look of anger flashed on Gary’s face and he leapt to his feet.
‘Who the fuck is this nobody? You know the rules, get him out, Ted!’
De Marco started laughing and slapped Gary on the shoulder.
‘He’s right though, Jonesy, yes? We ’av been merda!’
This broke the tension and Wayne started to laugh followed by the others. Gary hovered over his seat for a second, assessing the support for any further action. Realising there was none, he smiled a violent smile and sank to his seat.
‘But, Ted, he is right, you know the rules. Ciao Erasmus,’ said De Marco.
Ted’s eyes flicked from side to side.
‘Yeah, of course, just wanted you guys to meet the new guy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Erasmus,’ said Wayne.
‘And you kid,’ replied Erasmus.
Ted was pulling at Erasmus’s arm.
‘Come on, we need to go.’
Gary Jones was staring at Erasmus daring him to look away. Erasmus winked elaborately at him and turned away.
‘What rules?’ asked Erasmus.
‘Only players, agents and invited guests in here. If one says you go you have to go and Jonesy wants you gone.’
‘Gary Jones is a charmer isn’t he,’ he said to Ted.
Ted didn’t look at Erasmus.
‘He’ll be gone next season. Hamstrings. They get like ageing racehorses. What did you think about Wayne?’
‘He’s a kid.’
Ted harrumphed.
‘A kid with the future of this club on his shoulders.’
‘And the man, at the other booth.’
Ted stopped and faced Erasmus.
‘Babak. Just hope you don’t ever have to deal with him. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’
Erasmus’s tenure as a scorta had begun that day two weeks ago. Since then he had followed Wayne around, from training ground to club, from match to club. And always that club was the Blood House and always it ended with a closed door to the Blue Room: the players’ inner sanctum. He hadn’t been inside since.
***
The realisation that he was about to die hit him before he committed himself to the jump. He stopped, teetering on the edge for a second and then he stepped back. Waves of panic engulfed him, sending pins and needles shooting up his arms and converging in his chest. He sank to his knees; trying to catch his breath, force it to carry oxygen to his hungry lungs.
It had been three years, four months and two days since he had last felt the overwhelming feeling that he felt now. Shit, he thought he had left this behind. He tried to concentrate on the cement floor. As he did so he became dimly aware of people laughing.
He looked up, straight into the face of Wayne Jennings.
His hyperventilating began to calm and he realised that he was surrounded by at least ten people, most of whom were laughing hysterically. Erasmus slowly got to his feet.
Wayne Jennings, the reason he was here, had a hand over his mouth and was shaking his head. Erasmus recognised three of the group as other players – Gary Jones, the captain, De Marco and Kristos – and they had been joined by the two bouncers who were also laughing. The rest of the group were all young girls, tanned and scantily clad even though it was the middle of January. They were holding bottles of champagne and all of them were laughing, apart from Wayne who looked concerned.
‘I’m so sorry, Raz, it was a joke. We wanted to see how far you would go to protect me. I can’t believe you were going to jump!’
Wayne, rosy cheeked and despite the thousand pound suit and shoes, looking like a naughty schoolboy who had just been caught having an extra biscuit, stuck out his hand and helped Erasmus to his feet.
‘A trick? Why?’
Gary Jones slapped his thick forearm around Erasmus’s shoulder. He stank of stale booze and tobacco mixed with his expensive cologne: a stomach churning scent.
‘A bet. I bet Wayne that his new scorta wasn’t the real deal, that if Wayne was ever kidnapped by ragheads or scallies, he would be a goner. We thought we’d see. We were hiding over there,’ Gary pointed over to a dark corner of the roof. Erasmus could just make out a small service hut. In his rush onto the roof he had run right past it without seeing it. ‘I tell you, we were pissing ourselves. I couldn’t believe you took out the bouncers as well. Don’t worry, we squared it with them.’
‘Charley did the voices. Charley, show yourself!’ shouted Kristos.
On the opposite roof the club’s goalkeeper stood up from where he had been hiding in the shadows.
‘Erasmus, Dave’s dead!’ he shouted over at them.
Cue more hysterical laughter.
Erasmus breathed in and let the urge to break Jones’s fingers disappear with the exhalation.
‘And you thought you’d do that by pretending Wayne had been kidnapped and risking my life?’
Erasmus pulled Jones’s arm away from his shoulder. Wayne looked down at the floor and his face flushed.
Gary raised his hands, palms facing Erasmus.
‘Whoa there, buddy. I thought you were meant to be his scorta, hard as nails, willing to take a bullet. It’s only a six foot gap, you pussy! Charley jumped it no problem.’
‘I could have died.’
Jones relocated his arm around the waist of a pretty young blonde girl. Erasmus noticed she shivered and wondered whether it was the cold or Jones’s touch that brought it on.
‘Look again, scorta.’
Erasmus turned and looked down. Now he looked closely he could see that about ten feet down there was a net, stretched between the buildings, covering the whole of the alley.
‘They put it up there when they built the roof terrace. They didn’t want any drunks falling off. Come on, have a drink, we can toast your cowardice!’
Jones snatched a bottle of champagne from the girl he was holding and offered it to Erasmus. The girl made a