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 is her new best friend as of two weeks ago. You know how they are at that age.’
Abby was nine and since the events of two years ago he had seen her only twice. The fact is he had no idea what it was like at that age.
‘Well, who is she, who are her parents, do you know them? Have they been, I dunno, CRB checked?’
‘Jesus, Erasmus, when did you become so suspicious? It’s a friend from school and she’s staying over to watch some silly movie, eat too much food and giggle a lot like little girls do!’ This time Miranda’s voice pitched upwards, this auditory escalation usually ended with one of them slamming the phone down. ‘Look, she’s growing up, she occasionally has to leave the house, meet other kids, it’s normal, Christ, in a couple of years she’ll be going out with boys, half of her class have boyfriends already, childhood’s speeded up since we were kids. You’re going to have to get used to it.’
One thing he was sure of more than anything in the world, he wouldn’t be getting used to it anytime soon.
With the word ‘boyfriends’ rattling around his brain like an escaped tiger he agreed to call back tomorrow.
He grabbed his car keys and headed to Wayne’s place.
The contrast between Erasmus apartment and Wayne’s house was stark. Wayne’s house was another level altogether. A level marked ‘How dare you drive down this road in that crappy car’ to be judged by the stares he had received from the private security guards parked at the entrance to the road in this exclusive part of Formby. The road ran down to the beach and was covered with a fine layer of red sand. Either side of it were mansions set back from the road. Wayne’s was the largest and last one on the road before it turned into a track leading down to the beach. The house seemed to be made mainly from glass and the bits of wall on show were brilliant white. It was, to Erasmus’s mind, more suited for Miami than Merseyside. Envy is not an attractive trait, he told himself.
Erasmus pulled up outside and got out of his car. He hit the buzzer on the gate and a woman’s voice thick with a Scouse accent, answered.
‘Who is it, love?’
‘Erasmus Jones. I’m here to see Wayne.’
‘Never heard of yer.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with Wayne.’
‘You could be the fucking pope love but I’ve still never heard of yer.’
‘I’m his new scorta.’
There was a pause and then a buzz. The gates started to open.
‘Park next to the Aston Martin will yer love.’
Erasmus got back into his Golf and drove through the gates. Sure enough there was a royal blue Aston Martin with the number plate WJ EFC. Erasmus parked his car next to it, carefully opened his door and got out.
The front door of the house was already open and a young woman in her late teens or early twenties was standing there. She looked like she was on her way out to an awards ceremony. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in blonde locks that looked fresh from a salon appointment, her skin was glowing and bronzed, and she was dressed in heels, a short skirt and a tight gold top that squeezed her tiny frame’s bosom into a painful looking cleavage.
‘Hi, I’m Erasmus.’ He offered his hand which she ignored. ‘Hope I haven’t caught you on your way out.’
She pursed her lips.
‘As if I’d go out dressed like a dog’s dinner,’ she said. She stood with a hand on her hip waiting for a compliment. Erasmus didn’t oblige.
‘As I said, I’ve got an appointment to see Wayne. Is he in?’
‘Nah, he popped out but he’ll be back anytime now. I guess you better come in then. I’m Steph, by the way. Wayne’s better, much better, other half.’
She wasn’t smiling but her eyes were twinkling with amusement. She turned and Erasmus followed her into the hallway. The hall was as big as Erasmus’s whole apartment and lined floor to ceiling in marble. A grand staircase flowed up and away from its centre. Steph led him through to a reception room. The facing wall of the room was covered in a mural, ten feet high at least and as wide as the room, of Wayne sitting in an armchair with Steph, wearing nothing but a bikini, sitting on his knee and holding a football. Erasmus nearly laughed but stopped himself just in time.
Steph looked at Erasmus. She took a cigarette from a packet on the mantelpiece and lit it. She blew out the smoke fiercely and then looked up at the massive portrait.
‘It was Wayne’s idea. What can I say?’
She sat down on a white couch and indicated to Erasmus that he should take a seat opposite her on a facing couch. He did so. There was around fifteen feet between them.
‘So, Mr Scorta, what do you want to speak to my boyfriend about?’
She smiled this time but her cool, blue eyes narrowed slightly. Girlfriend or bodyguard, or probably a bit of both, thought Erasmus. It seemed everybody had a stake in brand Wayne.
‘He invited me to lunch. It’s kind of an apology, did he tell you what happened at the Blood House Bar?’
Her eyes rolled.
‘That fucking bar.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘You’ve been there, haven’t you? You’ve seen the girls throwing themselves at the players?’
‘I have yeah. It’s what my parents would call a meat market but I’m sure Wayne knows how to handle it.’
She looked upwards and blew out a long stream of smoke.
‘So, how did you meet Wayne?’
A look of anger crossed her face.
Erasmus had wondered if that was how Steph had snared Wayne. She must have guessed what he was thinking.
‘I grew up three doors down from him. He played football in our street and his Jenna was my best friend. I was there for him when his dad died when he was eleven. I’ve known him when he was dirt poor and he can trust me. I’m not like those gold diggers. And you can drop the attitude, I know exactly what your job entails. You’re nothing more than a pimp.’ She spat the words out as a challenge.
Erasmus shook his head.