Authors: Phil Kurthausen
Sudden Death
The clock is ticking on Erasmus Jones’ deadliest case yet…
Jaded lawyer Erasmus Jones has been hired to protect the footballing world’s latest protégé – and while it’s a job he may not like, he can’t refuse. Thrust into the hedonistic world of the football elite, Erasmus discovers a sinister underbelly to the beautiful game, riddled with corruption, deceit… and murder.
It’s his most high-profile case yet… and it should be enough. But when the only woman he has ever loved appears, begging for his help, Erasmus finds himself caught between two deadly cases: and his professional instincts are tested more than ever before.
With mere seconds on the clock, Erasmus must make a choice: put his client’s life on the line, or turn his back on his past. Because there can only be one winner... and the penalty could be death.
The Silent Pool
Sudden Death
Phil Kurthausen
Phil Kurthausen grew up in Merseyside where he dreamt of being a novelist but ended up working as a lawyer. He has travelled the world working as a flower salesman, a light bulb repair technician and, though scared of heights, painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Ken Dodd once put him in a headlock for being annoying.
He has had work broadcast on BBC Radio 4 Extra, published some short stories and his novel
The Killing Pool
won the Thriller Round in the Harper Collins People’s Novelist Competition broadcast on ITV in November 2011 and appeared in the final. It was later shortlisted for the Dundee International Literary Prize in 2012.
He lives in Chester.
‘Totally un-putdownable. Quite Outstanding’
Jeffrey Archer
‘This pulls you in at 100 mph. [The] sense of place is terrific. A great central character. I love Erasmus Jones’
Mark Billingham
‘Wonderfully written, tightly written, Erasmus Jones is like Jack Reacher. Wonderful’
Cathy Kelly
‘I read ahead of myself. Just cracking. Macabre, brilliant’
Penny Smith
For Dylan & Thea
Contents
July 2nd 1992
She ran, breathing and sobbing hard. She didn’t dare turn around and look back, for the sound of the beasts was still close behind.
The tears that wouldn’t stop blinded her and she tumbled hard onto the cinder path. She lay there for a second and as her eyes cleared slightly she noticed the skin hanging off her knees, revealing lacerations the colour of cough sweets. She held up her hands. Even silhouetted against the sun she could still see the speckled grit that had lodged there as she had broken her fall.
From behind her there came a cackle, a sound that spoke of pleasure in pain, torture and fear. She stood up and ran faster than she ever had before and inwardly screamed at the universe, at herself, for believing that it had all been true.
***
The gap in the trees had been exactly where he had described it in the letter.
She had walked down the cinder path, her head bowed as usual to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention from the ever hungry eyes of the hawks, as she thought of them, those girls with the heightened sense of who was weak and vulnerable to attack, torment and destruction.
But she had been lucky, the path was unusually clear of other pupils. It was a warm day and everyone else had been desperate to leave, a rush and whirr of movement – perfume being applied, shirts rolled up at the waist and buttons undone – and all the time she had moved slowly, as though moving through a different world, a denser atmosphere than the others inhabited. By the time she had put her bag over her shoulder, the changing rooms had cleared save for the tired and grey looking Miss Clarkson, who had wearily ushered her out of the school doors.
When she had reached the end of the cinder path, instead of turning right and heading down the hill that ran to her home, she had turned left. The path ran for a few yards more here and then disappeared, reclaimed by weeds and the trees that surrounded the old Mill House copse
She had come to the gap in the trees, widened over the years by the smokers, potheads and mischievous school children who used this forbidden path. She had never dared come this way before, had never been invited before now but it was exactly as he had described it: a gap marked by the corpse of an old dead elm, dried and decaying.
Her hand had gone to the letter in her pocket. It had been tucked into her bag, placed there while she was doing gym. Resting at the top, the envelope sticking out of the zip so she couldn’t miss it. She had always thought that her half glances had been missed or ignored for the more obvious attentions of the prettier, more confident girls who danced and preened around Mark. But Mark, a golden flop of fringe, eyes the colour of sapphires and a quiet confidence and bearing that made her stomach loop and turn like a Tiger Moth performing acrobatics, had known all along. She had felt sick with the anticipation. For the rest of the afternoon she had struggled to keep her thoughts from colliding with one another, the letter seemed to have derailed all her carefully nurtured linear patterns of thinking. Miss Clarkson had asked her a question in her maths class and Alison hadn’t been aware that she was even being spoken to until she realized that the laughter of the other children was being directed at her.
Miss Clarkson had tutted and under her breath muttered something about periods. The laughter had grown louder but Alison was used to this by now. She had just lowered her head and stared at the desk. She knew the laughter would pass, it always did, it was a creature that constantly needed feeding, needed new targets and all she had to do was wait until some other prey walked unknowingly into the maw and she would be forgotten.
Even though it had been a sunny day, hot and sticky, the path had quickly become dark as the canopy formed by the oaks and the hawthorn blocked out the light. It was a little colder in here but she was happy about this as it cooled her and she knew that she was flushing already as the nervous excitement sent blood rushing round her body. So many times that flush had been the source of ridicule for her classmates and Mark couldn’t have helped but notice. She placed her hands on her cheeks. They were burning and for a second she considered turning back but then she thought of all her heroines of literature. Would they have turned back, would Cathy have not gone to Heathcliff?
She had taken a deep breath, smelling the sweet rich smell of the woods, and then walked on.
A hundred yards down the path she had come to a clearing. In the middle of the clearing were the crumbling remains of the old mill that set beside a small stream. Beams of sunlight penetrated here and within them droplets of water were leaping, forming a small shimmering rainbow that made her gasp at its beauty. She was so transfixed by this sight that she almost didn’t notice Mark step from the shadow of the mill.
‘Hello Ali,’ he had said and then grinned at her.
She had gone to speak but the words had caught in her throat, which seemed to have narrowed to the size of a drinking straw. The world turned and empires rose and fell as she tried to speak.
He had walked towards her.
Luckily her body, usually so much her enemy, started to work.
‘Hi Mark, I got your letter.’ She dug the letter out of the chest pocket in her blouse and held it up.
He had nodded and carried on walking towards her. He flicked his head to one side, clearing the thick golden fringe that had obscured one eye. He smiled at her and she didn’t blush, but feeling a newly discovered confidence, she smiled back.
And then he was holding her and kissing her. He smelled of sweat and sunshine and something darker and more frightening and yet at the same time intoxicating. She opened her mouth and then his tongue was in her mouth, roughly searching. She had read about this, but oh my, the difference was the difference between life and death. She felt her teeth hit against his and she tried to say sorry but his tongue was back, forcing the words back to where they belonged.
His hands moved from around her back and started to unbutton her blouse. She let the letter fall to the floor as she raised her hands to try and stop him but he was quick and powerful and really she didn’t want him to stop, not ever.
He ripped open the last buttons and then reached around and unclipped her bra. It fell to the floor. Instinctively she covered her breasts with her hands. He stood back, a strange smile on his face.
‘Let’s see you then,’ he said.
‘Mark, I wanted you to know … ’, and then she decided no more words, to say it was to unmake it. She let her hands drop to her sides and smiled at him. She revealed herself to him.
He folded his arms and looked at something behind her.
Someone started to laugh but it wasn’t him.
‘Oh my fucking God, she only went and did it. Hey Alison, smile for the camera! Nice scars. Fuck!’
She wheeled around and there sitting on the top of the mill wall were three demons, black plastic faces with red lips painted in evil grins. The Witches, for that was how she thought of them, were laughing hysterically. One of them was holding a camera and the flash exploded into diamond hard light.
She turned back to Mark, her face flushed, her throat as compressed as a strangler’s victim.
‘Why?’ escaped from the clutches of her throat.
Mark stopped laughing and suddenly he looked unsure. Maybe he saw something, the murder he had committed, the innocence he had killed, but he looked like a frightened boy now and not the man he had been moments before. He was staring in horror at the white scars that covered her arms, shoulder and stomach.
A hand pushed her to the floor.
‘Because we’ve seen you, we’ve all seen you mooning over him as if you’d ever have a chance and you needed to be told.’
The tallest witch was standing back taking picture after picture, the sound of the camera’s motor seemed as loud as a jet engine.
‘So have a guess what pictures are going to be all over the fence tomorrow and in every class room and posted to your dad!’
The girls laughed as one.
Alison scrambled away at the same time she tried to cover herself up. She picked up her blouse but it was snatched away by the girl with red hair.
