The Question.

During the day he ate, slept and dealt with the trivial details of life. Reality began when the sun went down and an army of like-minded lost souls came out to party the night away.

His kind of people.

The nights were when he came to life. Most of the people born around here, or forced by circumstances beyond their control to live here, dreamt of escape. A new job, money, whatever they thought they needed to better themselves. The dreams were all different but the motivation was the same: getting away from here. The irony of his own situation was blindingly clear. He’d escaped. Got away.

And then he’d come back.

His choice. He’d made the return journey when he’d realised that what he really wanted from life he could find right here, back where he’d come from.

Big men stand out in a crowd, especially if they are smartly dressed, handsome or athletic. Dress the same man in an oversized pair of baggy jeans and add an apparent fifty pounds of excess weight, however, and all anyone sees is a fat slob. The padded out sweatshirt was part of himself by now, along with the slouching posture and the rounded shoulders. People avoided him, usually without realising it, as he passed by, forgetting him in an instant.

The spiral of decay had spun un-checked through this neighbourhood. Terraced houses, three storeys and a basement, magnificent in their day, were boarded up and shuttered. The front gardens were overgrown with weeds, festooned with the detritus of a throwaway society. Even the sign which proclaimed this to be a site for regeneration was shabby and tilted at an unlikely angle.

Forget Glasgow. Forget London. Forget Bath. Liverpool has more Georgian buildings than any other city. Square-fronted rows of terraced houses with classic doors and windows are everywhere. Houses in certain areas command sky-high prices, and rightly so, while a similar property in a different area will attract far less attention. All down to that well-known estate agents’ mantra: location, location, location.

This street was a case in point. The houses were architectural gems; but the area had been hit hard by other factors. Even impoverished immigrants looked elsewhere. Anyone unfortunate enough to be born here was looking to move away as soon as they were weaned.

The decline had started with old-fashioned racist attitudes. The first black face sent out alarm signals. Residents rushed to move away as a more cosmopolitan mixture moved in. The phenomenon is not confined to Liverpool; every other city has experienced the same changes. The stratospheric rise in drug-related crime had accelerated the process of decline, turning the area into a war zone.

He hadn’t been down this road in years, but the changes had been massive. There wasn’t a blade of grass or a tree in sight. The once-proud houses were run down and neglected with peeling paint on the windows, soot-blackened brickwork and litter everywhere. The pavements were empty.

A ghost town.

He stepped down to a basement door and pushed it open. He was expected, it wouldn’t be locked. The man standing before him was a stranger, but he came highly recommended. They shook hands and the other man ushered Spider into a well furnished, airy room which was about as far removed from the squalor at street level as it was possible to be.

Spider sat on the leather sofa, waiting.  The other man took a seat on an upright chair and removed his glasses, dangling them in front of him and smiling myopically. Spider couldn’t make out what he was focussing on, but it wasn’t him. The man replaced his glasses and the smile disappeared.

‘I understand you’re looking for someone?’ His voice was soft, almost gentle.

Spider nodded. He passed over a photograph which the other man looked at carefully, removing his glasses to do so.

‘He doesn’t look like this now, but it’s the same man, I’m sure of it.’

Spider nodded. He’d still not spoken.

‘Back here again, after all this time? Must be important,’ the other man said, toying with his glasses.

Spider shrugged. ‘The photo?’

The other man returned the photograph, his brow furrowed. ‘There’s a conflict of interest, you see that, I’m sure,’ he said.

Spider nodded. ‘I know. This man,’ He tapped the photograph. ‘He’ll be a good earner. Always was.’

‘There’ll be compensation then?’

Spider looked up sharply. His  eyes were hollow pools in the blank canvas of his face. The other man appeared disinterested, staring at the wall, at a mark that didn’t exist. Without focus.

‘There’ll be gratitude for a favour,’ Spider said at length.

‘Ah yes, that. Gratitude. You’ve been away a long time.’

‘I’m back now.  Are you prepared to help me or not? Simple question.’ He sat back, crossing one leg over the other.

‘There’ve been changes around here. Things are different now. Different ways, different loyalties. Not as simple as you make out.’

Spider smiled for the first time.

‘Res ipsa loquitur,’ he said. ‘Open and shut.  A literal translation would be the thing speaks for itself. Same thing. Simple question, you’ve answered it.’

The other man said nothing. Spider got to his feet, held out his hand. ‘I’ll look elsewhere,’ he said.

The other man took the proffered hand, shook it. ‘Good to meet you at last,’ he said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of assistance. The man you want is important, you can see that? A valuable asset. I’d be sorry to lose him.’

Spider half-turned, then whipped round, the blade in his hand a blur. The other man reeled backwards, blood spurting from his throat. He fell against the sofa, hands clutched to the gaping wound.

Spider stood over him. ‘You’d have told him about my visit, wouldn’t you? Warned him. Can’t have that, you see? Not helpful at all.’

The other man flinched as Spider leant over him, closed his eyes as he saw the knife.

When he’d finished, Spider washed up in the well-appointed kitchen, rinsing the knife and cleaning blood spatters from his hands.

A dead end.

The man had been offered the opportunity to help, had spurned the offer.

He’d look elsewhere. Another name, another series of questions.

He had plenty of time.