Who Sent Clement? Read online

  A sudden thought strikes me — what if I’ve discovered an unpublished poem by a famous writer? It would propel the value of the bible into the thousands.

  I scramble to my feet and turn the computer monitor on. I’m about to start searching for the poem when, from nowhere, a voice booms across the shop.

  “Alright, doll.”

  12

  I did hear a voice. I know that because my heart is now somewhere in my throat, and I’m currently paralysed with fear. Even if I could, I daren’t turn my head to the source of the voice. I can hear the tinkling of a piano from the speakers above my head. I can smell the books and the faint funk of damp from the cellar below my feet. I can also smell something else — tobacco, and a scent I vaguely recognise. Old Spice aftershave?

  I move the only part of my body I can, and slowly roll my eyes to the left.

  They meet a figure. A man, standing about twelve feet away.

  No. No. No.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and slowly open them again. He’s still there. A figment of my imagination? Maybe, but didn’t I hear him speak? If he is an illusion, he’s a pretty convincing one.

  He moves, tilting his head slowly to the left, then the right.

  My paralysis comes to an abrupt end as a scream escapes me.

  The man raises his hands, palms out. “Whoa! Calm down, doll. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  Surely a bog-standard lie, as offered by all murderers’ right before they rudely murder you.

  Oddly, my murderer has chosen to dress in flared jeans, and a denim waistcoat over a salmon-orange t-shirt. Is he some sort of retro-themed murderer? Is that his ‘thing’?

  Beyond his quirky attire, the sheer size of the man is more of a worry — he is enormous. The bookshelves are six feet tall, and he stands maybe five or six inches taller.

  My scream ends as my breath runs out. Confused thoughts scramble through my mind. How the hell did he get in here? What does he want with me? And why is he wearing blue-tinted sunglasses at night?

  It matters not. He’s here, and I’m about to die. I’m sure of it.

  He strides towards me, eating up the space in barely a second, and with it, any chance I have of escape. Even if I could fight my way past him, the front door is locked and the key is in my handbag, in the staffroom.

  This must be that moment; the one where you know death is coming. I’ve read about people who’ve experienced it — a final culmination of all your fears and regrets. I was kind of hoping I’d drift away peacefully with neither, at some point in my nineties.

  This is not how I imagined my end — throttled by a man in fancy dress.

  He comes to a stop right in front of the counter.

  Please don’t soil your knickers, Beth. It’ll look embarrassing on the autopsy report.

  However, as I stare up at him, something in his facial expression doesn’t correlate with a man seemingly intent on murder. There is no obvious menace, no scowl. He actually looks a little bewildered, curious even.

  His head turns slowly left, then right, as if inspecting his surroundings. As his head turns, I study his features. Huge mutton-chop sideburns flow from a crown of dark hair, spiked upwards. A thick moustache frames his upper lip, dropping down either side of his mouth; a style reminiscent of Mexican bandits, and now popular amongst the hipster generation.

  He speaks again.

  “A bleedin’ book shop. There’s a first.”

  His voice is level, with a gravelly tone like a man who smokes too much.

  I try to place his accent. London? Definitely. A working class area? Probably.

  “You’re quite the chatterbox, ain’t you?” he adds.

  Without warning, he stretches his arms above his head and yawns. I try to find another scream but I can barely inhale enough air to draw breath.

  His t-shirt strains to contain his bulk. I don’t know why, but I suspect that bulk wasn’t forged in a gym. His arms are muscled, but not with the lean muscle earned through lifting weights day after day. A small paunch above his belt suggests this man doesn’t spend much time in a gym.

  Nevertheless, he looks like he could tear me in half without breaking sweat.

  He leans forwards and waves his hands in the air, a few feet in front of my face. I try backing up, only to find the wall behind me.

  “Hello. Anyone in there?”

  I have to consciously force the words from my mouth.

  “Who…are…you?”

  “Thank fuck for that. I thought you were a mute. Clement is the name.”

  I gulp hard and find a tiny voice. “What do you want with me, Mr Clement?”

  “Not Mr. Just Clement.”

  “What…do you want with me…Clement?” I stammer. “Did Sterling send you?”

  “Who?”

  “David Sterling.”

  “Never heard of the bloke.”

  I don’t know if that’s good news or not.

  “Why are you here then?”

  “You summoned me.”

  “Uh? I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All that stuff about child of need and heavenly alchemy. I’m your steed, doll.”

  He grins. He needs a dentist.

  “You’re not making any sense, Mr…Clement. What has the poem got to do with you being here?”

  “It’s not a poem. It’s…I dunno, a prayer, I suppose. You need help, and they sent me.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Dunno,” he shrugs. “Just doing my job, doll. You read the bleedin’ thing and here I am.”

  Maybe this man is not going to kill me, or at least he doesn’t see it as a priority. My initial fear eases a little but I’m struggling to muster any patience.

  “I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m too tired for this. Can you just leave, please?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nowhere to go.”

  “You’re homeless?”

  “Suppose I am, in a way.”

  “Well, could you not speak to a charity?”

  “If only it were that simple,” he chuckles. “I doubt they’ll be able to help me.”

  Every boyfriend has said it. I’m not good company when I’m tired. Fear becomes irritation.

  “Look, I don’t know what you want but I can’t help you. Can you just go back to wherever you came from, please?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because I wasn’t anywhere. I was dead.”

  Okay, now I get it. He’s obviously suffering from some sort of mental illness — it’s the only explanation. I need to tread carefully.

  “Oh, I see,” I reply, trying to sound sympathetic. “You were dead were you?”

  It sounds patronising rather than sympathetic.

  “I was. Now I’m here to make penance.”

  “Okay. Penance for what exactly?”

  “My previous life. I did some shit that I probably shouldn’t have done.”

  “Are you taking any medication? If not, you probably should be.”

  He starts laughing. I’m now considering death as an attractive proposition.

  “I like you,” he snorts. “You’re pretty funny, for a chick.”

  “Flattered, I’m sure.”

  “But I’m guessing you don’t believe in miracles?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Look — try and see this from my perspective. I’m having a really bad week and then you turn up, from nowhere apparently, claiming to be a dead man seeking penance. If I’m honest with you, I could do without it.”

  He strokes his moustache and sighs.

  “I dunno what else to say, doll.”

  “And can you please stop calling me doll.”

  “Alright, Bethany,” he says with a smirk.

  “Thank you…hold on. How do you know my name? I never told you.”

  “Dunno. It just popped into my head when I
arrived here. Bethany Louise Dusty Baxter.”

  I stare up at him, open mouthed.

  Nobody, besides my parents, knows my middle name is Dusty. My dad was a huge fan of Dusty Springfield and my mum thought it would be a nice surprise to add it as a middle name when she registered my birth. Dad was delighted, and promptly gave me the nickname, ‘Diddy Dusty’. I’ve always been a bit embarrassed about it, and never willingly shared it with anyone. I’m fairly sure my dad was the last person ever to use it.

  “What do you mean, it just popped into your head?”

  “I dunno. This gig doesn’t come with an instruction manual.”

  It seems I’m not dealing with a murderer, but a crazed stalker. Either way, there is little chance of my physically ejecting him from the shop, and I’d rather not provoke him. It appears I have no option but to humour him.

  “Okay, Clement” I sigh. “Can you at least tell me why, and indeed how, you came to be standing in my shop at this time of night?”

  “Short or long version?”

  “Short. Very short.”

  “Fair enough. Can we get a cup of tea though? I’m bloody parched.”

  I offer him a weak smile and cautiously move from beyond the counter. I hold my arm out, inviting him to take the lead.

  “The staffroom is through that door. After you.”

  Clement slowly ambles towards the staffroom door and I follow a safe distance behind. For a fleeting second, I toy with the idea of running back across the shop and throwing myself through the plate glass window. Probably not a sensible move.

  I turn the staffroom light on just as Clement perches his backside on the edge of the table, inches from my handbag.

  Bugger.

  I shuffle to the far side of the room and put the kettle on, trying not to turn my back on my unwelcome guest for too long. As I contort, I notice the chair is still wedged under the handle of the back door. How the hell did he get in here?

  I turn my gaze to the man. He appears fairly nonplussed by the whole charade, casually gazing around the room.

  I have no choice but to see this through.

  “Go on then,” I sigh. “Why are you here?”

  “Right. Just prepare yourself, doll. This might seem a bit of a stretch.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You asked for help, and I’ve been sent here to provide it. I can’t go anywhere until I’ve made penance, and helped you.”

  “So, what are you? Some sort of guardian angel?”

  “Do I look like an angel?” he scoffs.

  “Erm, I’d say you look more like a seventies porn star. No offence.”

  “None taken. I dabbled, once.”

  Ewww.

  The kettle boils. I turn around and quickly snatch a couple of mugs from the cupboard.

  “Sugar?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “Three.”

  That explains his paunch.

  I pour boiling water into the mugs and drop a teabag in each. My mind flashes back to Miss Henderson’s words — I hope Eleanor Roosevelt was right, and I’m stronger than the weak tea I’m about to serve.

  I scoop sugar into one of the mugs, and add a splash of milk to both. I turn, and cautiously pass a mug to Clement, or whoever the hell he is.

  “Cheers, doll.”

  I wish he’d stop calling me that. I guess it’s the least of my problems though. I let it go.

  I grab my mug and take a sip, hoping the caffeine will ease my tiredness.

  “So, Clement. You’re here to help me?”

  “You got it.”

  “And to be clear, you’re actually dead?”

  “Since 1975.”

  “I guess that explains the hideous double denim outfit.”

  He looks down and studies his attire for a second. He looks back at me, indignant.

  “What’s the problem, doll? This garb cost a bleedin’ fortune. Got it from Carnaby Street.”

  “In 1975?”

  “Nah. ‘74, I think.”

  I nod, and take another sip of tea.

  “And what did you do, in 1975, before you…err, died?”

  “I was an odd job man.”

  “Brilliant,” I groan. “I need a saviour and I’m sent somebody who can put up shelves.”

  “Not that sort of odd job man.”

  He takes a gulp of tea and places his mug on the table.

  “I was a fixer.”

  “And what exactly did that entail?”

  “People had problems and I fixed them. I did a bit of protection, a bit of debt collection, and occasionally I’d have to persuade the odd person to, shall we say, change their position on certain matters. It was varied work.”

  “Right. And if you don’t mind me asking, how exactly did you die?”

  “I banged my head.”

  “You banged your head?”

  “Yeah — on a cricket bat. Didn’t see it coming.”

  “You played cricket?” I say with no effort to hide my surprise.

  “It was two in the morning. An alleyway in Camden. I wasn’t wearing my whites.”

  “Oh.”

  I try hard to stifle a yawn. I need to extract myself from this ridiculous situation.

  “Well, it’s been interesting, but I’ve had a long day and I’d quite like to go home now.”

  “Great. It’s brass monkeys in here.”

  He stands up.

  “Sorry, Clement. I meant I want to go home on my own.”

  “Oh. But you need help, right?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “Then we can talk about it on the way. Where’s your motor?”

  He stares at me expectantly. There is no way I’m letting him into my car.

  I then remember. The reason I’m here is because Sterling’s henchmen are currently sitting outside my house. I won’t be going home, but I have no desire to stay here either.

  An idea strikes me.

  “Actually, Clement. You might be able to help me with something.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I’ve been having problems with my front headlamp. Do you think you could check it’s working okay?”

  “No worries, doll.”

  My cunning plan is to get in the car, lock the doors while Clement is inspecting my headlamp, and drive off. Heaven knows where I’ll go, but anywhere is preferable to being in the company of this nut job.

  “I need a piss first, though,” he proclaims. “That brew went straight through me. Where’s your lav?”

  I point him in the direction of the toilet and he lumbers off.

  His weak bladder offers me an unexpected opportunity for a change of plan. I’ll make a break for it while he’s in the loo. I can head to the police station and ask them to come back to the shop and remove him. It’s probably for his own good — he clearly needs medical help.

  I grab my handbag and remove the chair from the back door. I delicately prise it open and step out into the cold night air.

  As my heart hammers in my chest, I scrabble around in my handbag for my keys. Just as I locate them, a voice startles me.

  “Evening.”

  My head snaps up and I’m greeted by the sight of a dark coloured BMW parked behind the Fiat, blocking my exit. The voice belongs to one of Sterling’s goons, sitting smiling in the driver’s seat with the window down. Shit, they must have guessed I’d come here.

  He gets out of the car a second before his passenger joins him. The two of them slowly edge around the Fiat and stand side-by-side about ten feet away. I’ve got nowhere to go.

  “Cold out here ain’t it?” the shorter of the two says.

  Both of them are wearing dark clothing, their bald heads like hardboiled eggs, floating in the darkness.

  “You gonna invite us in for coffee then?”

  “Just leave me alone,” I whimper.

  “Sorry, love. No can do. Mr Sterling’s orders. No reason why we can’t have some fun though, is there?”


  They stare at me, both grinning.

  “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves before we get fully acquainted,” the shorter goon adds. “I’m Mr Black, and my colleague here is Mr Blue.”

  Black & Blue? Really?

  Mr Black takes a few ponderous steps towards me. Mr Blue follows closely behind. My only possible escape is back into the shop, and back to the deranged giant.

  A terrifying thought crashes to the front of my mind — they’re working together. One man inside the shop, sent in to distract me, and two outside, preventing my escape.

  I’ve walked right into a trap.

  I scan my surroundings, praying I might spot a passer-by. Pointless. Why would anyone stroll up a dead-end street at this time of night? I’m alone. I’m in deep trouble.

  Messrs Black & Blue continue to edge towards me. I shuffle backwards until my shoulder blades meet a brick wall. My mind begins to play out the next few minutes. I picture myself screaming, and Mr Black forcing his meaty hand across my mouth to silence me. I can see myself being bundled back into the shop. What happens after that is just too awful to consider.

  I press my back tight against the wall in a futile attempt to add an extra inch of distance between myself and the approaching thugs.

  They’re barely six feet away, and still grinning.

  A flash of movement to my left and the shop door slams shut.

  My head twists to the side to see Clement standing in front of the door. Looks like he’s come to join the party, and I’m the piñata.

  “What’s going on here then?” he says casually.

  Mr Black turns to face Clement. “This is none of your fucking business. Do one.”

  Whatever is going on here, clearly Black & Blue have no idea who Clement is. I’ve got a horrible feeling my deranged visitor is about to discover who they are, and what their line of work is.

  Black & Blue shuffle into position with Mr Black directly in front of Mr Blue.

  “I’ll ask again. What’s going on?” Clement growls.

  Mr Black turns and says something to Mr Blue. They chuckle between themselves, but the mirth is fleeting as Mr Black turns back to Clement with a scowl.

  “If you don’t fuck off in the next five seconds, you’re a dead man.”

  Clement huffs a reply. “I’m already a dead man, mate.”

  He moves with surprising speed for his size. In four huge strides, Clement covers the ground between them. Mr Black appraises the threat and decides to meet it head on. He shifts his feet and throws a punch towards Clement’s head. With a significant height difference between the two men, it doesn’t meet its target; it meets Clement’s open palm and immediately loses its momentum with a dull slapping sound.