Who Sent Clement? Page 11

  “You really didn’t want to do that,” Clement spits.

  What happens next is like a fight scene from an action movie, only very real, and terrifyingly violent. I have never borne witness to an actual fight before, and I wish I wasn’t party to the one I’m currently watching.

  With lightening reflexes, Clement thrusts a ferocious jab into Mr Black’s face. I’m sure I hear the sound of bone crunching. Mr Black immediately falls to the floor with a high pitched yelp, his hands clutching his face.

  Mr Blue is not impressed, and throws a punch of his own. Too slow, and Clement brushes it aside before returning a far more potent punch. It squarely meets Mr Blue’s jaw and his head jerks violently. He staggers backwards a few steps but manages to stay upright by splaying his legs. As he tries to shake away the grogginess from the blow, Clement leaps forwards.

  I watch in horror as Clement swings a leg and his boot makes contact with Mr Blue’s right knee. His collapse is immediate, his scream chilling.

  Despite both goons floundering helplessly on the floor, it appears Clement is not finished with them. He moves away from the now-crippled Mr Blue and raises his leg again, intent on laying a boot into Mr Black’s ribs.

  I find my voice and shriek. “Clement!”

  He freezes in an instant, his left leg still angled behind him, ready to deliver a kick. He slowly lets it fall to the ground before assessing his victims. Judging by their groans, I don’t think they’ll be offering much in the way of retaliation.

  Clement turns to face me. “I’m guessing these two clowns are part of whatever it is you need help with?”

  I nod, speechless.

  “I don’t think they’ll be bothering you for a while. Shall we get going then?” he adds nonchalantly.

  Clement bends over and grabs Mr Black by the scruff of his jacket, mumbling something in his ear. I can’t bear to look at his bloodied face and turn away. I hear a few muffled voices and the sound of car doors being opened and closed. I turn back just as the BMW squeals away.

  “What…what did you say to them?”

  “Nothing much. Just told them to be on their way before I really lose my temper.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “Better than they would have been if you hadn’t stopped me.”

  He brushes his hands together and strides over. “You alright, doll? You look like you’re gonna puke.”

  “I…I don’t know whether to thank you, or scream at you.”

  “I’d go with the first option. I don’t respond well to screaming chicks.”

  I find a feeble smile. “Thank you.”

  “Do you wanna explain what they were doing here?”

  “They were told to watch me.”

  “By?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He folds his arms and leans against the car.

  “They said they’ll be back. I think they might be a bit annoyed.”

  “Great,” I sigh.

  “So, it’s your call, doll. You can stop messing me around and we can deal with this, together. Or, you can take your chances on your own.”

  “Eh? How have I messed you around?”

  “Faulty headlight,” he snorts. “You must think I was born yesterday.”

  My plan has been spectacularly thwarted. One thing is clear though: this man, whoever he is, has just rescued me from a fate I still can’t bear to consider.

  The question is: what the hell do I do with him now?

  13

  I’m cold and tired. And I’m confused. Very confused.

  I don’t know what to do about the giant man who is currently staring at me.

  I think it’s fair to say that Clement could beat me to a pulp with one arm tied behind his back. But he hasn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Come on, doll,” he calls across to me. “I’m freezing my knackers off out here. Make a decision.”

  What do I do? Clearly he’s barking mad, but surely if he wanted to harm me, I’d already be lying in a pool of my own blood in the shop.

  “Just a minute…I’m thinking.”

  He shakes his head and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Can’t we discuss this inside the bloody car?” he groans.

  “With respect, Clement, I don’t make a habit of inviting complete strangers into my car. You could be a serial rapist for all I know.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he jeers. “I’ve kicked plenty of better-looking birds out of my bed.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I snap back indignantly.

  “What? Just saying, you’re not my type.”

  “And what exactly is your type, Clement?”

  “Jesus,” he groans as he looks to the sky. “Is this really helping?”

  I stand with my arms folded.

  “Apologise.”

  “Apologise? For what?”

  “That comment. How rude.”

  “If it means getting out of the friggin’ cold, fine. I’m sorry.”

  His casual misogyny is not my greatest concern — far from it. I am now stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one side I have Black & Blue, who are probably plotting their revenge this very minute. Then there is Clement; a clearly deranged man-mountain who, despite his delusions, is willing to put himself in harm’s way to protect me.

  If he is a stalker, he’s unlike any of those I’ve ever read about. He’s certainly odd, but he’s not creepy, and seems to have a fairly indifferent attitude towards me. And then there are the two questions that I can’t answer: how did he get into the shop, and how did he know my middle name? I’m intrigued enough to consider his offer. And I’m so cold, so tired, I actually don’t care if he is crazy, as long as he murders me in a warm bed.

  “Alright. Get in.”

  I unlock the car and Clement eases his huge frame into my tiny car.

  I turn the engine on and ramp the heating up to maximum while Clement tries to make himself comfortable.

  “Does Noddy know you’ve borrowed his car?” he mumbles, his head pressed up against the vinyl roof.

  “Stop complaining, and put your seatbelt on.”

  “No thanks. Just don’t crash.”

  “It’s not optional, Clement. It’s the law.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know. Since forever. Just put it on will you.”

  I reverse out of the parking bay while he reluctantly puts his seatbelt on, much to his obvious annoyance.

  I could probably tell him the seat is adjustable, but seeing my oversized passenger contorted into his seat does amuse me somewhat. In fairness, he doesn’t complain, probably because he appears mesmerised by the glowing dashboard lights.

  “Like a bleedin’ Christmas tree,” he murmurs to himself.

  “Sorry?”

  “The dashboard. All lit up like a Christmas tree. How does that work?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  He continues to stare at the dashboard with child-like wonderment.

  “Where are we going?” he eventually asks.

  “My house, but don’t assume I’ll be letting you in.”

  “Suit yourself. How far is it?”

  “Not far, but there’s time enough for you to convince me you’re not a threat to my wellbeing.”

  “Anyone ever told you, you’ve got major trust issues?”

  He’s observant, I’ll give him that.

  “It might help if you explained what happened in the shop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Both doors were locked. How did you get in?”

  “I dunno. It just happens.”

  “What just happens?”

  “There’s nothing, like being asleep. Then I sort of snap into consciousness.”

  I’m none the wiser.

  “You said happens, as if you’ve done this before.”

  “Twice.”

  “Care to explain?”

  He mumbles something under his bre
ath and adjusts his position for the fifth time.

  “Don’t ask me how any of this works cos’ I don’t have a clue. The first time scared the shit out of me. One minute I’m walking down an alley in 1975, and the next I’m in an office in front of some random bloke. There was all this noise in my head and the bloke’s name just popped out. All I knew was that I was supposed to help him.”

  Don’t encourage him, Beth.

  “What happened?”

  Well done.

  “Don’t ask me how, but I knew the year was 1989. That was a head-fuck in itself. Anyway, the bloke I was sent to help didn’t take my appearance well. I think he had underlying mental problems.”

  “Do you want to expand on that?”

  “He threw himself out of a sixth floor window, ten minutes after I arrived.”

  “Oh, that’s just great.” I groan.

  “Not my fault, doll.”

  “You said it happened twice before. What happened the second time?”

  “Good question. What year is it?”

  “2017.”

  “In which case, the second bloke should be out of prison by now. I think it was 2003 when I tried to help him.”

  We reach a junction. I pull to a stop and turn to face Clement.

  “Let me just get this straight. You’ve been sent back from beyond the grave to help people, in order to make penance for your wayward life. Correct?”

  “About sums it up.”

  “And of the two people you’ve previously tried to help, one committed suicide, and the other spent over a decade in prison?”

  “Sounds bad when you put it like that.”

  “And now you’re here to help me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lucky me. And what happens if you can’t help me?”

  “Three strikes and you’re out. If I screw this up, it’s game over.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I end up in a place so abhorrent, so terrifying, the human mind can’t begin to comprehend it.”

  “Piers Morgan’s boudoir?”

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing.”

  I pull away from the junction, shaking my head. How anyone can keep up this pretence is beyond me, but Clement appears to truly believe he’s on some sort of celestial quest. I guess it’s just a matter of time before he slips up. Maybe I’ll help.

  “What’s the relevance of the fourteen-year period?” I ask.

  “Eh?”

  “You said you died in 1975, and then came back in 1989 and 2003, and it’s now 2017. Fourteen years between each date.”

  “In the bible, the number fourteen represents salvation,” he replies matter-of-factly.

  Christ, he’s good.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I. As I say, shit just pops into my head.”

  We continue the final mile of the journey home in silence, Clement staring out of the window at the dark scenery.

  I pull into my street and find a space towards the far end. Every shred of my being is screaming at me to ditch my deluded companion. Two things are stopping me.

  Firstly, I simply cannot explain how Clement got into the shop.

  Secondly, and for the first time in days, the feeling of vulnerability has eased slightly. It’s illogical, considering I’m currently sitting in a car with a man who could probably kill me with his bare hands, but his demeanour doesn’t suggest he will.

  It’s not a matter of trust, more gut instinct.

  “Right, Clement. If you’re going to step foot in my house, there are conditions.”

  “Go on.”

  “Number one. If I feel uncomfortable and ask you to leave, you go.”

  “Not sure where I’ll go, but fair enough.”

  “Number two. Can you please stop calling me doll?”

  He puffs out his cheeks. “Can’t promise that.”

  I close my eyes and use the silence to get my thoughts in some sort of order. It’s a futile task. I exhale a deep breath and turn to face Clement.

  “Can you at least promise not to murder me?”

  “Give it up, doll. I ain’t gonna murder you. If that’s what I wanted, you’d be dead already.”

  He makes a valid argument.

  “I must be insane, but come on then.”

  We clamber out of the car and Clement joins me on the pavement. He pauses for a moment, looking up and down the street.

  “Those clowns back at the shop. Do they know where you live?”

  “They were parked on the street earlier.”

  “Right. Walk on my left, doll.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my job to be paranoid. Anyone jumping out of a car will have to pass me to get to you.”

  I don’t question him and stand to his left. We walk down the dark street in silence, Clement vigilantly scanning every parked car we pass.

  We arrive at my house and I unlock the front door. I’m about to enter when Clement puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Wait.”

  He slides past me and barges through the door into the dark hallway.

  “What are you doing?” I sigh.

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  I shake my head and follow him in.

  I switch the lights on and Clement follows me through to the kitchen. Without waiting for an invitation, he takes a seat at the table.

  “Got any beer?”

  I’m about to scold his poor manners when I remind myself that he did come to my rescue. It would be churlish not to at least offer him a beer.

  The good host in me opens the fridge and extracts a can of Karl’s lager. I don’t think he’ll be coming back for it. I pass it to Clement.

  “Cheers, doll.”

  He cracks the can open and takes a long slug. He then fiddles with the breast pocket of his denim waistcoat and pulls out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes.

  He flips it open and holds it towards me. “Smoke?”

  “No, thank you. And I’d rather you didn’t smoke in the house.”

  “Where then?”

  I unlock the back door and hold it open.

  “You can stand on the patio.”

  He reluctantly clambers to his feet and shuffles outside, lighting his cigarette with a Zippo lighter on the way. He stops a few yards beyond the back door as I lean against the frame. He flicks his wrist, closing the lid shut on the Zippo before dropping it back into his pocket.

  “Those things will kill you,” I remark.

  He takes a drag and slowly exhales. “You can’t kill a bloke who’s already dead.”

  I don’t contest his statement.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke drifts across the patio, sparking a hundred memories. Like many men of his generation, my dad was a smoker. Most people hate the smell of cigarette smoke but I find it strangely comforting, in short doses. I even smoked myself throughout college and university — a futile attempt to fit in. When I left, there was no need to fit in, and even less reason to continue smoking.

  “So, doll. You gonna tell me why I’m here?”

  “Because I don’t want the house stinking of cigarettes for days.”

  “Fuck me gently,” he mumbles. “No. I mean, why I’m here, as, in your life?”

  “Oh, right. It’s too cold standing here. Come back in and I’ll give you the highlights.”

  Clement takes another deep drag and drops the butt to the ground. A huge Chelsea Boot stamps it out.

  He follows me back into the kitchen and we sit at the table.

  I put my head in my hands and try to work out why I’m about to offload to this stranger, and where to even begin.

  Once I start, it pours out. I didn’t realise just how much I needed to vent, to offload.

  Clement sits and listens patiently, occasionally nodding or offering a murmured response, but otherwise silent.

  I rant on for almost ten minutes, explaining every detail of the events since Karl disappeared on Monday. The whole exercise is exhausting, b
ut almost therapeutic.

  “…and that’s why I was at the shop tonight,” I sigh, concluding my diatribe.

  He sits back in his chair and takes another gulp of lager.

  “Seems there’s an obvious solution here, doll.”

  “Care to share it with me because I can’t see one.”

  “I pay this Sterling fella a visit, and beat the shit out of him.”

  “Nice idea, but this guy is apparently well connected, and a nasty piece of work. Rumour has it he used to be some big noise in gangland London, during the sixties.”

  “I was born and bred in North London, and I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I think he was from the East End.”

  “London’s a big place. Maybe he was a name, but not one I’ve ever come across.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think that’s a viable solution.”

  “Why not?”

  I can’t believe I’m about to say what I’m about to say.

  “Look, Clement. Let’s just say for one moment, I’m prepared to indulge this fantasy of yours. Firstly, I don’t think beating up a pensioner would help your quest to make penance. And secondly, unless you’re planning on hanging around for the rest of my life, God forbid, what happens when you leave? I’ll be the one who receives any retribution.”

  He slowly strokes his moustache; something he appears to do when he’s thinking, or maybe it helps him think.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Can’t afford for this to go pear-shaped.”

  “So? Any other bright ideas?”

  “Nah. That was basically all I had.”

  “Brilliant. I’m going to bed. Close the door on your way out.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “For somebody who has apparently been sent to help me, you’re not bringing much to the table.”

  “I’ll come up with something, doll. I just need a bit of time to think. I’m a fixer, and I can fix this.”

  He looks across at me, his expression earnest. “I’ll kip on the sofa. And I’ll keep an eye out in case those blokes come back.”

  I have a dilemma. If I kick him out I won’t have to worry about being murdered in my sleep, but I’ll still have Messrs Black & Blue to worry about.