Who Sent Clement? Page 12

  “I think I should call the police and report what happened this evening.”

  “Yeah, you could do that, but what do you think they’ll do?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll tell you, doll. They’ll do bugger all. The might send a plod round tomorrow morning, and they might take a statement. Beyond that, you’re on your own.”

  He makes a good point. And Sterling made it clear what would happen if I involve the police.

  I hate to admit it, but I guess Clement is the lesser of two evils.

  “Okay. I’ll get you a duvet.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Don’t call me…oh, never mind, I’m too tired. Wait here.”

  I traipse upstairs and pull the duvet from the spare bed. I drag it down to the lounge and deposit it on the sofa. I call Clement in.

  “The rules are simple. You stay in here unless you hear anything that needs investigating. You do not come upstairs under any circumstances. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “I mean it, Clement. If I hear as much as a squeak on the stairs, I’ll call the police.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket and open the camera app. As Clement looks on, I take a quick snap of his confused face.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Just taking your photo, for potential evidence. It’ll give the police something to go on.”

  “Jesus, doll,” he groans. “I get it, alright. You don’t trust me.”

  He appears genuinely offended by my paranoia. I feel just a little awkward.

  “Erm, do you need the bathroom.”

  “Bit late for a bath.”

  “I mean, do you need to go the toilet?”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  His eyes drift around the room before his attention is drawn to the television.

  “Is that a TV?”

  “Yes, Clement, it’s a TV,” I reply wearily.

  “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Eh? That’s it, all of it.”

  “Cool. What time does it start?” he asks.

  “What do you mean, start?”

  He looks down at me as if I’m the one asking stupid questions.

  “What time do the channels begin broadcasting?”

  “There is no time. There’s always something on.”

  “Even now, at this time of night?”

  “Yes, Clement.”

  “Can I watch it?”

  Why does it feel like I’m dealing with an eighteen-stone child?

  “Whatever.”

  I grab the remote control and switch the television on. Clement lowers himself onto the sofa, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

  I pass the remote control to him. “Press this button to change channel up or down.”

  “How many channels are there?”

  “I don’t know. Over a hundred, I guess.”

  “No way,” he replies incredulously. “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Goodnight, Clement.”

  “Yeah. Night, doll,” he replies dismissively, without shifting his attention from the screen.

  Whether he’s an errant saviour or suffering from a mental illness, he definitely has the attention span of every man I’ve ever known.

  I close the lounge door and plod up the stairs to my bedroom. I stand at the foot of the bed for a moment. Am I being overly paranoid, or am I being stupidly naive? Surely it’s better to be the former?

  I put my pyjamas on, grab the duvet and pillows, and drag them to the bathroom.

  The bathroom door is the only one in the house with a lock. It also has a window which offers an escape route on to the flat roof of the kitchen below.

  I fold the duvet in half, lay it in the bath, and position the pillows at one end. I quickly brush my teeth and climb into my makeshift bed, my mobile phone tucked under the pillow. It’s actually quite cosy, and more comfortable than I thought it would be.

  Even a raucous chorus of concerned voices can’t prevent me falling asleep within minutes.

  14

  Sunlight creeps above the window sill and spills into the bathroom.

  It wasn’t responsible for my abrupt awakening. No, that was due to a series of desperate thumps on the bathroom door.

  “Doll! Doll! Let me in!”

  I open my eyes to confusion. Why am I in the bath? Who’s banging at the door?

  One by one, memories fall into line. Panic quickly follows.

  I clamber out of the bath and stumble towards the door. It takes a few seconds to force the stiff lock. I frantically pull the door open.

  “Bloody hell, doll,” Clement shrieks as he barges past me.

  Is the house on fire? Are Messrs Black & Blue trying to break in? I’m still half-asleep and struggling to comprehend what’s going on.

  Clement, sporting nothing more than a pair of purple underpants and black socks, charges across the bathroom to the toilet.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he groans, as he empties his bladder.

  Seconds pass and his flow continues, like a hosepipe being emptied into a bucket.

  “You could have told me there wasn’t a lav downstairs.”

  On and on it goes.

  “And I didn’t think you’d want me to piss in the kitchen sink.”

  It finally ends. He shakes himself, breaks wind and turns to face me.

  “Sorry,” he says with a broad grin. He doesn’t look sorry.

  I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t murder me during the night. Saying that, the foul stench wafting across the bathroom has enough potency to kill.

  I clamp my hand across my face. “You’re disgusting,” I mumble.

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asks.

  I shake my head and beat a hasty retreat to my bedroom.

  As I throw some clothes on, I hear Clement clumping back down the stairs. I return to the bathroom, flush the chain, and empty half a can of air freshener. I brush my teeth and attend to my own bodily functions, all the while wondering what possessed me to let Clement into my home.

  I put it down to tiredness impairing my judgement.

  A voice bellows up the stairs. “You coming down, doll? I could murder a brew.”

  Why me, God? Why me?

  I count to ten and trudge down the stairs.

  Clement is sitting at the kitchen table. Thankfully, he’s now fully dressed.

  “Alright?”

  “I’ve had better mornings.”

  I put the kettle on and pull a box of granola out of the cupboard.

  “What’s that?”

  “This, Clement, is breakfast,” I reply as I place the box on the table.

  He eyes it suspiciously. “Yeah, I think I’d rather have a bacon sarnie, if it’s all the same with you.”

  “I don’t have any bacon…”

  My phone chimes the arrival of a text message.

  “What was that noise?” Clement asks.

  “Just my phone.”

  I pluck it from my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s just a balance update from my bank.

  “I thought you said that thing was a camera?”

  I assume he’s being sarcastic. The look on his face suggests he isn’t.

  “You don’t have a smart phone?”

  “A what?”

  “Good grief, Clement. Have you been living under a rock?”

  “I told you where I’ve been. Still don’t believe me, do you?”

  I don’t answer him.

  The kettle boils and I pour two mugs of tea. As I stir in Clement’s three teaspoons of sugar, he presses me for an answer.

  “Well?”

  I place the mugs on the table and lower myself down on to a chair, keeping my gaze fixed on the big man. In the cold light of day, his delusional claims have morphed from ridiculous to irritating. While I was getting dressed, I considered the two questions I couldn’t answer last night.

  How did he get into a locked shop? It’s obvious with th
e benefit of a clear head — he could have already been in there before I arrived. He could have picked the lock and hidden himself away in the stockroom.

  How did he know my middle name was Dusty? It wouldn’t be too tricky for somebody to get a copy of my birth certificate.

  There is, however, still one question I can’t answer — why he would bother?

  Perhaps if I can find a few holes in his ridiculous claim, he might relent and come clean. Whatever his agenda is, I’d rather know the truth.

  “I’m sorry, Clement, but I don’t buy any of this. I don’t believe you’re here to make penance and I don’t believe you died in 1975.”

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  I refer back to my phone and open the web browser.

  “Who was Prime Minister?” I ask.

  “Harold Wilson,” he answers without hesitation.

  I google the question. He’s correct. Another search pulls up a list of events from 1975.

  “There was a major crash on the tube. It killed 43 people. Which station?”

  “Yeah, that was bad. Moorgate.”

  “Which Monty Python film was released?”

  “The Holy Grail.”

  “There was a referendum. What was it for?”

  “Something to do with joining the European Economic Community, I think.”

  Right on all three. Bugger.

  “How did that whole European Community thing pan out in the end?” he asks.

  “Err, don’t ask.”

  I drop my eyes back to the list and fire another question.

  “Which hotel in London was bombed by the IRA?”

  “The Hilton.”

  I drop the phone on the table. His answers don’t prove anything, other than his delusion is fairly deep rooted.

  We sit in silence for a long minute, Clement sipping his tea as if this is just a run-of-the-mill Saturday morning. I don’t have the first clue what to say.

  “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’m bullshitting you,” he eventually says. “What have you got to lose by letting me help you?”

  A good question to which I don’t have an answer.

  “Well, nothing, I suppose.”

  “And do you think I’m gonna hurt you in any way?”

  “I guess not.”

  He puts his mug down and sits forward, resting his elbows on the table.

  “I get it, doll. Trust is a bit like money. It has to be earned, and only an idiot gives it away freely.”

  “And your point is?”

  “You don’t have to trust me; you just have to believe I can help you. Doesn’t really matter if you think all the stuff about my previous life is bullshit as long as I do what I came here to do. I have to help you, doll.”

  For the first time this morning, I notice he’s not wearing his blue-tinted sunglasses. The eyes that were hidden yesterday are as blue as those sunglasses. What is it they say? The eyes are the window to the soul? Clement’s eyes offer a window to a broken mind; a deluded, broken mind. Whatever is going on in his head, I’m struggling not to feel anything other than sympathy.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”

  “Fab,” he replies with a grin.

  “So, do you have any ideas?”

  “Think so. Assuming I can’t simply beat the shit out of this Sterling fella, the only option is to get his money. Correct?”

  I nod.

  “In which case, we just need to get our hands on twenty grand in the next five days. Correct?”

  I nod again, fighting the urge not to roll my eyes.

  “And to do that, we need to take a trip.”

  “Where?”

  “London. How far is it from here?”

  “About fifty minutes on the train.”

  “That’s that sorted then. Ready when you are.”

  He plucks his sunglasses from a pocket and puts them on.

  “What? I can’t go gallivanting around London at the drop of a hat.”

  “Why not?”

  “Firstly, I’ve got to pick my mother up from the hospital this morning, and secondly, I’ve got a shop to run.”

  “Time’s running out, doll. It’s up to you.”

  “Why do I have to come with you? Can’t you go on your own?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t work like that.”

  Here we go again.

  “Explain.”

  “If you’re not with me then I can’t protect you. If something bad happens, my final chance goes up in smoke.”

  “And they say chivalry is dead.”

  I sit back and sip my tea. I feel like I’m lost in a maze, with every exit bricked up. If I dismiss Clement’s impractical plan, my problem remains. And quite apart from my other commitments, do I want to go on a wild goose chase around London?

  An impractical plan or no plan. Which is it to be?

  “Why London?”

  “It’s my manor. And I think I know where we can get our hands on your twenty grand.”

  “You think?”

  “Nothing in life is certain, doll. Got any better suggestions?”

  My silence answers his question.

  “Alright, but I can’t just drop everything and jump on a train. I’ve got to pick my mother up, and if I’m going to close the shop, I need to put a notice in the window.”

  “Better get your arse in gear then.”

  “Don’t you want breakfast first?”

  He eyes up the box of granola. “Nah. Think I’ll pass.”

  I dash upstairs and take a quick shower. With my previous visits to London in mind, I scour my wardrobe looking for something practical to wear. I decide on a pair of stretch jeans, a lilac jumper, and a distressed-leather jacket. My choice of footwear is limited as I quickly discount anything with heels. I snatch a pair of Converse trainers from the floor of the wardrobe and slip them on.

  Twenty five minutes later, we’re back in the Fiat and heading to the shop. Clement continues his odd behaviour from last night’s journey, gawping at the passing scenery with obvious fascination.

  “What’s a Starbucks?” he asks.

  “It’s a coffee shop.”

  A minute passes.

  “What’s a Nando’s?”

  “It’s a chicken restaurant.”

  Another minute passes.

  “What’s a broadband?”

  “Eh?”

  “That bill poster we just passed. It said unlimited broadband for a tenner.”

  “Are you being serious?” I groan. “Broadband provides access to the Internet.”

  “What’s the Internet?”

  I no longer want to play his game and return a scowl. He correctly decides not to ask any more dumb questions and the rest of the journey passes in silence.

  We pull up behind the shop and Clement insists on going in first. Once he’s confirmed the coast is clear, I follow him in and head for the counter. I open Microsoft Word on the computer and create a poster to say the shop will be closed today, due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. Never a truer word has been printed.

  I stick the poster in the window and ring the hospital to see if I can collect my mother.

  After being pushed from pillar to post, I’m eventually put through to a nurse and she confirms Mum will be discharged in an hour or so. I tell the nurse to expect me.

  I return to the staffroom to find Clement lounging in a chair with his feet up on the table.

  “Right. I’ve got to go and collect my mother from the hospital and drop her home. I’ll probably be a couple of hours and then we can head to London.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you won’t. My mother might consider it a little odd I’ve brought a member of a Status Quo tribute band with me, don’t you think?”

  “But, doll…”

  “Clement, I’m only going to the hospital. I couldn’t be in a safer place. I’ll be fine.”

  He shakes his head but doesn’t offer any further protest.


  “Alright, your call. But what the hell am I supposed to do for the next two hours?”

  “Um, there’s plenty to read.”

  “Great,” he grunts.

  “And there’s tea and coffee in the cupboard, and biscuits if you get peckish.”

  “Any music?”

  I point to a radio on the side.

  “Feel free to change the channel. Do you need anything else?”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  I scribble my mobile number on a slip of paper and show Clement where the shop phone is located.

  “Emergencies only. Understood?”

  He nods and I double check he’ll be okay on his own.

  “Christ’s sake, doll. I’m not twelve.”

  I mumble an embarrassed apology and leave.

  The entire fifteen minute journey to the hospital is fraught with regret. I’ve just left a complete stranger alone in my shop. I try to ease my concern by reminding myself there is nothing worth stealing, and if Clement had any sinister intentions, he could have already acted upon them. Surely there’s far less risk leaving him in the shop than letting him into my home. And he did behave himself last night, I suppose.

  By the time I navigate my way through the hospital car park, my concern has rightfully switched towards my mother.

  With significantly less urgency than last night, I make my way past the reception area and back through the stairwells and corridors.

  As I push through a set of double doors, I’m greeted by the sight of an old woman in a wheelchair, being pushed by a porter. I hold the door open and let them pass. Judging by her frail body and wispy grey hair, the old woman must be well into her eighties. Her hollow eyes remain fixed on the corridor ahead, her expression suggesting she’s not heading anywhere she wants to go.

  I turn and watch them for a second as they continue their journey. It brings on a sudden shudder, knowing that woman might be my mother at some point in the not too distant future. It’s no way for anyone to spend their twilight years.

  An overriding need to hug my mum urges me on.

  I reach the ward to find a solitary nurse stationed behind the desk. She greets me with a tired smile.

  “Can I help?”

  “I called a little earlier. I’m here to collect my mother, Elizabeth Goodyear.”

  “Ah, yes. Your father arrived about ten minutes ago. He’s just helping her get ready.”

  “My father?”