Who Sent Clement? Page 14

  Here I am with no control, little to cling to, and putting my trust in something, or someone, almost as incomprehensible as gravity. Despite my fears, that tinge of adrenalin-fuelled excitement is lurking beneath the surface once more.

  I give an encouraging smile to the woman in the mirror, dry my hands, and return to the staffroom.

  “I think you’ve got post,” Clement mumbles without looking up from his book.

  “Sorry?”

  He looks up. “Postman just shoved some letters though the door. You still have post these days?”

  “Err, yes.”

  “Never know, doll, there might be a cheque from the pools company. All your problems solved.”

  I’m not sure anyone does the football pools these days, and I certainly don’t, so it’s unlikely. I traipse through to the shop.

  On first inspection, the pile of letters on the doormat looks like just another batch of junk mail. All except the plain white envelope with my name printed on the front, just like the one containing the photographic evidence of Karl’s dirty secret.

  I snatch the envelope up and tear it open.

  There are no photos, just a single piece of plain white paper containing a few lines of printed text…

  Dear Miss Baxter

  Just a courtesy reminder that you have five days before your debt is due for collection.

  Whilst writing, I understand you may have secured protection, and the gentleman in question assaulted my associates without provocation. They are both currently in hospital, undergoing treatment for their injuries. Suffice to say, they are keen to catch up with you on their discharge.

  I managed to convince my associates to stand down until your deadline on Thursday. However, I would stress that if you fail to settle the debt at the agreed date and time, I can no longer be responsible for the actions of my associates. They are very protective of their reputation, and therefore keen to put matters right.

  I trust that fact provides sufficient motivation for you to focus on finding the cash, and Mr Patterson.

  I look forward to seeing you on Thursday — D

  I read it three times, each time adding a different ingredient to a simmering pot of emotions: anger, fear, hatred. I’m so caught in my negative thoughts, I don’t notice Clement ambling up behind me.

  “Not a pools cheque then?” he says, startling me.

  I draw a calming breath and hand him the letter. He takes it in a pan-sized hand and scans the text.

  “Bin it,” he snorts.

  “But it’s evidence. If I have to involve the police, this could be crucial.”

  “You reckon Sterling’s dabs will be all over it? Don’t be naive — it’s not gonna help you.”

  Maybe he’s right. Why would Sterling be so careless with so much at stake?

  I scoop up the pile of mail from the doormat and place it under the counter, together with Sterling’s letter.

  “You wanna get going, doll?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The truth is, I don’t really want to go. I don’t really want any of this. The tinge of excitement I felt only five minutes ago has fizzled out. This is no great adventure — it’s a nightmarish hole I can’t climb out of, as Sterling’s letter has just reminded me.

  My only hope is an insane treasure hunt, concocted by a denim-clad whacko who thinks he’s been dead since the seventies.

  What I wouldn’t give to be wrapped in a comforting towel about now.

  16

  The train station is only a mile away, so I decide to leave the car parked outside the shop. I thought a walk in the autumn sunshine might help to clear my mind and bolster my flagging enthusiasm.

  It might have done, if I wasn’t accompanied by an inquisitive, part-shaven Yeti.

  Praying I don’t bump into anyone I know, I walk as quickly as I can through the town centre. Clement has no trouble keeping up, or firing questions every few minutes.

  “What’s Santander?”

  “It’s a bank. I think it’s used to be Abbey National.”

  “What’s Ann Summers?”

  “They sell lingerie and…um, marital aids.”

  “What’s Carphone Warehouse?”

  “They sell phones, like the one I used to take your photo.”

  Clement ponders this. “What’s it got to do with cars then? Don’t look much like a warehouse, either.”

  “I…err, don’t know.”

  By the time we reach the paved forecourt at the front of the train station, I’m questioning my own sanity as much as Clement’s.

  We pass the main entrance and I head towards an automated ticket machine.

  “Have you got any money, Clement?”

  “Nope.”

  “So I’m supposed to fund this expedition am I?”

  “You do realise I usually charge people for my help? There’s bugger all in this for me, so you can at least pay the expenses.”

  “How convenient your misogynistic principles don’t stretch to letting me, a mere chick, pay for everything.”

  “I have no idea what you’re on about, doll.”

  “Misogyny is…never mind,” I sigh.

  It’s senseless arguing with him, and I suppose he does have a point.

  With Clement looking over my shoulder, I stand in front of the ticket machine and prod at the screen to order two London travel cards.

  “What the hell does that thing do?” Clement asks as I slip my credit card into the slot.

  “It’s a ticket machine and most stations have them now. I guess they’re cheaper than staff.”

  “British Rail got rid of all their darkies then?”

  “British Rail doesn’t exist anymore, and what is a…”

  Oh. My. God.

  I spin around and scan the forecourt, praying nobody is close enough to have overheard Clement. Thankfully, there are only a handful of people milling around, and they’re loitering near the main entrance, thirty feet away.

  “For God’s sake, Clement,” I hiss. “You can’t say that word.”

  “What word?”

  “The dark word.”

  “Darkies?”

  “Clement!” I snap, glancing nervously over my shoulder. “Stop saying it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s highly offensive. It’s a horrible word.”

  I expected a defensive reaction but his expression is one of confusion.

  “When did that happen?”

  “When did what happen?”

  “When did that word become offensive? I had plenty of coloured mates and they never seemed bothered by it.”

  “And that’s another one. You can’t say coloured.”

  “Are you taking the piss?”

  “No, I’m not. Those words have very negative connotations and they’re considered racist.”

  He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.

  Praying he’ll keep any further racial remarks to himself, I grab the tickets from the machine and head towards the station entrance. Clement trudges along behind.

  We enter the main ticket hall and squeak across the polished floor towards the platform.

  “Here, you’ll need this,” I say, handing Clement one of the tickets.

  I slide my ticket into the automated barrier and the gates clatter open, allowing me to pass onto the platform. I take a dozen steps forward and turn, expecting to see Clement behind me. He’s still on the other side of the barrier.

  “What are you doing?” I call across to him.

  He stares at the barrier, and then at the ticket in his hand.

  “What the hell do I do with this?” he calls back.

  I traipse back to the barrier and point at the ticket slot. “Slide it in there, and grab it when it comes out of the top. The gates will open automatically.”

  Clement does as instructed, and the machine snatches his ticket. “Fuck me,” he yelps, snapping his hand away as if he’d been scalded.

  “Grab the ticket.
Grab the ticket,” I yell.

  He snatches the ticket and barges through the gates at the precise moment they begin to close. After some impromptu contortion, and colourful language, he passes through the barrier.

  A group of teenagers are on the other side, nudging one another and giggling at Clement’s antics. In fairness, there’s a lot to laugh at.

  Despite his street cred being in tatters, Clement appears otherwise unscathed after his ordeal.

  “Never thought I’d say it, but I preferred the British Rail system,” he grumbles.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or throw myself onto the track.

  Keen to avoid any further embarrassment, I lead Clement up to the far end of the platform where we’re as far away from the other passengers as possible.

  “Good timing. Our train will be here in three minutes.”

  He nods as he pulls the cigarette packet from his waistcoat pocket.

  “You can’t smoke here.”

  “Says who?”

  “It’s the law. It’s illegal to smoke in all public buildings.”

  “But we’re outside.”

  “I don’t make the laws, Clement. You can’t smoke here.”

  “What the hell has happened to the world?” he mumbles as the cigarette pack is returned to his pocket.

  We stand in silence as we wait for the train. I don’t know if Clement is sulking or if his default setting is moody, but I’m just grateful he’s stopped asking questions.

  Our train finally emerges from beyond a curve in the track, rattling towards us until it squeals to a halt alongside the platform.

  I move toward the end carriage, offering silent thanks it’s empty. Clement looms up beside me just as the automatic doors hiss open.

  “Neat,” he remarks.

  I ignore his comment and step into the carriage, taking a seat by the window. Clement joins me and collapses onto the seat opposite, his trunk-like legs stretched out into the aisle.

  “I’m guessing there isn’t a smoking carriage?”

  “You guess correctly.”

  I look at my watch. Fifty minutes before we reach Waterloo. Why do I get the feeling it’s going to be the longest fifty minutes of my life?

  The doors close with another hiss, much to Clement’s fascination.

  We settle into an almost comfortable silence. It lasts barely six minutes.

  “What do you call them?” he asks.

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, people who…aren’t white.”

  “Um, I think the correct term is people of colour.”

  “Not so different from the word I used.”

  “The latter one maybe, but that first word you used is definitely not acceptable.”

  Clement strokes his moustache and gazes out of the window.

  “I’m not a racist,” he eventually says.

  “I never said you were, Clement. Those words are racist though.”

  “Are they?” he says, still gazing out of the window.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Not the racism I knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns to face me. “I used to know this black fella, Felix Tomblin. A decent bloke was Felix.”

  He waits for my reaction to the word black. I don’t correct him.

  “He came over with his family in the early sixties, from Jamaica,” he continues. “Loads of families came over from that part of the world, looking for work and a better life, I suppose. Anyway, there was Felix, his parents, and his kid sister, Lorna. They lived in a crappy terraced house, a few streets from my local — that’s where I first met him. The whole area was a right shit-hole back then. Christ knows why they wanted to live there, but they seemed happy enough. Good people they were.”

  Fearing Clement is about to regale me with another tale involving bolt cutters, I try to feign a lack of interest. He doesn’t notice.

  “People didn’t take too kindly to Felix and his family living in a white area. They used to get spat at in the street, dog shit shoved through their letterbox, and they lost count of how many times poor Lorna came home from school with cuts and bruises. In the end, Felix took up boxing so he could defend his family. He took plenty of kickings over the years, but eventually dished out a fair few too.”

  I’m genuinely appalled.

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Nah. That’s racism. Hatred of another man just because his skin is a different colour. For me, those fuckers who tormented the Tomblins are right up there with the nonces.”

  Clement shifts his legs and leans towards me.

  “You see, doll, I’m no racist.”

  I slowly nod as Clement maintains eye contact over the top of his sunglasses.

  Even if I felt like arguing the point, which I don’t think I’m qualified to do, Clement’s tale has left me a little fazed. He paints a vivid picture of a past I never knew. So much so, it feels credible. Some of the greatest authors I’ve read have that same skill; the ability to drag you away from reality and seamlessly drop you into an unreal world.

  “And if you want references, I’ve shagged a fair few black chicks over the years,” he adds, his casual sexism destroying my admiration in a heartbeat.

  “Thanks, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  The train slows as it approaches a station. I turn my gaze to the rear gardens of the houses sidled up to the track. I’m minded of the novel, The Girl on the Train. The girl on this train would probably swap a life of mild alcoholism and obsessive jealousy for my current one. I’d certainly settle for even a sliver of the author’s success.

  As the train slows to stop, I keep my fingers crossed that nobody ventures into our carriage. I don’t know how long Clement will remain silent, or what will come out of his mouth next.

  Nobody joins us, and a minute later we’re on our way again.

  As the train reaches speed, Clement continues with the questions. “How old are you, doll?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “I’m thirty six.”

  “You never married? No kids?”

  “No, and no.”

  This is a line of conversation I definitely don’t want to pursue. I turn Clement’s question back on him.

  “How old are you?”

  “Roughly?”

  “Most people tend to know precisely how old they are. We have these things called birthdays every year to remind us.”

  “Don’t know what date I was born. I can tell you the month, and the year. Not the date though.”

  “How can you not know your own birthday?”

  “Because my mother dumped me outside The Royal Free Hospital in Holloway, some point after I was born. Dunno if she did that the day I was born, or days, or weeks later.”

  I offer a sympathetic smile but there’s not much I can say in response.

  “But as you asked,” he adds. “I was born in November, 1935. You do the maths.”

  “Right. I must say, you’re in good shape for a man in his early eighties.”

  “Yeah,” he huffs. “But not such good shape for a man in his early forties.”

  Drop this line of conversation, Beth.

  We both stare out of the window.

  As we get nearer to London, the open fields and thickets of woodland have been replaced with an urban sprawl of tightly packed houses and industrial buildings. Concrete tower blocks loom in the distance; the ugly sisters of the modern, glass-clad buildings occupying the same horizon. As vistas go, it’s as depressing as it is enticing.

  I turn back to Clement.

  “Don’t you think it’s time you shared a few more details about this plan of yours?”

  “Probably,” he replies wistfully, still staring out of the window.

  “Clement?”

  He snaps out of his malaise and with no explanation, gets to his feet. He then strides down the carriage, glancing left and right at each set of seats as he passes.
When he reaches the end, he turns around, and returns to his seat.

  “What on earth was that in aid of?” I ask, bemused.

  “Just checking there was nobody earwigging. Don’t want anyone getting the jump on us.”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “Right. Where to start?”

  He drums his fingers on the window while staring at his feet.

  “Clement.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  Despite the fact the carriage is empty, he leans forward and talks in a low voice.

  “One evening, back in ‘75, I’d just finished a job and decided to have a pint. I happened to be in Camden; Harry Cole’s patch, although I didn’t give that any thought when I strolled into this boozer. Anyway, I was standing at the bar, just minding my own business, when this old timer wanders up and orders a drink. As you do, we got chatting and Harry’s name came up. Turns out that pub used to be his local, before he, you know, snuffed it.”

  “Why would some random old man bring up Harry’s name?”

  “Cos’ by that point, Harry and his missing gold had become local folklore. Everyone knew about it, and half of London had looked for it. There were all sorts of crazy theories about what he’d done with it. Over time, people gave up looking but the theories kept coming. Four years after Harry carked it, Cole’s gold had become a…what’s the term?”

  “An urban legend?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “So, I’m guessing you have a theory of your own?”

  “I do, and I reckon mine is sound.”

  “Go on.”

  “This old fella in the pub used to play dominoes with Harry. I don’t think they were best mates or anything, but he knew Harry well enough to attend his funeral. He was wittering on about it, and I was half listening, but mainly wishing he’d just piss off. I was just about to down my pint and leave when he starts going on about how lovely the church bells were.”

  “Church bells? At a funeral?”

  “Yeah, and not just a single bell, but the full works, like at a wedding.”

  “How odd.”

  “That’s what I thought. I mentioned it to the old fella and apparently, Harry was into bell-ringing.”