Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  The dark, bitter coffee proves a fitting analogy for my mood. The anger has given way to brooding resentment, laced with something that feels too much like grief. I suppose it could be grief. Perhaps I’m subconsciously mourning the memory of the father I knew, rather than the one who, as it turns out, was a complete bastard. Or perhaps I’m mourning the lost years with my sibling. My brother, my sister — hidden away from me like the dirty secret they were.

  And in amongst everything, I now question my own life. My choice of career was not my career of choice, but a means to fulfil the wishes of a man no longer alive to see those wishes fulfilled. Through nothing other than a blind sense of duty, of obligation, I have given a decade of my life to a cause now tarnished, tainted.

  Knowing what I now know, my father’s shadow has grown longer, darker, and that poses a hypothetical question: given the chance, would I have preferred his secret to remain exactly that? I conclude I would not. The truth, however unpalatable, is the truth. And no matter how belated, perhaps I still have the opportunity to do something meaningful with it. I must step beyond the shadow.

  Caffeine provides a welcome boost to my morale and I accept there is nothing to be gained by wallowing in self-pity. It is not in my nature to simply sit and lick my wounds. If they are ever to heal, I need to administer a remedy. A second cup of coffee provides the impetus and as dawn arrives, I think I have something approaching a strategy in mind. As my father used to say, doing nothing mends nothing.

  I force down some breakfast and leave the flat just before eight o’clock.

  The short tube journey takes on a different perspective as I stare at strangers, knowing any one of them could be my sibling. Despite the statistical improbability, I find myself appraising each of my fellow commuters for physical similarities. I quickly accept I’m more likely to experience a punch in the face than a family reunion.

  The train arrives at Westminster and I disembark with the huddled masses. Despite the crush, I quickly weave through the crowds, keen to get to my desk.

  Fifteen minutes later my resolve encounters the first hurdle of the day, in the form of my computer. I vow to one day throw the damn thing off Westminster Bridge. If Bill Gates happens to be passing on a boat underneath, and it floors him, I’ll consider justice served.

  Eventually the computer splutters into life and I can finally enact the first part of my strategy — finding the one woman who can give me answers — Susan Davies.

  I start by searching on Facebook and it doesn’t take long to establish the magnitude of my task. My father could not have chosen a more commonly named woman to enjoy a dalliance with. My search for people with the name Susan Davies delivers hundreds upon hundreds of results. And with nothing other than her name and approximate age to go on, frustration quickly mounts. I give up and try Google, then Twitter. The same problem, the same frustration.

  I sit back in my chair and cuss.

  “Language, William.”

  I spin around to find Rosa in the process of hanging her coat up.

  “Sorry, Rosa. You didn’t hear that.”

  “Of course not,” she smiles. “Tea?”

  With Rosa on tea making duties, I stare into space, hoping for inspiration. With all the technology we have at our disposal in this day and age, it can’t be that hard to find somebody, surely?

  I then spot something in my in-tray which sparks a thought. I lean forward to closer inspect a reminder letter regarding Rosa’s probation period, which ends soon. However, it isn’t the content of the letter itself which triggers optimism; it’s the sender’s name: Judith Dixon.

  Judith is a freelance recruitment and human resources consultant; a role she’s held for almost four decades. Most people aren’t aware that every member of parliament is technically an employer, and we’re responsible for recruiting and managing our own staff. As most of us don’t have the first clue about recruitment or human resources, it’s quite common for us to use the services of consultants such as Judith. In my case, she ensures I follow all the correct procedures and contractual obligations that come with employing staff.

  And the very reason I use Judith’s service is because she also worked for my father. If I frame it correctly, I might well be able to call in a favour. I scribble down her name and email address.

  “Are you ready to go through the diary,” Rosa asks as she places a cup on my desk.

  “Sure.”

  Two minutes in, my plans are thwarted as Rosa reminds me I have to attend a select committee hearing at nine thirty. One of my female colleagues once remarked that select committee hearings were longer and more painful than childbirth. I can’t vouch for the latter but she was certainly right on the former. It’s the last thing I need today but there’s no getting out of it.

  I’m not known for my patience, and having already lost so many years, I’m desperate to speak with Susan Davies. I need to set my plan in motion before I leave.

  “Rosa, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Sure.”

  I hand her the slip of paper with Judith’s email address.

  “Can you email Judith Dixon and ask her a favour on my behalf. I need the last address she has on file for my father’s former PA, Susan Davies.”

  “Isn’t that information confidential?”

  “It would be if Susan Davies still worked for my father. Tell Judith I found some old photos of Susan amongst my father’s possessions that I’d like her to have. I’m sure she’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “Okay, I’ll get onto it.”

  “Make it a priority, please. I’d like that address by the time we break for lunch.”

  I feel a little guilty for my subterfuge but I think the end justifies the means. My father might have turned his back on Susan but I have no such intention now I know the truth.

  With Rosa confirming she’ll prioritise my request, we finish our planning for the day and I head to the committee room. I had hoped yesterday’s nonsense with the video might be forgotten but I’m greeted by a sudden silence. I’m really beyond caring and pay no attention, choosing instead to chat with a couple of my more mature colleagues. The whispers, the nudges, and the smirks soon peter out.

  The hearing doesn’t start well by virtue of the fact it doesn’t actually start. We’re forced to wait for the chairwoman who is apparently stuck in a taxi somewhere several miles west of Westminster.

  Half an hour passes before she finally appears and we can get going. Fortunately, the delay turns out to be a blessing as we rattle through proceedings at an unusually efficient pace. By late morning we’ve made sufficient progress to call the session to an end. On any other day I might have felt some sense of accomplishment with my morning’s work, but this is no ordinary day. For once, my own needs outweigh those of the nation.

  I arrive back in the office just after noon.

  “Did you get that address?” I ask Rosa.

  “I did. Susan Davies moved home after leaving her job here but Judith managed to get her current address from the pension records.”

  “Excellent. You’re an absolute star, Rosa.”

  She hands me a slip of paper as her cheeks flush pink; often the case when I compliment her work. The slip of paper reveals Susan’s address, and the fact it’s not exactly local.

  “She lives in Sandown?” I groan. “On the Isle of Wight?”

  “She does.”

  “I don’t suppose you happened to look for her phone number?”

  “I assumed you’d ask and I did check. I’m afraid she’s either ex-directory or doesn’t have a landline.”

  Not ideal, but considering the possibilities after more than thirty years, it’s as good a result as I could have hoped for.

  “Never mind. Thanks, Rosa.”

  I retreat to my desk and consider my next move. The lack of a phone number means I only have one option and that’s to pay Susan Davies a visit. Thankfully, I’m due back in my constituency tomorrow and there’s not a great deal i
n my diary I can’t postpone. I can get the train down to Portsmouth in the morning and hop on the ferry to the island. All being well, I could be in Sandown before lunch.

  “Rosa, can you reschedule whatever commitments I have for tomorrow, please?”

  “Sure.”

  With my plan set, it dawns on me I’m less than twenty-four hours away from an answer that could have huge implications. Beyond my brother or sister, I could have nieces and nephews — a whole family I never knew existed. Is it too much to hope?

  I shouldn’t get too carried away. And for now, I have more pressing matters to attend to; namely lunch.

  “I’m just popping out for a sandwich. I’ll be half an hour or so.”

  Rosa looks up from her screen and nods. For a second I consider asking her to join me but that nagging fear of rejection quickly puts pay to it. Maybe once I’ve dealt with Susan I’ll invite Rosa out for supper, under the pretence of celebrating the end of her probation period. We’ll see.

  I head to the sandwich shop for my usual order and then on to St James’s park. The mild weather is still holding out and the park is busier than one would expect for late October. I eventually locate an empty bench and sit down to eat.

  As I tuck into my sandwich, a chap walks past with a handsome chocolate Labrador. The dog catches scent of my sandwich and lollops over. Clearly an optimist, he sits down at my feet in anticipation of a lunchtime snack.

  “I’m so sorry,” the man says as he approaches. “He’s like a dustbin when it comes to food.”

  “It’s quite alright. Does he like chicken salad?”

  “Benson likes anything and everything,” he chuckles.

  I tear a small portion from my sandwich and offer it to Benson. He takes the food with surprising gentleness which I reward with a pat on the head. The man thanks me and calls his dog away. The two of them continue on their walk; Benson no doubt hoping to find other generous bench dwellers.

  I finish my sandwich while daydreaming of one day owning a dog myself. Perhaps when I give up my political career, if you can call it that, I might take a trip to the local pound and find my own Benson. Yes, I think I’d like that.

  I’m dragged from my thoughts as somebody joins me on the bench.

  “Afternoon, William.”

  The voice is so ingrained in my memory I don’t have to turn my head to know who it belongs to.

  “Has anyone ever told you, Gabby, you’re quite the proverbial bad smell?”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “Have you been following me?”

  “Not exactly hard, is it? You visit the same sandwich shop almost every day.”

  “What do you want?”

  She shuffles along the bench until only a foot separates us.

  “Your memory is terrible, William. Today’s the day we conclude our deal.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

  I’m so tired of her games I get straight to the point.

  “Do whatever you like. I really couldn’t care less.”

  “You don’t care about your father’s reputation, or the damage his dirty little secret will do to that reputation?”

  Clement’s words of wisdom float through my mind, fuelling my resolve. Even if she could find a newspaper willing to publish a story based on photocopied evidence, I will have already spoken to Susan Davies before Gabby’s claims ever make it to print. My only interest is in repairing my father’s mistakes, not burying them.

  “With fear of repeating myself, I don’t care.”

  She remains silent for several seconds; perhaps, I hope, because I’ve called her bluff. She then dips her hand into the inside pocket of her jacket and withdraws an envelope.

  “Take a look at what’s inside,” she says, offering it to me.

  I stare at the envelope but resist the urge to take it from her.

  She leans across and whispers. “We never got around to dessert so here you go. And trust me — it’s bittersweet.”

  Every part of me wants to get up and walk away but curiosity is a demanding maiden. I snatch the envelope from her hand and tear it open.

  The first thing I find is a grainy black and white photo of a sleeping infant; swathed in a blanket and lying in a Moses basket. The child can’t be more than a few months old I’d guess.

  “Who is this?” I snap.

  “It’s your little sister. Cute isn’t she…for a bastard child?”

  My anger dissolves in an instant as my focus returns to the photo. I wish I could say the child had some distinguishing feature to identify her as a Huxley, but to me, all babies look the same. Nevertheless, gazing at a photo of my tiny sister brings a lump to my throat.

  I turn to Gabby and attempt to keep my voice level. “Where did you get this?”

  “There’s something else in the envelope that will answer your question.”

  I prise it open and remove a piece of folded, cream-coloured paper. With my pulse quickening, I carefully open it.

  “A birth certificate?” I mumble to myself.

  “A copy of your sister’s birth certificate, to be precise.”

  I now know my sister’s name — Gabrielle Anne Davies. The certificate confirms her date of birth, putting her just over thirty years of age now. It further confirms her mother’s name as Susan Veronica Davies, and her father’s name as Charles Augustus Huxley.

  My arm falls to my lap as I try to take it all in. Suddenly, I have supporting evidence of not only my father’s infidelity, but the existence of his lovechild — my sister. What I don’t have is an explanation as to why this information will assist her blackmail plot.

  She clears her throat, seemingly about to answer that question.

  “Joined up the dots yet?” she asks.

  I turn to her, confused.

  “I…what?”

  “Let me give you a clue. What’s a shortened version of the name Gabrielle.”

  As her eyes lock onto mine, my mind flashes back to the moment we first met in the auditorium at the Montgomery Hotel. That spark of familiarity I couldn’t quite place is now a raging fire.

  No…no way…it can’t…

  “What’s the matter, William?” she coos. “I thought you’d be pleased to finally meet your little sister.”

  15.

  Like the punchline of a convoluted joke, my mind struggles to comprehend the seemingly obvious. In this case, there is no spontaneous laughter as the pieces fall into place. There is only shock. A shock so abhorrent it soon gives way to denial.

  “What? No…this is…you’re insane. How dare you say such a thing.”

  She rests her hand on my shoulder and calmly continues. “Let me just clarify the facts for you: Susan Davies is my mother, Charles Huxley was my father, and you, dear William, are therefore my brother.” Her smile widens. “Oh, and as I’m sure you recall, you were also briefly my lover.”

  Bile begins to burn at the back of my throat as my stomach heaves. I try to gulp air but the recently consumed sandwich and remnants of my breakfast are already making their return. I turn to the side a split second before an explosion of vomit escapes my mouth. Another wave of nausea quickly follows, and more retching. Only when there is nothing left in my stomach do the convulsions finally end.

  “You’re lying,” I spit between ragged breaths.

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a passport; flipping it open right in front of my face. The photo is unmistakably her and the name is there in clear black print — Gabrielle Anne Davies.

  “Satisfied?” she snipes before whipping the passport away.

  I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and dab my mouth before asking the only question I can muster.

  “Why?”

  “I thought I was very clear about my motives. I want Hansworth Hall and the flat.”

  “But why did you…what sort of sick mind…”

  “If you’re referring to our evening at the hotel,” sh
e interjects. “That was my insurance policy.”

  “Insurance policy? We had sex for God’s sake.”

  “I agree it was a bit nasty, but necessary. You could have avoided this unpleasantness if you’d been a good boy and buckled to my earlier threats. But you didn’t, so you’ve nobody to blame but yourself.”

  That picture of a happy family I had in my head is now in a hundred fractured pieces — smashed with the most depraved of hammers.

  Never in my life have I ever wanted to be further away from another human. I get to my feet and stumble away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you. I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.”

  “Sit down, William.”

  I ignore her.

  “I wouldn’t leave if I were you,” she calls after me. “Don’t you think my revelation puts a new slant on that video?”

  Her words are like a lasso. I stop dead in my tracks and slowly turn around.

  “What?”

  “A seedy video is one thing,” she adds. “But a video of you having sex with your sister is something else.”

  I glance around nervously, hoping nobody is within earshot. “Why would you tell anyone?” I hiss. “It’s your sordid secret as much as it is mine.”

  “The difference is, I didn’t know we were siblings. But you did, and you fucked me anyway, didn’t you, William?”

  “What? You lying piece of…”

  “Who are people going to believe? A politician, or a poor innocent girl with a sob story. Abandoned by her rich, cabinet minister father at birth, and humiliated by a deranged brother who clearly has relationship issues. Past forty and still a bachelor — that’s going to look bad. It’ll be front page news, for sure, and you can’t prove I knew a thing.”

  I have never intentionally inflicted pain on anyone, let alone a woman, but the compulsion to throttle Gabby is overwhelming. Tempting as it is, it won’t solve anything. If ever there was a time to be the diplomat, now is it.

  I swallow my rage and try a different angle. “Why are you doing this to me?”