Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  She looks at me, expectant, innocent — a face that would fool anyone.

  I weigh up my options and accept they’re limited. Reluctantly, I return to the bench and slump down.

  “You’ve got two minutes.”

  She shifts her position, twisting to the right so she can look me in the eye.

  “Your father abandoned my mother, and he abandoned me.”

  “I know, and I can’t excuse his behaviour, but that doesn’t come close to justifying your actions.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “For crying out loud, Gabby — you tricked me into sleeping with you. We can talk about my father’s negligence…”

  “Our father’s negligence,” she interjects, correcting me.

  “Either way, what you’ve done is beyond the pale. There is no justification.”

  For once, there is no immediate rebuttal as she turns away and stares off into the distance. Seconds pass before she speaks again.

  “What was your childhood like, William?”

  “What?”

  “Simple enough question. What was it like attending those expensive private schools, living in that huge house, with money no object for the spoilt little rich kid?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I protest.

  “Wasn’t it? Sure looks like it from what I’ve read about your family.”

  “I was an only child. I was lonely.”

  “Aww, poor William,” she mocks. “Must have been awful.”

  “It was.”

  “Fuck you,” she barks. My throwaway response appears to have struck a nerve and her tone becomes aggressive.

  “You want to know how I grew up? How we moved from one grotty flat to another, from shitty school to shitty school? How I was picked on for wearing charity shop clothes, and how many times I went to bed on an empty stomach?”

  “But, the letter — I thought my father provided financial support?”

  “Yeah, right. Like politicians never lie. If he did pay my mother anything, it wasn’t anywhere near enough.”

  I suspect I’ve just uncovered the root of her anger. Her actions have been deplorable but her motives appear genuine. If I were in her shoes, having grown up in poverty while her half-brother enjoys all the trappings of wealth, I suspect I’d be equally bitter.

  “So this is about revenge is it? Seeing what I’m prepared to give you as penance for my father’s behaviour?”

  A snort builds into maniacal laughter. Then, just as quickly as it started, it ends.

  “Oh, William,” she sighs. “You really are a dim-witted idiot.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “This was never about what you’re willing to give me; it’s about what I can take.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going to take Hansworth Hall and your flat, but that’s just about money. Now, if you’d played ball in the first place, I might have been happy with that, but you chose to do what all rich people do and shirk your moral responsibilities. So now I don’t just want the properties; I want to take everything your father took from us: our pride, our self-respect, and our dignity.”

  There doesn’t appear to be much room for negotiation.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “My story would be worth a fortune to the newspapers. I’ll sell it and you’ll go to prison.”

  It’s my turn to snort laughter. “Prison? I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t you? I think you’ll find incest is illegal, and my understanding is that you can serve up to two years if found guilty.”

  “Good luck with that,” I sneer. “You’d have to prove I knew who you were.”

  “Yes, William, you’re right. But as you were yelling my name while you screwed me, I don’t think a jury will need much more evidence than that.”

  Another part of her trap I'd walked straight into.

  She leans towards me, close enough I can see the hatred in her eyes.

  “I planned this down to the finest detail, William, and I guarantee there are only two choices open to you: I take your properties and leave you to wallow in shame for the rest of your days, or I sell my story to the papers and you go to prison. If you choose that option, I’ll then go through the courts to get my fair share of your father’s inheritance and you’ll still spend the rest of your days living in shame, only it’ll be far, far worse because everyone will know exactly what you did.”

  The end game has been reached — she has me completely cornered. If it were not for the fact my life is about to be destroyed, I might admire her cunning. Now all I can do is try to appeal to her better nature. I’m not hopeful.

  “Look, Gabby, I understand you’re angry and you have every right to be, but can’t we find another way through this?”

  “Another way?”

  “I’m happy to give you the flat in Blackfriars because, believe it or not, the money is not important to me. Can we then not try and forge some sort of relationship? Maybe, in time, I can prove I’m a better man than my father and I can repair the damage he caused.”

  “You want to give me the flat?”

  “Willingly.”

  “And then play happy families?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  Her ensuing laughter does not bode well.

  “You’re priceless,” she chuckles. “Deluded, put priceless. I want nothing to do with you, other than to see you suffer. And I certainly don’t want a constant reminder of what happened in that hotel room. It makes my skin crawl even thinking about it.”

  My humiliation is complete. Nothing else left but to beg.

  “Gabby, please…”

  “You’re wasting your breath and my time,” she snaps, her smile long gone. “You know my terms and they’re non-negotiable. I want both properties signed over to me within seven days.”

  “Seven days? How the hell am I supposed to do that? It’s not like selling a bloody car you know.”

  “I’m sure you must know a friendly solicitor. Just get it done.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  She stands up and hands me a slip of paper. “Those are my solicitor’s details. I’m not bluffing, William. I’ve already spoken to an editor of a national newspaper and given him the gist of my story — he’s desperate to know names and willing to pay big bucks for an exclusive. If those properties aren’t in my possession by Friday of next week, you’ll be front page news on Saturday, but not before I’ve given a statement to the police about how you tricked me into an incestuous relationship.”

  Just before she turns to walk away, her coup de grâce is delivered.

  “Your turn to be badly fucked…brother.”

  16.

  Time passes by as I sit and stare into space. I’m only torn from my malaise when an elderly man passes and remarks what a lovely afternoon it is. I may have told him to fuck off — I can’t recall. Like a man jilted at the altar, my thoughts are torn between the immediate humiliation and the impending fallout. Unlike a man jilted at the altar, the evil bitch in my life is coming back — in just seven days.

  During my decade in politics, many times I have stood by and watched some poor unfortunate colleague manipulated into a corner. Intelligent men and women, deftly turned in any direction the party so chooses, typically without said individual realising until it’s too late. By comparison, Gabby’s conniving makes the Chief Whip look like a rank amateur. I have been royally stitched up.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. My father fought his way to the top table in politics through fair means and foul. Now I can see Gabby is her father’s daughter alright. Devious genes, for sure, but Gabby has plumbed the depths of absolute depravity to get what she wants. She stands alone.

  My assessment might be complete but no solutions are forthcoming. I fear there are no solutions. A quick search on my phone confirms my worst fears — I have broken the law and that particular infringement carries a two-year sentence. Even
if I thought I could handle prison, which I most certainly don’t, conviction for such a deplorable crime would consign me to a lifetime of abject shame. I would be a social pariah, but worse; a social pariah with little prospect of employment or forging a meaningful relationship. Friends and colleagues would shun me, and my crime would follow me around for the rest of my days. I would be forever defined as that politician who knowingly had sex with his own sister.

  To use Clement’s term, Gabby might be a wrong’un, but she is right in that I only have two choices; one of which simply isn’t worthy of consideration.

  As it stands, there is no bluff I can play, no ace up my sleeve, and no hope of walking away from the table. Beyond those facts, the only other conclusions I can draw are that I can’t face the prospect of going back to work, and I desperately need a stiff drink.

  I call Rosa and tell her I’m not feeling well, and to cancel all my appointments for the afternoon. I doubt anyone will really miss me. Despite her obvious concern for my wellbeing, I reassure her I’m probably just suffering one of those twenty-four-hour bugs and I’ll be back at work on Monday.

  With Rosa dealt with, my attention turns to that stiff drink and I make my way on foot towards Blackfriars. I can’t risk another wave of nausea descending upon me whilst stood in a packed tube carriage. There is only so much humiliation one man can stand.

  I traipse through the streets of London in a near-catatonic daze. Horns blaze and cyclists hurl expletives as I cross roads with no consideration to my personal safety. While I have no wish to end my life, that doesn’t mean I would be sorry if it happened; not that anyone can rue their decisions while lying cold on a mortuary slab. I could argue that in some way my life is already over, and my continued existence will be worse than an eternity of feeling nothing. A fate worse than death or actual death — a dilemma only alcohol can resolve.

  Thankfully or otherwise, I make it to Furnival Street in one piece. I rarely ever visit Fitzgerald’s during the day but today is an exception due to exceptional circumstances. Besides a few suited office workers having lunch, and Stephen the ever-present barfly, the place is quiet.

  “Hello, William,” Frank beams. “What brings you here of an afternoon?”

  “Brandy. Doubles thereof.”

  “Oh, one of those days is it?”

  “It’s the day, Frank. The absolute worst.”

  It must be a skill honed over decades but Frank seems to know precisely when to chat and when to shut up. He hands my drink over and confirms I’ll be needing a tab this afternoon. Oblivion beckons.

  The brandy doesn’t touch the sides and sixty seconds after ordering the first, my second drink is placed on the bar. I quickly down that too, and on a now-empty stomach, it doesn’t take long for the fuzzy hue of tipsiness to arrive. At this rate I’ll be legless within the hour or, God forbid, engaged in conversation with Stephen. I order a single and consume it with a little less vigour.

  As I sip away, a voice booms from behind me. “Pint, Frank.”

  I turn to find Clement ambling up to the bar.

  “Alright, Bill.”

  “Clement.”

  As Frank pulls Clement’s pint, I ask him to put it on my tab. I still owe him a drink in return for the one he bought me on Tuesday. I might not have a great memory but I never forget a debt, especially when owed to a man of Clement’s imposing stature.

  “Good of you, Bill. Ta.”

  Frank disappears into the kitchen and the three of us are left stood at the bar: me, Stephen, and Clement. I’d rather not engage in any conversation but if I don’t, the choice will be removed and I risk enduring Stephen’s drunken nonsense for the duration of my stay.

  As it transpires, it is Clement who engages first.

  “How did it go then, with the letter and that woman?” he asks.

  “Not well.”

  “Shit. I thought you had it covered.”

  “So did I, but I may have grossly underestimated her deviancy.”

  “Well, my offer still stands.”

  “Your offer?”

  “Yeah. I said I’d help if you need it.”

  “Ah, yes. I don’t suppose you know a reliable hitman?”

  “Probably, but surely things ain’t that bad?”

  “Worse, and for the record, I was joking.”

  I’m ashamed to say that my thoughts do then turn to murdering Gabby, but are quickly dismissed. I could never take another life, and even if I were to pay somebody to take Gabby out, I’m sure she’s got a contingency plan in place that would reveal my secret regardless. Rather than two years in prison, I could end up spending a few decades there.

  “You wanna grab a seat?” Clement asks.

  I don’t want to put any unnecessary distance between myself and the bar, but equally, I don’t want to offend the big man.

  “Erm, sure.”

  He leads me over to a table in the corner and we sit.

  “Come on then, what’s she done now?”

  Do I tell him? As much as it might be beneficial to share my woes, I don’t know this man from Adam.

  Detecting my hesitancy, he throws me a question. “Did Frank tell you what I used to do for a living?”

  “He mentioned something about security work.”

  “Yeah, sort of. I was a fixer.”

  “A fixer?”

  “People had problems and I helped fix them. Sometimes they were legit problems, but mostly not. I also did a bit of minding amongst other things.”

  “But now you’re an odd job man?”

  “Things change. Times change.”

  Beyond his tenuous qualifications, I am reluctant to get him involved, primarily because I don’t know why he’d want to get involved.

  “Forgive me for asking, Clement, but why would you offer to help me?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “You’d be surprised what I’m willing to believe.”

  He takes a long gulp of lager and stares off into the distance for a few seconds.

  “I’m a lost soul,” he eventually murmurs.

  I assume he means figuratively rather than literally.

  “Right. And how does helping me solve that?”

  “Let’s just say I owe a debt to society. I need to make penance.”

  Overlooking his vague answers, he does at least appear sincere. Nevertheless, I know there’s a world of difference between sincere words and sincere acts.

  “I’m not sure, Clement.”

  “Look, Bill. You’ve got a problem and all I’m offering to do is help fix it. If you reckon you can sort it yourself, why are you here in the middle of the day, getting pissed?”

  “I didn’t say I can fix it. Quite the opposite in fact.”

  “So why are you here? It ain’t gonna go away is it?”

  I sip my brandy, fully aware of my situation. “No. It isn’t.”

  “Exactly. Doing nothing mends nothing?”

  I almost choke. “What…what did you say?” I ask, almost in disbelief.

  “Doing nothing mends nothing.”

  Besides my father, I have never heard anyone quote that phrase.

  “Where did you hear that?” I ask.

  “Dunno,” he replies, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Stuff just floats in and out of my head.”

  If I did believe in such things, I could almost accept his random use of my father’s phrase as a sign. Poppycock obviously, but simply hearing those words does reinforce the absurdity of sitting here and doing nothing.

  I have reached the point of no return — I either put my trust in him or I don’t. I’m not sure sharing my tawdry secret with anyone is a good idea but in lieu of any actual good ideas, perhaps there’s some merit. I suppose if he were to double cross me, anything I tell him would be of little value without Gabby’s testimony. It comes down to a multi-million-pound gamble, albeit a gamble which I’m absolutely going to lose anyway.

  Truth be told, I can’t see any way out o
f my fix so the risk is minimal. However, I want his help to be proffered on my terms.

  “If, hypothetically, you were able to help me, I’d want to pay you.”

  “No need, Bill, apart from expenses.”

  “I absolutely insist. If I’m going to take advantage of your…expertise, I don’t want to be in your debt. Shall we say two hundred a day, plus a five-thousand-pound bonus if you get that damn woman to go away for good?”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “Whether you need it or not, I wouldn’t feel comfortable unless you were financially compensated for your time and trouble. It’s only fair, and the only way I’m willing to proceed.”

  He holds out a hand. “Fair, enough. Looks like you’ve got yourself a fixer.”

  I shake his hand and offer a silent prayer, to a God who doesn’t exist that I’ve made the right call.

  Then comes an uncomfortable discussion as I bring him up to speed on the week’s sorry events. I save the part about Gabby’s bombshell right until the last moment.

  “And she turned up in the park at lunchtime today.”

  “Right.”

  “And told me something.”

  “Go on.”

  I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair, and have to physically force the words out.

  “She told me… she’s my sister.”

  His face puckers as if he’s caught wind of a bad smell. “Fuck.”

  “Quite.”

  He repeatedly shakes his head. “Jesus, Bill. You knobbed your own sister?”

  “Well, yes, but she’s only my half-sister, and I didn’t know it at the time.”

  “I knew you politicians were into some dark shit, but that’s off the scale.”

  “Just to be perfectly clear, I didn’t know, so can we please not mention it again?”

  “Was she any good?”

  “Clement!”

  “Alright,” he says with a wink. “I won’t say another word.”

  “Good, and now you know pretty much all there is to know. The question is: what can I do to stop her?”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Where she works?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Hangs out?”

  “Um, no.”