Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

He lets out a long sigh and strokes his moustache a few times. Seconds tick by as I await a plan I fear isn’t going to come. After what feels like an age, he finally clears his throat and delivers his verdict.

  “You’re in deep shit, mate.”

  “That much I do know. Care to suggest how I get out of it?”

  “Well, it strikes me we ain’t gonna get anywhere trying to track her down. And if we can’t find her, we can’t have a cosy chat and point out the error of her ways.”

  I get the impression a chat with Clement would be anything but cosy.

  “So what do we do?”

  “I reckon the mother is the next best bet. She’s got the biggest axe to grind but ain’t caused a fuss in all these years. She’s probably forgiven your old man and might be able talk some sense into that loony daughter of hers.”

  It’s a sound point and I’m slightly miffed I never thought of it. Susan Davies is probably unaware of Gabby’s scheme, and assuming she’s not as demented as her daughter, she might be horrified enough to intervene.

  “That’s a good point. And as luck would have it, I have her mother’s address.”

  “Shall we head round there then?”

  “Hold on. Firstly, Gabby’s mother isn’t exactly local; she lives on the Isle of Wight. And secondly, don’t you think it’d be better if I saw her alone?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If she’s prepared to do anything. I know you politicians think you can charm the birds from the trees but sometimes it takes more than words.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting we give Susan Davies a good kicking.”

  “Nah, leave it out. I ain’t gonna hit any bird, let alone an old one. All I’m saying is that just the threat of things turning ugly can focus the mind.”

  “You mean threaten her? I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t want any part in that.”

  “I’m not saying I’ll threaten the old woman, Bill. We just need to sew a few seeds — I doubt she’ll want a bloke like me going after her daughter. We just need her to realise it’s a possibility if she doesn’t do something. She doesn’t know we ain’t got the first clue where this Gabby bird is.”

  “Right. I see.”

  I’m not convinced. If I am to find a way out of Gabby’s clutches, I’d rather do it with my integrity and reputation still intact. Intimidating old women is not what I had in mind when I agreed to Clement’s help.

  “Just trust me, Bill. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ll play nicely — you have my word.”

  As things stand, Clement’s word is all I do have. It’ll have to suffice.

  “Alright, I’ll take you at your word,” I sigh. “When do you want to go?”

  “Seeing as it’s gonna take nearly all day to get there and back, we’ll have to leave it until tomorrow. I told Frank I’d help out behind the bar later.”

  “Okay. I can meet you at Waterloo around, say nine thirty?”

  “Sorted. You want another drink?”

  If I thought I could sit quietly and wallow in self-pity, I might be tempted. However, accepting another drink would mean engaging in small talk I’m just not in the mood for.

  “No, thank you. I think tomorrow might be a long day so I’m going to head home.”

  “Fair enough,” he replies, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  Before he goes, I hand him two twenty-pound notes. “Could you settle my tab while you’re at the bar? And get yourself a few pints with the change.”

  He grunts what I assume is an affirmative response and strides off to the bar. As I watch him go, the juke box starts playing No Regrets by The Walker Brothers.

  Possibly a little late, I think.

  17.

  Seven in the morning and Friday’s sky is a palette of dark greys. As I stare out of the window, the first droplets of rain splatter against the glass. It appears our unseasonably mild weather is no more and normal service has resumed. The view does little to lift my already sombre mood.

  I spent what remained of yesterday nursing half a bottle of whisky and over-analysing the meeting with Gabby.

  One long, tortuous afternoon leading to more of the same in the evening.

  Much of that time was spent in denial. I was sure, given sufficient time to think about it, I’d find a chink in her plot. I almost found one when it crossed my mind the birth certificate she showed me might be a forgery. I called in a favour with an acquaintance at the records office, and after an agonising two-hour wait, he confirmed my worst fears — Gabby and I both have the same father.

  My final hope extinguished, I slipped into a semi-drunken coma from which I awoke an hour ago, on the sofa. I was greeted by a text from Gabby, reminding me that her solicitors were expecting contact from mine today. I need to buy some time so at the very least I’ll have to instruct them to send a letter out.

  Now my anger has subsided, the cold reality of her demands has sunk in. Both the properties are far more than just bricks and mortar; they’re the only link I have to my parents — and in the case of Hansworth Hall, my ancestors. As if I don’t feel enough shame, I will be the Huxley who finally breaks generations of ownership. One might argue that Gabby is part of our bloodline, but I have no doubt she’ll put the house up for sale the moment the ink dries on the contract. It sickens me to think that next week, our family home will become the grand prize in Gabby’s twisted game.

  That is of course, unless today’s quest bears results.

  I pour myself another coffee and return my thoughts to the trip, or more specifically, my travel companion. I’ve asked myself over and over again, why I’m even taking Clement with me. If somebody had told me last week I’d be staking everything I own on the assistance of a virtual stranger, particularly one as odd as Clement, I’d have given them short shrift. Yet that is exactly what I’m about to do. Am I being monumentally naive, or is this just the act of a desperate man. I suspect it’s a little of both.

  I suppose there are more reasons to take him than not. It’s hard to see how my situation could get any worse; with or without Clement’s assistance. And to coin an old adage: two heads are better than one, even if one of those heads isn’t wired correctly.

  I waste an hour on breakfast and a long shower before assessing the contents of my wardrobe. I sift through my limited options and choose a pair of tan cords and a sweater over a checked shirt. As I stand in front of the mirror, I can’t help but despair at my drab, conservative attire. It’s no wonder I have trouble attracting a partner when I dress like a retired accountant. No point fretting over the least of my current concerns, I suppose.

  Hoping to have missed the worst of the rush hour stampede, I leave the flat just before nine and make my way to the tube station. The journey to Waterloo is only eighteen minutes and one change, and I’m afforded the luxury of a seat on both legs. I arrive on the platform of Waterloo Station eight minutes before I’m due to meet Clement. He finds me before I even think to look for him.

  “Mornin’, Bill.”

  As I look him up and down, concerns for my own attire fade. Seeing him for the first time in broad daylight, I get to fully appreciate his retro ensemble. He’s still wearing his denim waistcoat, over a navy sweater which looks a couple of sizes too small. Faded, bell-bottom jeans drop to a pair of Chelsea boots which have seen better days. Overall, his style is reminiscent of a roadie from a seventies rock group.

  “Morning, Clement. I wasn’t sure you’d turn up.”

  Perhaps part of me was hoping he wouldn’t.

  “As I said, you can rely on me.”

  “I really hope so.”

  We head to the departure board and our day gets off to a positive start. Our earlier than planned arrival at Waterloo allows us to catch the nine thirty to Portsmouth Harbour. With a minute to spare, we take our seats in an almost empty carriage towards the front of the train. All being well, we should be at the ferry terminal just after eleven o’clock.

/>   The train sets off and slowly clacks out to a monochrome vista of wide skies and grey buildings. The thing about travelling through central London is you lose all sense of proportion. You’re either contained in the claustrophobic womb of the Underground or hemmed in by tall buildings. It’s only when you depart by train do you get a real sense of the sprawling scale of the city.

  It is a view that Clement appears to appreciate as he stares out of the window.

  “I assume you live in London, Clement?”

  “Yeah, all my days. Born and bred.”

  “Which part?”

  “Grew up in Kentish Town. Worked all over.”

  Beyond the Westminster bubble and the centre of London, my geographical knowledge of the wider city is limited.

  “Kentish Town. That’s north London isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where do you live now?”

  “Stepney. Got a room there.”

  “Right. And what did you do before you started working at Fitzgerald’s?”

  For the first time since we boarded, he turns his head from the window and looks directly at me.

  “What’s this, Bill? A job interview?”

  “Of course not,” I chuckle nervously. “Just making conversation.”

  “I’m not that interesting, mate. You are though.”

  “I’m really not.”

  “Nah, I don’t buy that. What’s it like then; being a politician?”

  “Overrated.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Not really. It’s a job, I suppose.”

  He returns his attention to the view beyond the window before responding.

  “Why do you do it then?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “As we’re stuck on this bleedin’ train for the next hour and a half, you might as well tell it.”

  Boring him with my life story is preferable to making small talk so I spend ten minutes explaining the former. Much to my surprise, he seems genuinely interested and asks several questions during my monologue, particularly about my father.

  “So it’s cos’ of your old man you’re now a politician?”

  “In a way. I felt I’d let him down. After I left university, he set me up with an internship at party headquarters, but I had no interest in politics. I turned it down and went to work for an aid charity in Africa. I don’t think he ever forgave me and I only entered politics to make amends. Stupid really, considering he was long dead by the time I was appointed.”

  “Guilty conscience?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What about your old dear?”

  “My mother? What about her?”

  “What did she think about your choice of career?”

  “Not much, considering she died when I was fourteen.”

  “That’s kinda shitty.”

  “Indeed. She was almost twenty years younger than my father and I always assumed he’d go first. I suppose he did too.”

  “So there’s just you now?”

  “Just me, if you exclude my new-found sister, who I suspect isn’t big on families.”

  “I sorta got that.”

  With little else to say on the matter, we fall into a comfortable silence as we pass through Woking, and then Guildford. Clement appears content just staring out of the window and I’m equally content reflecting on our journey thus far.

  I must confess that beneath his gruff exterior and industrial language, there appears to be some semblance of a decent man lurking beneath. It was actually quite cathartic chatting about my life and family. I don’t think we’re likely to become life-long friends but I feel less concerned about Clement than I did back at the flat. However, he was never my primary concern.

  As we pass through Haslemere, I decide maybe it’s time we discussed strategy.

  “How do you think we best approach Susan Davies then?”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want the police involved?”

  “Absolutely not. Why would you say that?”

  “Because we need to know how hard to push her.”

  “Push her?”

  He sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  “You ain’t going to the police because you know it’ll make things worse for you. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need her to think the same thing.”

  “By threatening her?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How then?”

  “Just leave it with me.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that, Clement. I’d rather know in advance what you’re planning.”

  He sits back in his seat and for a moment I don’t think I’m going to get my answer.

  “Word of advice,” he finally says. “Never pick a fight with a homeless man.”

  “Not that I was planning to, but why not?”

  “He’s got sod all to lose.”

  “Right. I’m not sure I get your point.”

  “We‘re not gonna threaten her, but we are gonna make it clear you’ve got sod all to lose.”

  “And how does that help?”

  “Folks who are cornered fight dirty and fight hard, and that’s what we’ve gotta get across. Not a threat, just a statement of fact.”

  “That still sounds like a threat to me.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t get it, do you, Bill?”

  “Get what?”

  “You’re fighting for your life here, mate, and there’s no room to pussyfoot around. This Gabby has you by the balls and you’re worried about being polite to her old dear?”

  “I’m worried about making the situation worse.”

  “Bill, you’re being blackmailed cos’ you knobbed your own sister. You’re gonna lose everything or spend a few years doing bird, so how much worse can it get?”

  I have no answer because Clement’s blunt assessment is a stark reminder things can’t get much worse. Perhaps there is some merit to his advice. I’m not visiting one of my constituents to discuss local bus services over tea and biscuits — I’m visiting the mother of a woman who is doing everything to destroy my life.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “I usually am.”

  “But I want you to promise me one thing. If I think things are going too far, we leave when I say. Scaring an old woman senseless doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “I don’t do promises, Bill, but stop worrying. I know where to draw the line.”

  Our tenuous strategy sorted, we settle back while the rural scenery rolls past the window. The heavy rain has followed us south, and judging by the way the trackside trees are swaying to and fro, it's brought strong winds with it. Another week and those trees will be stripped of their leaves, much like I’ll be stripped of my assets if Hurricane Gabby continues on the same path.

  Soon enough, the rural scenery gives way to urban sprawl as we reach the outskirts of Portsmouth. With the first leg of our journey nearly over, a knot of apprehension tightens in my stomach. For the first time since agreeing to his offer, I’m willing to accept that perhaps Clement’s company is no bad thing. Conversation is preferable to stewing in my own thoughts.

  “Have you been to the Isle of Wight before, Clement?”

  “Never set foot off the mainland.”

  “You’ve never been abroad?”

  “Been to Wales. Long time ago.”

  Not exactly what I’d classify as abroad, but I suppose Wales is another country.

  “Right. Any plans to travel?”

  “Don’t have a passport.”

  “Well, that’s easily remedied. You can apply online these days.”

  “The Internet thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dunno how to use it.”

  It’s a surprising revelation, even for a relative technophobe such as me. Considering the Internet is so ingrained in our lives, it’s hard to see how anyone could function without it. Saying that, perhaps Clement
is better off without the constant intrusion of Facebook, Twitter, and email in his life.

  “Maybe once we’ve got through this mess I can show you how to use it. You know, just the basics.”

  “We’ll see,” he grunts with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  We make one more stop at central Portsmouth. Four minutes later the train slows to a halt at our destination.

  “All set?” I chirp, offering my best impression of positive.

  Clement gives me a thumbs up as the doors hiss open. We step down to the platform and follow the signs to the adjacent ferry terminal.

  “Never been on a ferry before,” Clement remarks.

  Considering he’s never been abroad, it’s not exactly an earth shattering revelation.

  “Unless you count the boats on the Thames,” he adds.

  I leave him staring out of the window and head over to the ticket office.

  “Can I have two adult return tickets, please?” I ask the young man behind the counter.

  He taps away at a screen and prints out our tickets. I pay with a card and enquire about the departure time of the next ferry.

  “It’s your lucky day,” he chirps.

  It most certainly is not.

  “The eleven fifteen sailing has been delayed due to high winds. If you’re quick, you should just catch it.”

  I thank him and beckon Clement to hurry. We then stride down a ramp to a set of gates where we’re ushered on board by a windswept chap in a hi-viz jacket. We’re fortunate to be on the catamaran service which only takes twenty minutes to cross the Solent. The downside is the catamaran bounces over the choppy waters rather than cutting a smooth path like a traditional ferry.

  Consequently, Clement is looking decidedly green around the gills barely ten minutes into our journey.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll live. Where’s the bog?”

  I point him in the direction of the toilets and he hurries off. He returns just as we enter the calmer waters near Ryde.

  “Bleedin’ ferries. Never again,” he grumbles, falling into his seat.

  “Are you intending to walk back later then?”

  His frown is answer enough.

  Having made this trip several times over the years, I’m used to the unusual docking arrangements at Ryde, whereby the ferry docks at the end of a long wooden pier rather than a harbour. The other quirky feature of the island’s transport system is the trains, one of which is awaiting us at the end of the pier.