Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  End game has been reached. It’s over. I am ruined.

  “Bill. Bill.”

  I hear Clement’s voice but it can’t penetrate my conscious mind. My senses lose all definition as I stare into space; shocked, mortified, inert.

  “Bill? Can you hear me?”

  I’m suddenly aware of a heavy weight on my shoulder. My upper body sways as the weight shifts back and forth. Focus finally arrives when a stinging sensation explodes across my right cheek. Like a drowning man breaking the water’s surface, I gasp for air.

  “Bloody hell, Bill. Thought you were gonna pass out on me there.”

  I wasn’t even aware he’d moved, but Clement is now on the chair next to me.

  “You…you slapped me.”

  “Listen,” he orders. “We ain’t got time for this shit. Pull yourself together.”

  What was the term Rosa used last week? Tea and sympathy? Clement might have a mug of tea in his hand but there’s precious little sympathy in his voice.

  “It’s over, Clement,” I murmur. “I’m done for.”

  “No it ain’t. Not till I say it is.”

  My gaze falls to the table and the taunting headline. I turn the paper over and stare blankly at the back page. England lost at cricket. Again.

  “Why do you reckon she’s done this now?” Clement asks. “Don’t make no sense.”

  “Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she’s done it.”

  Even in my own head, my voice sounds feeble, broken.

  “Course it bleedin’ matters,” he booms. “Three more days and she stood to make millions, yet she settled for what? Fifty grand? A hundred? There’s no way the paper would pay more than that.”

  He leans across the table. “I reckon we’ve spooked her. That Rosa must have told her you left work early yesterday and she probably thought you were up to something. Maybe she didn’t think it was worth the risk holding out for the big pay day on Friday.”

  “With fear of repeating myself, so what? The damage has already been done.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Bill. You’re not getting it are you?”

  “Getting what?”

  “She took the money because she couldn’t risk waiting until Friday, so the question is: what is it she couldn’t risk?”

  I offer a half-shrug.

  “We need to find out.”

  “And how do we do that exactly?”

  “We stick to the plan, well, the second part anyway. We head to Hounslow and visit that care home.”

  Self-pity gives way to anger and the need to vent becomes too great. “For God’s sake, man,” I blast. “There’s no damn point.”

  To enforce my stance, I turn the newspaper over and slap my hand across the headline. “It’s all there in black and white. Nothing is going to change that.”

  The chair legs scrape across the floor as Clement suddenly gets to his feet.

  “Fine. You stay here and sulk then. No wonder you got yourself in this mess — you’re a fucking drip, Bill.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You heard me,” he growls. “You’re just like all the other gutless tossers in Westminster. You ain’t got the balls to make the hard choices.”

  “I…what?”

  He rests his hands on the table and looms over me. For one horrible moment I fear I’ve pushed too far, such is the rage in his eyes.

  “You’re a smart bloke, Bill, so don’t pretend you don’t know. When the shit hits the fan in life, people tend to do one of two things: face up or fuck off, and you ain’t done much facing up.”

  He shakes his head and glares at me; his disdain obvious.

  “When are you gonna stop ducking and deal with your shit?”

  His eyes bore into me as the question hangs unanswered. It shames me to admit it, but perhaps there is some truth in his accusation. I’ve never had to make any tough decisions in my life because money has always provided the route to an easy escape. And now, I’ve arrived at a terrible place as an incestuous deviant; a shamed politician of the very worst kind. There is only one way out — to run away.

  “You might be right, but it doesn’t change anything. I need to focus on damage limitation now.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. If there’s any silver lining to this whole sorry episode, at least I still have both properties and therefore, options.”

  “What options?”

  “I could move abroad and start a new life.”

  “Right, and spend the rest of your days hiding on the Costa Del Nonce with all the other pervs? Do me a favour, Bill.”

  It’s clear we’re going around in circles. I know there will be no hiding from my crime wherever I go in the world, but I’m too tired and too battle-weary to continue such a senseless argument.

  “Please, Clement,” I whisper, my head bowed. “Just leave it be.”

  He mumbles an expletive and just as I expect him to storm out, he sits back down.

  “I’ll leave it, but first, answer me a question.”

  “Go on,” I sigh.

  “Are you a religious man?”

  I look up. “Don’t try to sway me with some religious platitudes about faith and belief.”

  “I’m not, and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, not since my mother passed.”

  “So, if I said I was told to help you by…a voice in my head, you’d think I was insane?”

  “Very much so. Why?”

  “Cos’ that’s why I’m here, to help you. Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”

  He sits back in the chair and folds his arms as if he’s just told me the time.

  “Sorry…what?” I splutter. “You do realise how ridiculous that sounds?”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it. That’s why I never told you.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to do with that information?”

  “What do you wanna do?”

  “At this precise moment, throwing myself out of the window seems an attractive proposition.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Jesus wept,” I murmur, kneading my temples in slow circular movements. “Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I got enough to contend with?”

  “I’m doing it cos’ you didn’t leave me any other choice. You might be able to give up, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cos’ I’m tired, Bill, and I’m sick of being on my own in a place I don’t belong. This ain’t where I’m supposed to be and if I don’t see this thing through, that ain’t gonna change.”

  Some years ago, one of my colleagues suffered a nervous breakdown. Nobody spotted the signs until it was too late, and he made a crude attempt to end his own life. Fortunately, the poor fellow failed, and eventually sought treatment. Is Clement going through some sort of breakdown himself? Should I treat his delusional claim with the disdain it deserves, or play along for fear of tipping him over the edge?

  “I honestly don’t know what to say, Clement.”

  “Course you do,” he snorts. “You wanna tell me I’m a nutter and I should see a shrink.”

  “Well, that isn’t quite how I’d put it, but yes, maybe you should.”

  “Alright, I will, but on one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “Give me today.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got this itch I can’t scratch but if we go and see that woman in Hounslow, I reckon that’ll sort it. Give me to the end of today.”

  “And if we do, you promise to seek help with your…condition?”

  “I don’t do promises, Bill, but yeah, I will.”

  I can’t believe I’m even considering a deal with a man who is taking advice from a voice in his head. Would that make me equally as crazy?

  “Look, Clement. I want to help but there’s no need for us to go on some wild goose chase first.”

  “You owe me, Bill. I’ve not asked anything from you — now I am.”
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  Every part of me wants to run away from this madness, but the one thing keeping me rooted to my chair is a sense of debt. He’s right. I do owe him.

  “Okay” I sigh with a shake of my head. “Four o’clock.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ll come with you to Hounslow and we’ll see that woman, but if we haven’t scratched whatever itch you have by four o’clock, we’ll go and see my doctor and then I’m going to hand myself in at the police station. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough. And one other thing.”

  “What now?”

  “I need you to have a bit of faith.”

  “In what?” I huff. “That all my troubles will miraculously disappear after chatting with a stroke victim in Hounslow?”

  “I don’t know what we’re gonna find but whatever it is, this is for your benefit, remember?”

  “Fine. I’ll embrace this madness if it makes you happy.”

  “Good man.”

  I clamber to my feet, still unconvinced I’m doing the right thing. For now though, I’d rather focus on more mundane matters.

  “Do you still want toast?”

  “Yeah.”

  On still shaky legs, I switch the toaster on and lean against the counter.

  As the bread browns I use the opportunity to collate my thoughts. Notwithstanding Clement’s ridiculous claim, I do wonder if there is even the slightest slither of merit to his insistence we visit Miss Douglas. And before his ludicrous confession, he did raise a salient point about Gabby not waiting until Friday.

  Why?

  Suddenly, I have my own itch to scratch.

  I think back to the moment in the park when Gabby first told me the truth about her identity. What was it she said? So much of that conversation passed in a haze I struggle to remember the specifics, but I vaguely recall she mentioned a claim for my father’s inheritance. I have no idea if she has any legal right, but with all the blame on my shoulders, and coupled with Gabby’s ability to spin lies, it’s not inconceivable she could mount a strong case.

  Has Gabby really delivered the final blow or is the newspaper article just an opening salvo? Was my reputation her first target, and now that’s been sullied beyond repair, will she now pursue me through the courts to compound my shame and strip me financially bare?

  Even now, all I can do is second guess the damn woman. Perhaps Clement’s suggestion isn’t as pointless as I first thought.

  And so, it has come to this — a trip to Hounslow to visit a stroke victim on the advice of a mentally unstable man, and the voice in his head.

  “God help me,” I mumble to myself.

  I guess the only silver lining is I can delay facing the impending shit storm about to hit Westminster, and the police. I know I can’t hide forever but that doesn’t mean I’m quite ready to face my punishment.

  Nor, as it happens, can I face the remains of my cereal. Clement, however, destroys his four slices of toast within a few minutes.

  Fed and watered, at just after seven o’clock we’re all set.

  “I just need to grab my phone.”

  I scoot to the bedroom and pluck the phone from the bedside table. It’s still on silent mode and my stomach turns when I see the worrying number of missed calls, voicemails, and unanswered text messages. No doubt Fiona Hewitt will be amongst them, and I dread to think who the others are from. One thing is for sure though: the calls and messages aren’t going to stop arriving anytime soon. I leave the phone on silent mode and slip it in my pocket.

  I return to the hall where Clement is waiting.

  “Is there another way out of here?” he asks. “Don’t fancy your chances against that mob down there.”

  “There’s a service yard at the back where they collect the bins. We can get out that way.”

  “Lead on.”

  Rather than taking the lift, we descend the building via a service stairwell meant only for use in emergencies. I consider my plight worthy of such status. It leads us down to a utilitarian corridor at the back of the building.

  “This way.”

  We exit through a fire door into a yard, hemmed in by tall brick walls and a cobalt blue sky. Besides the door we just passed through, a set of iron gates are the only other way in or out.

  “Just gonna take a quick reccie,” Clement says before marching up to the gates and peering left and right.

  “All clear,” he calls.

  We slip out of the gates and dart down a side road away from the flat.

  “It’s too risky getting the train,” I comment as we walk. “Let’s just hop in a cab.”

  A minute later we’re in the back of a black cab; driven by a cheerless man who either doesn’t read the papers or doesn’t care who he ferries across the city.

  Once we’ve navigated through the streets of central London, the cab picks up pace. Fortunately, all the traffic is heading into the city while we’re heading out.

  We reach the M4 motorway and the thrum of the diesel engine settles at a steady tone. With every passing mile the darkness fades to a brighter shade of blue, promising a cold, crisp start to the day for those fortunate to still be at home. I wonder if Gabby is still tucked up beneath her musty duvet, or, as is more likely, she’s heading in the same direction as our cab. While we’re heading towards a care home in Hounslow, she’s probably heading across town to the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport; ready to jet off to sunnier climes, courtesy of her ill-gotten gains.

  It is a thought that bolsters my decision to make this journey.

  Besides the thrum of the engine, I’m accompanied by the soundtrack of Clement gently snoring. Not quite the guttural noises I had to endure in Sandown, but loud enough to be irritating. If only that was all I had to worry about.

  I close my eyes and focus on the many ways a conversation with Miss Douglas might pan out. It’s hard to see how anything she says will help, but it certainly can’t hurt to ask a few questions, I suppose. The reality is, my very liberty now hinges on a woman who has recently had a stroke, who may or may not know my sister is staying at her flat, and a delusional man in double denim, snoring beside me.

  If there really is a God, he has a twisted sense of humour.

  30.

  With only a twenty-pound note left in my wallet, it’s fortunate cab drivers now accept credit cards. I pay the man and begrudgingly give him a small tip for not crashing on the way.

  Not knowing the precise location of the care home, or even the name, I asked the driver to drop us at the entrance to Adam Street. Little did I know it’s almost a mile long.

  “I guess we just walk until we find it. There can’t be more than one care home on the street.”

  With Clement once again grumbling about his frozen knackers, we set off with hands tucked firmly in pockets to stave off the cold. We make our way past an eclectic mix of residential properties from every era, and the frigid air soon becomes choked with fumes as vehicles crawl past on both sides of the road; going nowhere in a hurry.

  As we walk, my attention turns to what we’re going to do once we find the care home. Like most of our plans thus far, we haven’t exactly focused on the details.

  “Any idea what we’re going to say to her?” I ask.

  “We’re not gonna say anything. You are.”

  “Why me?”

  “Cos’, Bill, you’re the one with the plummy voice and polite manner. I don’t think the old bird is gonna appreciate my style of questioning.”

  “Okay. Agreed. But what exactly do I ask her?”

  “Simple. Where is Gabby and why was she staying at the flat?”

  “And what if we get the same reaction as that woman in Sandown?”

  “We rough her up a bit.”

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding. Let’s just see what she has to say, then we’ll decide how to play it.”

  Once again we’ll be making it up as we go along. It doesn’t fill me with confidence.

  “I’m sorry, Clement
. With fear of sounding negative, it does feel like we’re clutching at straws.”

  “We are.”

  “Splendid,” I groan. “You weren’t quite so pessimistic back at the flat. Why do I feel like I’ve been played?”

  “It’s a hunch, Bill. Nothing more. If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  I don’t and my desperation morphs into frustration.

  “This is bloody ridiculous,” I mumble. “Dragged halfway across London on the back of a mere hunch.”

  “Three things you should never underestimate: a pissed off woman, a good hunch, and me.”

  I can’t argue with his first assumption and can only hope he’s right about the other two.

  We walk on and a hundred yards later, we find what we’re looking for. Orchard Lodge is an imposing block of brick and tile; featureless and stern. It could just as easily be a library or a community centre, such is the utilitarian architecture. Only the sign at the head of the driveway tells of its function.

  “Grim,” Clement remarks as we make our way to the entrance.

  As we approach, a pair of automatic doors part and a waft of warm air greets us. We step inside an entrance lobby and push through another set of glazed doors to the reception area. The air is warmer still, and laced with the scent of disinfectant; barely masking a heady blend of odours I’d rather not decipher.

  The reception area itself is relatively small, with a desk at the far end, half-a-dozen chairs, and two corridors leading to the left and right. I approach the desk, and the forty-something woman in a blue uniform, stood behind.

  I hastily prepare my pre-concocted white lies.

  “Good morning. I was wondering if you could help me?”

  “Good morning,” she replies in a strong eastern European accent. “I’ll try.”

  I fish my wallet out and present the woman with my parliament identification card.

  “My name is William Huxley and I’m a member of parliament.”

  The woman leans forward and studies the card. For a second I fear she might recognise my name from the newspaper, but she smiles and seems happy with who I am.

  “You are here for inspection?” she asks.

  “Not quite. I’ve been asked to visit a Miss Douglas. I work with a member of her family and they’ve asked me to see if there’s any way I can help with her situation.”