Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  I sink into my seat and inwardly cringe.

  “Thank you. She’s a bit thirsty, mind.”

  “What do you get from her?”

  “No more than thirty a gallon.”

  “Still, I bet she pulls like a train.”

  For the entire ten-minute journey, Clement and Mr Davies wax lyrical about engines and horsepower and torque — all meaningless to a non-driver like me. By the time we pull into the car park at the stables, they’re chuckling away like old friends. When he wants to, Clement can morph from a deranged oddball into the most affable of men. Another trait that would serve him well should he reconsider a career in politics.

  We all climb out of the Audi and I survey the rural scenery. Beyond the three wooden buildings at the edge of the near-empty car park, which I assume are the stable blocks, a vista of open fields surrounds us.

  “Where are the bogs, Ken?” Clement asks. “I missed my morning shit.”

  Horrified at Clement’s statement, I turn to Mr Davies, expecting a similar reaction.

  “Over there,” he chuckles, pointing to the first wooden structure. “They’re a bit basic, mind.”

  Relieved he didn’t take offence, I breathe again.

  “When you’re done,” Mr Davies adds. “Follow the path round to the paddock on the other side of the stables. I’m sure you’ll find us.”

  Clement trudges off and Mr Davies places his hand on my shoulder.

  “Ready?”

  It’s a good question.

  Just one week ago I wasn’t even aware I had a sister and now I’m seconds away from meeting her. I’d challenge anyone not to feel apprehensive in such circumstances, but after the week I’ve had, my emotions are already bruised. For Gabrielle’s sake, I only hope I can hold it together. I’d hate her first impression to be one of a middle-aged, blubbering wreck.

  I pull a deep breath and ready myself. “I’m good.”

  We follow a path between two of the wooden structures, leading out to a large paddock surrounded by railed fencing. The path splits left and right, fronting the stable blocks; each split into four stalls. At the far side of the paddock, a figure bobs up and down on a light grey horse as it canters along. The rider spots us and waves.

  “That’s Julie,” Mr Davies says, waving back. “She spends more time here than Gabrielle.”

  Deciding it would be odd for me to wave at a woman I don’t know, I simply nod at Mr Davies. He then turns and shuffles down the path towards one of the stable blocks.

  Despite growing up in the countryside, I have never had much interest in the equestrian world; probably because horses intimidate me. Why anyone would choose to ride around on a creature with free will and no failsafe braking system, is beyond me. Nevertheless, they are handsome animals, and worthy of respect.

  I follow Mr Davies towards the first stall where the door is split into two sections; the bottom half closed and the top half open. A black and white horse stands the other side of the door and sniffs at the air as we pass. The second stall is occupied by a seal-brown horse which tosses its head as we approach.

  “Afternoon, Chester,” Mr Davies chimes, stopping to stroke the horse's snout.

  I decide not to interfere with Chester and keep my hands in my pockets.

  “And here we have Archie,” Mr Davies announces as we approach the third stall.

  This is it. Presumably Gabrielle is inside the stall, doing whatever horsey types do to their animals when they’re not careering around a field without brakes.

  I take another deep breath as Mr Davies opens the bottom half of the door. Archie, obviously well trained, takes a step back to allow Mr Davies to enter. The chestnut coloured horse receives a pat and Mr Davies steps into the stall. I follow, keeping my distance from Archie as I close the door behind me.

  “Gabrielle,” Mr Davies says. “I’ve got somebody I’d like you to meet.”

  I stand a few feet behind the old man, with Archie to our left, and pause while my eyes adjust to the dark interior of the stall. The overpowering smell of hay and manure might take a little longer to adjust to.

  “Gabrielle?” Mr Davies repeats.

  It can’t be easy playing hide and seek in a relatively confined space but it appears Gabrielle is having a go. I follow Mr Davies towards the rear, beyond Archie’s hind quarters.

  We discover two figures seated next to one another on a hay bale in the corner. Another scent immediately battles past the hay and the manure — patchouli.

  “Hello, William,” the nearest figure coos. “What kept you?”

  It’s a voice I know only too well.

  I squint to confirm my worst fears. As my pupils widen sufficiently my heart stops.

  Amy.

  35.

  My attention turns to the tiny figure next to Amy. A tear-stained face, capped in a riding hat, stares back; wide eyed, full of fear.

  “Who are you?” Mr Davies blasts.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, William?” Amy sneers.

  I turn to Mr Davies. “Go and call the police,” I hiss.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it. Now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without Gabrielle,” he barks.

  Mr Davies turns back to his daughter and holds out a hand. “Come with me, my darling.”

  The tiny figure omits a quiet sob but remains still.

  “Gabrielle isn’t going anywhere,” Amy confirms, unfolding her arms to reveal a long, silvery object. She slowly turns it in her hand until it catches the light from the part-open door. “See, William — seems you didn’t win after all.”

  “Mr Davies, she‘s got a knife. Go and call the police,” I repeat with as much authority as I can muster.

  The gravity of the situation finally strikes. “I’ll be back in two ticks, my darling,” he says gently to his daughter while backing towards the door.

  With Mr Davies gone, the sole responsibility of Gabrielle’s welfare falls in my lap. I squat down so I can look her in the eye.

  “Hi, Gabrielle. I’m William.”

  A barely perceptible nod.

  “I know you’re frightened,” I continue, trying to sound reassuring rather than patronising. “But everything is going to be just fine.”

  She nods again, but her eyes tell me I’ve done little to allay her fear. All I can do while we wait for the police is buy time.

  I stand up and change my tone.

  “How did you know…”

  “Too easy,” Amy interjects. “Gabrielle here is an avid Facebook user and kindly advertised where she spends most of her time.”

  “But…” I don’t have to finish my own question before the answer dawns.

  “I thought Rosa might have told you about the tracking app. Apparently not.”

  What an idiot. With the situation seemingly resolved, I didn’t see any great urgency to delete the damn thing.

  “So, here we all are for one final hurrah.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve really thought this through, Amy, but the police will be on their way by now.”

  “The nearest station is miles away. Plenty of time for what I’ve got in mind.”

  While she’s talking, I scan the stall for anything I can use as a weapon, should the need arise. To my right, a wooden divide separates Archie’s stall from the one next door. In the four feet of open space above the divide, I can just see the shoulders of the two other horses we passed outside; both oblivious to the human drama unfolding only feet away. With nothing useful on the floor, unless I can weaponise a plastic bucket or a broom, options are limited to my own fists.

  “And what exactly do you have in mind?” I reply.

  “Just a dose of revenge. Nothing too heavy.”

  I know the answer but I ask anyway. “Revenge for what?”

  “Let me see,” she says, tapping her chin. “How about the fact you ruined my life?”

  “So, you want to punish me?”

  “Indeed I do.”

&nb
sp; “Fine. You can do what you like to me. There’s no need for Gabrielle to be here.”

  “Oh, William,” she chuckles. “I’m afraid there is. You see, I had to watch my family suffer because of your actions so it’s only fair you suffer in the same way.”

  She’s clearly unable to see past her own issues. Time to play the only card I have left.

  “I struck a deal with Rosa.”

  “Did you?” she replies with disinterest.

  “I agreed to pay for better care, for your mother. If anything happens to Gabrielle, or me, you can forget that offer.”

  She appears to ponder my revelation while running her finger along the shaft of the knife. What I wouldn’t give to know what twisted thoughts are being processed. As it happens, I don’t have long to wait.

  “That’s a kind offer,” she purrs. “Very generous.”

  Something I’ve learnt about Amy is that her eyes are a better indicator of her true feelings. What comes out of her mouth is often the complete opposite of what those green eyes tell me. Her glare gives me reason for concern.

  “But I’m really beyond caring now,” she adds, her genial manner departing as quickly as it arrived. “And in some way, it’s poetic justice.”

  “What?”

  “My mother didn’t protect me when I needed her, so why should I care if she’s stuck in some shit-hole for the rest of her days?”

  Last card played. What the hell do I do now? I return my attention to my sister.

  “How are you doing down there, Gabrielle?”

  “Okay,” she replies in a voice barely a whisper. “Can I go home now?”

  To hear a voice so helpless, and so desperate for a release, is heart-breaking.

  “Soon. I promise.”

  I can now see why Clement isn’t keen on making promises. At best mine is hollow. At worst it’s a downright lie. But promises or not, the fact he isn’t here only adds to my desperation. This is the one moment where I need him more than ever, and he’s camped in the toilets, blissfully unaware of what’s going on.

  The reality is I’m helpless if Amy decides to do anything before the police arrive. I must keep her occupied.

  As much as I want to scream at Gabrielle’s captor, I try to remain calm. “Look, Amy. I know what happened to you and I can’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been.”

  “Do you indeed? How?”

  “Rosa told me.”

  “Ahh, my kid sister — always trying to fix me. What else did she tell you?”

  “That this whole plot just spiralled out of control.”

  “For her maybe. I knew what I was doing from day one.”

  “I can’t deny it; you’ve outwitted me all the way.”

  “Don’t patronise me, William,” she spits. “If I’d outwitted you then I wouldn’t be here.”

  She turns, glares at Gabrielle, and then looks back at me. “Half an hour,” she mumbles while shaking her head.

  “What?”

  “If you’d waited half a fucking hour longer, before getting your damn solicitor to call the newspaper, I’d be on my way somewhere hot by now.”

  “And your mother? I thought you were doing this for her?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “Nope.”

  It seems I wasn’t the only one Amy duped.

  “So this was only ever about you?”

  “Fuck, yes,” she snorts. “But you had to have the final say and steal the hard-earned fruits of my labour. That’s why we’re here, William — you, me, and Gabrielle. Basically, it’s your fault.”

  “I’ll give you the money,” I blurt. “Whatever they were paying you, I’ll give you double.”

  “Yeah, right,” she sniggers. “I mean, politicians never lie, do they?”

  “I promise.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I mean it. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “We both know that isn’t going to happen, William, so I’m afraid this ends here and now. There’s no happy ending…for any of us.”

  “Please, Amy. Let’s just talk this through.”

  I can hear desperation in my own voice, and I can hear Archie’s heavy breathing next to me. What I can’t hear are police sirens.

  “Sorry, William, but I’ve already resigned myself to spending the rest of my days locked up. In a strange way, I’m almost looking forward to it. No bills, no responsibilities, no stupid do-gooders trying to rationalise the crap in my head. It’ll be quite liberating, don’t you think?”

  As Clement suggested last week, you can’t win a fight with someone who has nothing to lose. Her defeatism is a worrying sign.

  “Anyway, I think the time for talking is over,” she adds. “I just want one final thrill before they take me away.”

  “Thrill?”

  “Yes. The thrill of seeing you suffer for throwing us onto the street as kids, but mainly for what you did this morning.”

  “I…please, Amy…”

  “Ahh, that’s what I wanted to see. A little begging.”

  “Okay, I’ll beg if that’s what you want.”

  “I do, and then I want to see your face as I slit your sister’s throat.”

  Gabrielle’s tiny frame stiffens, and her bottom lip bobs up and down. Fear robs her of any words.

  And then, at last, I hear the sweetest of sounds. Distant, but unmistakable — police sirens.

  “How’s that for timing?” Amy taunts. “But just a little too late.”

  She gets to her feet, the knife held prominently in her right hand. Gabrielle’s riding hat is plucked from her head and tossed to the floor.

  “Jesus, Amy…please…you’re terrifying her. Just let her go…please.”

  Never in my life have I felt so utterly helpless. I have to do something, anything.

  I take one step towards her. “If you must hurt anyone, hurt me. This has nothing to do with my…Gabrielle.”

  “How noble of you. Pointless, but noble.”

  I hold my arms out in surrender. “Come on, Amy. It’s me you really want to hurt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is, and that’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

  I risk another step.

  “That’s far enough, William. Unless of course you really want a ringside view?”

  “No. What I really want is for you to let Gabrielle go.”

  Amy smiles in response and kneels on the hay bale. She teases the tip of the knife along the zip of Gabrielle’s jacket.

  The poor girl finds her voice. “I’m frightened,” she croaks.

  I can’t risk another step. The sirens now taunt — close, but not close enough.

  “Stop!” a voice cries from behind me. Not wanting to take my eyes off Amy, I risk a glance over my shoulder. Mr Davies has returned and for some reason he’s carrying a metal bucket.

  “Put the knife down,” he screeches at Amy.

  Bemused, she relaxes her hand a little while assessing the threat — a frail old man carrying a bucket. She draws the same conclusion I do; he’s no threat at all.

  “Put the knife down or you’ll get every drop,” he wheezes, drawing level with me.

  Amy notes an obvious flaw in his plan. “Whatever,” she shrugs. “Damp clothes won’t be much of a concern where I’m going.”

  Blinded by anger, Mr Davies isn’t able to contain himself. Summoning every ounce of strength, he swings the bucket forward. The liquid content escapes and arcs towards Amy. Half of it doesn’t reach her and splashes harmlessly across the floor, but a few litres slap against her upper body.

  It takes but a second for the smell to register. Whatever Mr Davies hurled at Amy, it certainly wasn’t water.

  “What the fuck…” she screams, just before her gag reflex engages.

  Even stood six feet away, the smell — a combination of ammonia and stale urine — is vile. But despite her gagging, and frantic attempts to wipe the toxic liquid from her eyes, she keeps the knife within striking distance of Gabrielle. As much as I admire his
efforts, Mr Davies has bought us no more than a few seconds.

  It then strikes me. Perhaps that was his sole intention — a distraction so I can attempt to disarm Amy. Without thinking, I risk two steps forward.

  Despite the rapid blinking to ease her stinging eyes, Amy spots my advance and waves the knife in my direction. “Back the fuck off.”

  Another gag catches the end of her sentence and she bows forward. At the exact same moment I consider another step, I catch a flicker of movement at the top of the wooden divide separating the adjacent stall. Two hands appear at the top, and a split second later, Clement’s head and shoulders follow. Realisation dawns — Mr Davies wasn’t creating a diversion for my heroics.

  In one fluid movement, Clement leaps over the wooden divide while Amy is still bent double, trying to fight another gag. It would be impossible not to notice Clement’s huge frame in her peripheral vision, and Amy duly reacts. She spins around while adjusting the position of the knife. I can only assume she doesn’t fancy her chances against the giant man approaching so she turns her attention back to Gabrielle.

  With no time for finesse, Amy swings her arm in Gabrielle’s direction; the tip of the knife flashing through the dim light like a shooting star. The horrific scene is compounded as my mind conjures up a vision of a pre-teen Amy stabbing her own father to death.

  Her arm passes the midway point of its arc. My attention shifts from the knife to Gabrielle’s face, and immediately I wish I could unsee the panic in her eyes.

  The knife continues its rapid descent towards Gabrielle’s chest with seemingly unstoppable momentum — too late for Clement’s outstretched arm to intervene even if it were within grabbing distance.

  And then, he appears to stumble.

  Only when his entire bulk falls forward, uncontrolled, does it become clear he’s deploying a last-ditch contingency plan. Again, it appears an attempt too late and the direction of the knife doesn’t change. The tip reaches Gabrielle’s jacket.

  The police sirens are now deafening.

  Definitely too late.

  36.

  If it wasn’t for the cold weather, I fear my sister would already be dead. The tip of the knife must pass through multiple layers of thick clothing before it can penetrate flesh. The combination of materials offer almost negligible resistance to the steel blade, but miniscule fractions of time and distance are often the difference between life and death.