Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  And I need to get some more granola, and….wait. What was that?

  “I…squealed…at…Victor’s…impressive…girth…”

  Ohh, shit.

  My head snaps up and ten shocked faces stare back at me. The eleventh, Beatrice, continues her graphic narration, seemingly oblivious to what she’s reading.

  “Oh, gosh…sorry, Beatrice,” I splutter. “Maybe we should leave it there for now.”

  Beatrice drops the book to her lap. The silence is deafening.

  Just when I thought my week couldn’t get any worse, I’ve now inflicted some fairly awful erotic fiction on my most active book group.

  Vera eventually speaks. “Bethany, you said this book was a hidden gem. I assume you’d read it in order to draw that conclusion?”

  Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ.

  “Yes…well…I may have scanned it. Perhaps I didn’t give it my full attention.”

  The silence returns.

  “Look, ladies. I’m so, so sorry. Perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate of choices. Forgive me.”

  Peggy, a wizened eighty-year-old, slowly raises her hand, seeking permission to speak.

  “Yes, what is it Peggy?” I ask with some hesitancy.

  “We can still take it home?” she squeaks.

  Glances are sent left and right between the ladies.

  “Yes, can we?” Prudence adds.

  “You still want to take the book away with you?” I say in disbelief.

  A chorus of nods and approval. Apparently they do.

  “Err, sure.”

  Without any prompt, Beatrice continues where she left off. The other ten ladies settle down and listen.

  The following forty minutes are, without question, the most cringeworthy of my entire life. The awful writing, thin plot, and two-dimensional characters are bad enough, but that’s not the worst part of the book. The protagonist, Ruby, is clearly some sort of post-virginal nymphomaniac and indulges Victor’s desires in toe curling detail throughout the ten chapters we wade through.

  By the time we finish, a cloud of musty oestrogen has formed above our circle of chairs. On the upside, I have never seen this book group so enthusiastic, so engaged.

  As the group disbands, I take up position behind the counter to receive payment from the eleven ladies; all eager to get their new book home. Last in line is Vera.

  “That was very brave of you, Bethany.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I thought it made a refreshing change to read something with a little spice. Well done.”

  She shakes my hand and smiles.

  “But you never read it, did you?” she asks while still clutching my hand.

  “Um, I can’t lie to you, Vera. I’ve been a bit distracted the last few days.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. We might be women of God, but we’re not nuns.”

  She gives me a wink and ushers the final few members from the shop. The deep breath I exhale once they’ve all left almost blows the window out. I don’t know how I managed to busk my way through that, but they all left happy. Maybe it’s another sign that my little spell of misfortune is now behind me.

  It’s gone five o’clock by the time I finish clearing up. I check my email to see if Sterling has replied but my inbox is empty. It appears his bluff has been called. I’m not willing to waste any more of my emotions on Sterling, Karl, or any other man for that matter.

  Perhaps I can now focus on novel eighteen. It’s enough for me.

  I pop to Waitrose on the way home and spoil myself by purchasing a Malaysian ready-meal, together with a few other groceries.

  I arrive home just after six-thirty. It’s probably psychological but the house feels more empty than ever before. Of the ten years I’ve lived here, six of them have been on my own so it’s not as though I’m entering uncharted territory. Somehow though, the post-relationship emptiness is different.

  I felt the same when Stuart left. Perhaps it’s the permanence; knowing nobody will be walking through the front door anytime soon.

  As I pass through the hallway, I let my hand brush gently across the smooth plaster wall.

  Just you and me again.

  It’s ridiculous to think of it as anything other than bricks and mortar, but this little house means so much more. It has been a rock in my life for the last decade; like a steadfast friend, always willing to provide assurance, to give comfort. It was here long before I entered this world, and it will be here long after I’ve left. There’s something reassuring in that.

  I throw my ready-meal in the microwave and head upstairs to change.

  Sporting a pair of pink jogging pants and a fleece hoodie, I return to the kitchen just as the microwave pings. I slide the ready-meal container onto a tray, grab a fork and wander through to the lounge. With the TV switched on, I settle down on the sofa to eat.

  As I pick at my beef rendang, I gaze around the room. The decor is long overdue a refresh. The regency red walls now feel a little dated, and sometimes the cosy space errs too close to being claustrophobic. Perhaps something brighter, a little more contemporary, would give the room a lift. I’ll pop to the DIY store tomorrow and pick up some samples. It’ll give me something positive to focus on.

  I wish I had the money to give the whole house a facelift. It could certainly do with it. The romantic notion of living in a century-old home is somewhat tainted by the ongoing cost of the maintenance. I had the kitchen and bathroom re-fitted seven years ago, but the boiler needs replacing and the slate roof is nearing the end of its life. Maybe one day, when my yet unpenned eighteenth novel is a global best-seller, I’ll be able to spend some of my royalties on remodelling the entire house.

  I allow myself a wry smile.

  Dream on, girl.

  Once I’ve finished my meal, I toy with the idea of getting the laptop out and seeing if I can move forward with novel eighteen. I don’t know if I can face the inevitable frustration and disappointment though. Maybe I’ll give it a miss tonight.

  I settle on watching a movie instead, and curl up on the sofa.

  Half-an-hour into it, my phone starts ringing in the kitchen. I reluctantly clamber from the sofa and trudge through to the kitchen. I pluck my phone from the table and study the number on the screen. It’s a local dialling code but not one of my contacts, nor is it a number I recognise.

  I want to ignore it.

  But it’s eight o’clock on a Friday evening so it’s unlikely to be a cold caller.

  I take the call.

  “Who is it?” I answer curtly.

  “Miss Baxter?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m Nurse Evans from St Mary’s Hospital,” she says, her tone sombre. “I’m calling about your mother.”

  10

  “Mum?” I gulp. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Honestly, there’s no need to worry, but I’m afraid she was the victim of a street robbery, about an hour ago.”

  “Oh, my God,” I gasp. “Is she okay? Is she hurt?”

  “Nothing too serious, Miss Baxter. She’s got a few grazes and a bump on the head. Obviously she’s in shock and because of her age, we’re keeping her in overnight as a precaution.”

  “I can’t believe this. How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know the full details I’m afraid, but I think she was attacked by two youths and fell to the ground during the struggle. That’s when she banged her head. Thankfully, a passer-by managed to scare them off.”

  “Thank heavens there are still some good Samaritans around. Tell her I’ll be there in ten minutes, please.”

  “Will do.”

  I hang up. As awful as it feels, the relief Mum is okay is overwhelmed by a surge of anger.

  What sort of pond life tries to mug a defenceless pensioner?

  I slip my trainers on, grab my handbag, and storm out of the house.

  The drive to the hospital is a blur of screeching tyres and aggressive gear changes. The journey only takes ten minutes but navigatin
g the hospital car park takes almost as long. I eventually find an empty bay on the fourth floor and haphazardly abandon the Fiat.

  I soon discover my visit to the hospital has coincided with general visiting hours. The reception area and corridors throng with people, milling around or trudging along. Some faces happy, others full of concern.

  After a painstaking wait at the reception desk, I finally make my way through the maze of stairwells and corridors towards ward F9.

  I crash through a set of double doors into the relative calm of the ward. Two nurses in dark blue uniform are sitting behind a desk directly in front of me.

  “Nurse Evans called to say my mother had been admitted.”

  The woman on the left stands. She looks tired, her complexion grey, and her eyes haloed with dark circles.

  “I’m Nurse Evans. And you are?”

  “Beth Baxter. My mother is Elizabeth Goodyear.”

  “Ah, yes. This way, Miss Baxter.”

  I follow Nurse Evans along two further corridors, ending in another set of double doors that lead into an open plan ward. There are four beds to my left and four to my right, all occupied by female patients of varying ages. The furthest bed on the left is shrouded by a light blue curtain. Nurse Evans makes her way over as I follow a few paces behind. She pokes her head through a gap in the curtain, and after a few seconds, she turns and beckons me forward.

  I slip beyond the curtain to find my mother propped up on a pillow, with a policeman sitting on a chair beside the bed.

  Mum looks up at me; a forlorn sight. Her usually pristine silver hair is splayed across the pillow, and the happy colours in her patterned dress are a stark contrast to her pale complexion. She looks small, fragile, and confused. She looks like the last woman on earth anyone would want to hurt.

  “If you need me for anything, I’ll be back at the desk,” Nurse Evans says before she scoots off.

  I dart across to the bed and into my mother’s arms. Oblivious to the policeman, I hold my mum tight and fight back the urge to cry. Such is the odd dynamic of our relationship, I have to be the strong one.

  I eventually let her go and sit on the edge of the bed, holding her hands in mine.

  The policeman coughs. My mum remembers we’re not alone.

  “Darling, this is Sergeant Stone. He’s been talking me through what happened.”

  The forty-something, bald-headed Sergeant flashes me a weary smile. He looks almost as tired as Nurse Evans.

  “Miss Baxter I assume?”

  I return his smile. “That’s right.”

  “Well, the good news is that your mother hasn’t sustained any serious injuries, and the assailants fled empty handed.”

  “The nurse said a passer-by intervened.”

  “That’s right. He’s just gone to get a coffee so you’ll be able to thank him personally when he returns. He’s been a great help in providing us with a detailed description of both assailants. It’s a good job he was there; otherwise it could have been a lot worse for your mother.”

  I turn back to my mum. She looks up at me; her pale blue eyes like beacons, lighting an almost apologetic face.

  “What were you thinking, Mum, walking the streets in the dark?”

  “I was on the way home from the college. Pam usually gives me a lift home, but she called in sick tonight.”

  “Oh, Mum. You should have called me.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. I don’t like to trouble you.”

  I shake my head and turn back to Sergeant Stone.

  “Was this just a failed mugging?” I ask, my levels of paranoia already high after recent events.

  “Looks that way. Opportunists I’d guess. There’s a squat about three hundred yards from where the attack took place, so it might have been a couple of smackhead residents desperate for a fix.”

  “Bastards,” I mumble.

  “Indeed,” the sergeant concurs.

  “Have they said when you can go home?” I ask my mother.

  “I don’t feel too bad so hopefully they’ll let me go home tomorrow.”

  “They’ll only keep you in as a precaution, Mrs Goodyear,” Sergeant Stone interjects. “They tend to treat head injuries with caution but I’m sure you’ll be right as rain by the morning.”

  Mum smiles at the policeman as she tries to stifle a yawn.

  “I think you could probably do with a rest now, Mrs Goodyear,” Sergeant Stone says as he gets to his feet. “I think I’ve got everything I need here, ladies.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Mum replies.

  He gives Mum a nod and steps around the bed.

  “I just need a final word with our witness, so I’ll grab him on the way out. I’ll be in touch when there’s something to report.”

  I get up and shake his hand. “Thank you for looking after Mum, Sergeant. I appreciate you sitting with her.”

  “All part of the service, Miss Baxter. Look after her.”

  “I will.”

  He disappears back through the gap in the curtain.

  I’ve managed to avoid police officers for all of my adult life, but I’ve now had a second conversation with a member of our local constabulary within three days. I hope it’s the last.

  I return my attention to my mother. Sergeant Stone’s detection skills were certainly on point about one thing — she does look tired.

  “You look shattered, Mum.”

  “They gave me some painkillers, darling. They’ve made me a bit woozy.”

  “I think you should probably get some sleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Just coming up to nine o’clock.”

  “You should go home. There’s no point in you sitting there watching me fall asleep.”

  “I don’t really want to leave you, Mum.”

  “Don’t be silly. Go home, darling. I’m not going to be much company.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure, but I’ll wait until you’re asleep. I’ll call in the morning and see when I can pick you up.”

  She pats my hand and closes her eyes.

  Within a few minutes her breathing slows as she drifts off.

  I sit and watch her for fifteen minutes until I’m sure she’s definitely out for the count. She doesn’t stir when I lean over and kiss her forehead.

  I’m relieved she didn’t want me to stay. I really hate hospitals. I know nobody likes hospitals, but I can’t stand the smell, the sounds, and the constant reminder of our own fragile mortality.

  It’s with some relief that I finally depart my mother’s bedside and duck past the curtain. It’s only when I get back on my feet that I realise my mother isn’t the only one who is shattered. This week has been exhausting. I like routine in my life but this week has been chaos. I can’t wait for Sunday when I can lie in bed and read, with nowhere to be and nobody bothering me.

  I wearily push open the door leading back into the corridor. As I turn and make my way towards the main entrance, I hear the sound of a male voice, followed by raucous laugher. I turn right into another stretch of corridor to find two men standing at the far end.

  The first man is immediately recognisable as Sergeant Stone in his uniform. The second man is standing with his back to me, dressed in beige trousers and a red pullover. Both men appear animated, seemingly engrossed in their conversation.

  I get within ten yards of the two men before Sergeant Stone notices me.

  “Ah, Miss Baxter,” he says with a broad smile. “Let me introduce you to the gentleman who came to your mother’s rescue.”

  The other man turns. “Good evening.”

  “Miss Baxter, this is David Sterling,” Sergeant Stone adds.

  My legs almost buckle, arresting my forward motion. I stand motionless, staring at the man who was in my shop yesterday, threatening me.

  My mouth twitches but no words form. Both men stare at me, both smiling.

  Sergeant Stone’s radio suddenly crackles, filling the silence. His smile fades in an instant as he presses a button
on his radio.

  “Two-one-six, all received. Show me dealing.”

  He turns to face David Sterling. “Sorry, Dave, I’ve got to shoot. I’ll see you Saturday evening. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Duty calls, Andrew,” Sterling replies. “Don’t forget, the first round is on you.”

  The two men chuckle.

  Sergeant Stone looks back at me. “I’ll leave you to chat with David, Miss Baxter. Be in touch.”

  He pats Sterling on the shoulder before he turns and barges through the door.

  Sterling watches him leave, and then slowly turns his gaze back in my direction. He steps towards me until there is barely three feet between us.

  “Well, well, Miss Baxter. What a coincidence.”

  I try to gulp but my throat is too dry.

  “It’s awful, what happened to your mother, just awful.”

  The words are soft, kind even. The thin smile on his face is neither.

  “You…you orchestrated this,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper.

  “What a dreadful thing to say after I came to your mother’s rescue. I just happened to be walking along, minding my own business, when I saw those two reprobates trying to steal your mother’s handbag. I put my personal safety on the line and that’s all the thanks I get? I’m hurt, Miss Baxter.”

  He leans closer to me, close enough I catch a whiff of his acrid breath.

  “But not as hurt as I was when I received your email earlier,” he adds in a hushed voice. “That really hurt me. I don’t like being told my debts won’t be repaid. Fortunately I have some very clever IT people who scrubbed your email from our servers. Now, it’s like you never sent it.”

  A dozen questions tumble through my mind. I can’t vocalise a single one. I want to run, to get away from this man. My legs have other ideas.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I think you already know that. I want what is owed to me. Your fiancé’s disappearance, and please excuse my language, has pissed me off no end. I’m not in the mood to be charitable. I hope you understand.”

  “I…I can’t pay that sort of money. You’re wasting your time,” I whimper.

  “That’s the problem with your generation, Miss Baxter. Too defeatist. However, I might be willing to offer you a more amicable solution.”