Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  “What?”

  “Your house.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ll buy it from you.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Don’t be silly. Everything is for sale at the right price.”

  He shuffles nearer, his face so close I can see every detail of the pale scar tissue puckering his leathery skin.

  “And in your case, the right price is fifty thousand pounds less than the market value.”

  He remains silent, his head tilted slightly, observing me.

  “What? No. Why would I do that?”

  “Because unless you find twenty thousand pounds by next Thursday, it will be the only way to ensure your mother doesn’t fall victim to any other unfortunate incidents, unless of course, Mr Patterson makes a return.”

  I don’t want to feel this way: weak, helpless, alone.

  I grasp what little resolve I can find, and the anger I felt when I first arrived here. I can feel the adrenalin build as my heart rate increases.

  Fuck you, Sterling.

  My hand balls into a fist, and before I can talk myself out of it, I swing my arm in an uppercut motion towards Sterling’s jaw.

  It doesn’t reach its destination.

  With the reflexes of a startled deer, Sterling snaps out a wiry hand and grabs my wrist.

  “Now, that wasn’t very sensible, Miss Baxter.”

  He tightens his grip on my wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh at the base of my palm. The pain slowly builds, as does the smile on Sterling’s face.

  “Please, you’re hurting me,” I whimper.

  He throws me a look of contempt before he eases his grip slightly.

  “Did Mr Patterson happen to mention what I used to do for a living, back in London?”

  “Eh? I don’t know…yes, maybe.”

  “People have underestimated me my entire life. The vast majority of them lived to regret it. The rest, they never lived another day.”

  He slowly lowers his hand, pulling my arm into an increasingly awkward position. To anyone looking on, it must almost look like we’re in some sort of affectionate clutch. There is nothing affectionate about Sterling’s intentions.

  He leans in further so he’s almost whispering in my ear.

  “I’ve hurt plenty of women in my life so don’t think it’s beyond me. Whether it’s you, or your dear mother, somebody will pay if my debt isn’t settled.”

  A stabbing pain shoots up my arm and I try not to squeal. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  “We’ll see what the police have to say about that, shall we?” I spit, trying to assert some defiance.

  “Ah, yes. The police. I’m glad you brought them up. I’m attending their gala dinner on Saturday as an honoured guest. I was just discussing it with Andrew, Sergeant Stone. You see, Miss Baxter, I’ve been very generous to the local constabulary’s benevolent fund over the years. I’m actually making another sizable donation on Saturday.”

  He eventually releases my arm and takes a step back.

  “Think about it. You have no evidence against me, and I have spent years cultivating goodwill with the local police force. Do you honestly think they’re going to believe your outlandish accusations, let alone act upon them?”

  Karl’s words float back into my head. For all his stupidity, the advice he offered about Sterling now seems pretty sage. I have no evidence, and no options.

  All I can offer in reply is silence.

  “I rest my case, Miss Baxter. When you agreed to marry Mr Patterson, you agreed to accept his liabilities, least that’s the way I see it, and the contract backs that up. You have six days left, after which I expect you and that fiancé of yours to come up with twenty thousand pounds, in cash, or I’ll require you to sign a memorandum of sale for your property. That sale will be at fifty thousand pounds less than market value.”

  “No. Bloody. Way,” I growl. “I’m not selling you the house.”

  “I have a legally binding contract so don’t mess me around,” he spits. “I’m not renowned for my patience.”

  My only, and final resort, is to beg.

  “I don’t have anything other than that house. I bought it with my late father’s inheritance money. Please, you can’t do this to me.”

  “I can, and I will, but it’s entirely within your hands. Get the cash by 5.30pm next Thursday and you can keep your home. I think that’s a perfectly reasonable proposal.”

  I have never considered killing another human being, but if I had a gun in my hand I don’t think I’d hesitate to use it. How can any person be so cruel, so unfair, and so utterly despicable?

  My anger is pointless.

  “Fine. I’ll get your bloody money,” I eventually mumble.

  “Excellent. I knew you’d see sense. And for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry it’s come to this. If Mr Patterson hadn’t disappeared, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. If I were in your shoes, I’d be doing everything I could to track him down.”

  “Whatever.”

  “But be under no illusion, Miss Baxter, I always get what I want so it would be unwise to cross me. If you contact the police, the debt doubles. If you try any funny business, the debt doubles. If you fail to pay on time, or don’t agree to sell your property on my terms, your mother’s wellbeing is on the line. Do you understand me?”

  I can do nothing other than nod.

  “Splendid. I’ll pop by your shop at five-thirty next Thursday to collect. In the meantime, a couple of my associates will be keeping tabs on your home, just in case Mr Patterson decides to resurface in the interim, or you decide to join him.”

  He holds out his hand, inviting me to shake it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” I snort.

  “Fair enough. Have a pleasant evening, Miss Baxter.”

  He turns and walks away, whistling to himself.

  I count to twenty in my head, and when I’m sure he’s gone, I collapse to the floor. As much as I try to fight it back, my chest heaves and I begin to sob.

  From the depths of my despair, a single question emerges from the darkness — why is this happening to me?

  11

  I’m not sure how long I sit on the floor in the corridor, but at some point a nurse finds me.

  “Are you alright, madam?”

  She’s much younger than me, much prettier than me. Probably doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “Um, yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.”

  I get to my feet and take a sharp intake of breath.

  “Were you visiting somebody?” the young nurse asks.

  “My mum. She was hurt in a mugging.”

  “How awful. You’re not suffering from shock are you? It’s not uncommon among relatives of crime victims.”

  I probably am in shock, but not just because of my mother’s misfortune.

  “No, I think I’m fine. Just a bit overwhelmed. Can you point me in the direction of the toilets?”

  She double-checks I am actually okay and offers directions.

  With visiting time over, the hospital corridors and the toilets are quiet. I pad across the tiled floor and stand in front of a row of sinks, staring into a mirrored wall behind. I look horrendous. My face is ashen, my eyes bloodshot. In fairness, it is the look of a broke woman who has six days to find twenty grand.

  What the hell are you going to do, Beth?

  I have so few options it doesn’t take long to discount them. I can’t borrow the money from a bank since I barely earn enough to cover the business overheads. I don’t have any close friends who might come to my rescue. I haven’t seen most of my family in years so I can’t ask them. And even if I could sell my car, my engagement ring, and all the stock in the shop, it wouldn’t come remotely close to what Sterling wants.

  I own nothing else of value — besides my home.

  Even the thought of losing it summons more tears. It’s not just the fact it’s my home; it’s my father’s legacy. It was his mone
y that allowed me to buy it in the first place, and in some tenuous way, it keeps his memory alive.

  This is beyond any nightmare, beyond any wicked plot my own imagination could ever have conjured.

  I want to scream. I want to vent the anger boiling within me. But more than anything, I want to dig my nails into Sterling’s face and tear at his flesh. I want to ram my elbow into his freakish nose and watch it splatter across his disfigured face.

  I want him to die. I want to dance on his grave.

  Come to think of it, I want to dance on Karl’s grave even more.

  I snatch my phone from my handbag and ring his number.

  An automated voice answers…

  The number you are calling has not been recognised. Please check and try again.

  Why does it not surprise me that the coward has cancelled his phone contract? The temptation to launch my phone through the air returns.

  I bite my lip and snort deep breaths through my nose. This is utterly hopeless. I have nowhere to turn. I am alone.

  I turn on a tap and splash cold water on my face. Despite the looming deadline, I can’t ignore how utterly exhausted I am. I need to get home. Maybe I’ll awake tomorrow to some inspired idea. Maybe my mind will work on the problem as I sleep.

  In truth, my mind is so clouded with anger at the moment, I can’t focus on anything, so it’s all I can do.

  I exit the toilets and plod wearily back through the corridors and stairwells.

  The drive home is much more subdued that the outbound journey. I pull into my road and slowly cruise the entire length, searching for somewhere to park. I pass a space sixty yards beyond my front door. It’s too tight to drive straight into, so I have to parallel park.

  I pull up alongside a dark coloured BMW as I prepare to reverse back into the space. As I look across at my mirror, a flash of movement catches my attention. A man, sitting in the passenger seat of the BMW. He waves, and smiles. His companion in the driver’s seat leans forward and does the same. Two men, both with shaven heads, both with menacing smiles. They want me to know they’re here, and they’re watching me.

  I struggle to catch my breath as my heart pounds. Sterling’s warning about his associates watching the house for Karl. It must be them.

  I might be tired, I might be angry, but both are suddenly trumped by fear. The game has changed from theory to reality.

  I slam the car into first gear and gun the engine. The little Fiat squeals away from the BMW and darts towards the junction at the end of the street.

  I daren’t look in my mirror as I make a series of random turns, passing through one dark street after another. A right, then a left, then another right.

  I subconsciously weave my way through the back streets towards the town centre, adrenalin my co-pilot. That adrenalin is welcome as I can’t think straight. The only thing I do know is that I can’t stay in the house tonight. My skin crawls at the thought of Sterling’s goons sitting outside.

  But where do I go?

  I take a right turn and make my way towards the only place I can think of — the shop.

  I pull into the parking bay and scramble in my handbag for the keys.

  Please, please, please. Be in here.

  My panic eases a little when I hear them jingle at the bottom. I cautiously get out of the car and survey the area. The darkness is only broken by the glow of a single streetlight, some twenty yards away. There are no other vehicles parked up and no sign of anyone else around.

  I open the back door, step into the staffroom and switch the light on. I lock and bolt the door, wedging a chair under the handle as an extra line of security. The cold air helps to clear my head and ease my fatigue, but I don’t think the short-term benefits will outweigh the long-term discomfort. I switch the heating on. A few extra quid on my gas bill is the least of my worries.

  Now I’m here, and feeling slightly less exposed, I need to think about what I’m going to do.

  With few options open, it doesn’t take long to formulate a plan.

  I can sleep here for the night and then pick Mum up tomorrow. I can stay with her for a few days while I try and think of a way to raise Sterling’s money.

  However, my most immediate problem is avoiding frostbite. The radiator in the staffroom hasn’t worked properly in years, and with no staff to warm, I saw no reason to get it fixed. Even with the heating on, it’ll remain as cold as a fridge in here. The stockroom has no radiator at all, broken or otherwise. If I want to avoid freezing to death in my sleep, I’ll have to crash out in the shop.

  I enter the darkness of the shop, and rather than the main lights which would be too bright to allow sleep, I switch on a standard lamp in the corner. I slump down behind the counter where I can’t be seen by passers-by on the street. In truth, it’s not a huge concern. Very few pedestrians venture up our road during the day so it’s not likely to be busy at night.

  With my back against the wall I hug my knees, pulling them tight towards my chest in a futile attempt to retain some warmth. The silence is only broken by the occasional ticking of the radiator as the cold iron fills with hot water. There will be no sleep until that radiator shares its heat with the frigid air.

  Minutes tick by as the silence, the cold, and the gloomy light slowly suffocate me. I have never felt so lonely. My mind races back and forth over the last few days, trying to find something positive to cling to; anything to provide respite from this nightmare.

  Nothing comes.

  Sitting inactive, and adrenalin spent, my body temperature continues to fall. Shivers arrive. How I long for my bed; to snuggle beneath my duvet. The promise of warmth is almost tempting enough to send me home, but not quite. As cold and despondent as I may be, I don’t wish to trade it for warmth and fear.

  I have to stick this out.

  While I can only wait for warmth to arrive, I can address the deafening silence. I lean forward and turn the CD player on. The rich notes of a concert piano permeate the silence — Haydn’s Concerto No. 11. If I wasn’t so damn cold, I’m sure the familiar, comforting melody would lull me to sleep in minutes.

  I lean back against the wall, bathed in a sickly green light from the digital display on the CD player. I watch the bars on the equaliser dance up and down in tune to the music. My eyelids begin to droop and I sense sleep isn’t far away. Another cold shiver spasms through my body, bringing me back from the brink.

  I continue to watch the bars dance as, little by little, the air temperature creeps another degree north.

  The concerto draws to an end. The final track on the CD.

  I lean forward and press the play button again. As I move, the slightest glint of green light reflects from the shelf next to the CD player. Curiosity prompts me to lean further forward in order to identify the source of the light. I squint at a dark rectangle shape, with gilded gold leaf on the spine — the King James Bible. In any normal week I’d already have put it up for sale. This is no ordinary week and I’d almost forgotten about it.

  I pluck the bible from the shelf and hold it in my hands. Other than the monetary value of this particular edition, the bible no longer holds any meaning.

  When I was a child, before I lost my father, it did mean something to me.

  My dad was devoted to our local church. Every Sunday, without fail, the three of us would dress to the nines and clamber into his Austin Maestro. We’d take our position at the front of the congregation, sitting upon unforgiving oak pews. The grand organ would bellow out the accompaniment to hymns I rarely knew. I vividly remember the shear gusto with which my father used to sing those hymns, as if keen to ensure every word was heard by the man upstairs.

  When Dad left us, he took our faith with him.

  Besides weddings, christenings, and the occasional funeral, the only reason I ever visit our local church is to lay flowers on my father’s grave. I always offer a prayer that he’s safe, that he’s happy. With every passing year it feels more and more like I’m talking to myself.

&
nbsp; Like much of everything in my life, my faith in God has been slowly eroded to virtually nothing.

  Until now.

  Truth is, I’ll take comfort wherever I can get it. After all these years, surely one of my prayers has to be answered.

  I open the bible and spend a few minutes haphazardly flicking through it. The English is from a period not long after the Civil War and in the dim light, the faded print is headache-inducing. Sadly, the few paragraphs I struggle through don't encourage me back along the path to righteousness.

  Frustrated, I stop thinking about it as a route to salvation. I don’t need salvation — I need a route to money.

  Beyond the condition, there is one thing that can make or break the value of a collectible book — provenance. If you’re able to trace the ownership back to a person of note, it can turn a hundred pound book into a thousand pound book. If you’re lucky, there might be an author’s signature. And if you’re really lucky, there might be a hand written dedication. For a bible of this period, the holy grail would be to find a quilled message from a prominent figure of the time.

  I check inside the front cover and first page. Nothing.

  A quick scan of the internal pages brings the same result. Nothing.

  I reach the final page opposite the rear cover, and lean forward, squinting.

  My woes are briefly replaced with a twinge of excitement when I spot six lines of faint reddish text, beautifully scribed by hand.

  It doesn’t take long to determine the text isn’t a dedication or a note. Too short to be a sonnet, popular in the period. A poem, of sorts?

  I try to paint a picture of whoever wrote it. Where they were, who they were. Words conjured from a man, or woman, who lived in the reign of Charles II. Could they ever have imagined their words still being spoken centuries after their death?

  I mumble those words under my breath…

  O child of need, who shall be thy steed?

  To carry thou on, tho hope be gone

  The light to see, with words for thee

  For once thou speak, thy steed thou seek

  O Heavenly alchemy;

  blessed thou shall be.

  I’ve got no idea what it means. I do wonder, though, if it could be a known poem.