“I do.”
“And is Clement licenced?”
“Do you want to ask him?”
“Um, not really.”
“Very wise. Tonight’s special is sausage and mash.”
A pint is placed in front of me.
“Right. I’ll take one of those too, please.”
I pay Frank and retreat to my table in the corner. Seated, I take a long gulp of ale and slump back in my chair. For the first time today, I can take a moment to wallow in nothingness, while Frank Sinatra croons My Way from the juke box. I close my eyes and block out everything except Sinatra’s melodic voice. Tiredness descends, aided by the fact I haven’t eaten since breakfast. My hellish day hasn’t exactly stoked my appetite but now the worst is behind me, pangs of hunger make their presence felt.
I choose to ignore them in lieu of slipping towards a semi-serene doze. That is until a voice suddenly pulls me back to consciousness.
“Evening, William.”
Startled, I snap my head forward and open my eyes.
“What the hell?”
“I thought you’d be pleased to see me,” Gabby replies.
13.
For a second I dismiss her presence as a bad dream. When she drags a chair across the floorboards and takes a seat, I realise my nightmare is real.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Go. Away.” I snarl.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a flying visit.”
I can only assume she’s here to gloat — misguided creature. She may have won a minor victory, but ultimately, she lost the war. That fact helps to bring some composure.
“Flying or otherwise, I have no interest in any more of your little visits. Now, kindly go away.”
“Aww, did you not like your starter?”
“What?”
“The video was only a starter, William. The main course is still to be served.”
Here we go again.
“You are seriously beginning to get on my nerves. What will it take for you to leave me alone?”
“Ohh, you know the answer to that, and my offer still stands.”
“You’re deluded, and wasting your time.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got a little gift for you — this is the main course.”
She delves into her handbag and withdraws a silver box. Slowly, deliberately, she places it on the table and sits back in her chair.
“And why would I want that piece of tat?” I huff, shrugging my shoulders.
“If I’m honest, it’s more a bargaining chip than a gift. I’ll leave it with you for twenty four hours and hopefully you’ll then be willing to accept my offer. If not, my terms will increase.”
My confused expression prompts her to expand on the threat.
“In twenty-four hours' time, you’ll agree to sell Hansworth Hall for a pound. If not, my offer will double to two pounds, but I’ll also want your flat in Temple Avenue.”
“What? How did you know about my flat?”
“I have sources.”
I’m not, by nature, an aggressive man but this bloody woman is testing my patience.
“No. Damn. Way,” I growl. “I’d rather give my properties away then sell them to you, at any price.”
She gets up and taps the top of the box with a manicured fingernail. “I’d look at what’s in there before you make any rash decisions. See you tomorrow.”
A final glare and she walks away before I have chance to offer a riposte.
I gulp down more ale and steady my breathing. As I wait for my pulse to slow, my gaze falls to the box on the table. Roughly the size of a paperback book, it’s possibly silver but more likely pewter, judging by the patina. The lid has a machine engraved decorative design which dates it to the post-war period, and therefore it holds little value. Whatever is inside clearly has some value to Gabby, though.
As I stare at it, not daring to open the lid, my supper arrives. I’m grateful for the distraction.
“You order bangers and mash?”
I look up at my hulking waiter. “Frank’s got you waiting tables too?”
“Keeps me busy,” Clement replies, placing the tray down next to the box.
I thank him, and just as I expect him to stride away, he bends over the table and studies the box.
“Be who you are,” he mumbles to himself.
“Sorry?”
“The inscription. Latin ain’t it?”
I lean forward and study the lid. Amongst the engraved decorative swirls, the words Qui Estis are just about visible in the dim light.
“Yes it is,” I reply, trying to suppress my surprise. “Are you conversant with Latin?”
“Nah, don’t understand a bleedin’ word of it.”
“But…”
“Don’t ask. What is it, anyway, the box?”
“I have no idea. Remember that woman who came in last night?”
“The wrong’un?”
“Yes, that one. She gave it to me.”
Rather than pressing me further, he slowly runs his finger over the lid while staring at the box intently. Seconds pass, and despite the slight awkwardness of the silence, I have no desire to question his motive.
He eventually snaps back to reality and turns to me. “If you need anything else, you just ask.”
“Thank you. I will.”
He turns to walk away but stops in his tracks. “I mean it, Bill — anything. Just ask, alright?”
Something in his tone suggests an offer beyond fetching condiments, but I’m not quite sure what. He’s already gone before I’m minded to ask.
I decide I’m not ready to open the box and spend five minutes picking at my food. Distracted, all I can do is stare at the box with a growing sense of dread. That dread quickly stifles whatever appetite I had after Gabby’s visit. I give up, and arrange my knife and fork next to the mound of food.
Another sup of ale and another glance at the box. It is, in every literal sense, Pandora’s Box.
You can’t fight blind, William.
Whatever Gabby has up her sleeve, there is nothing to be gained by remaining ignorant. I open the lid.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but it probably wasn’t a cream coloured envelope with my name scrawled on the front. That is though, precisely what I do find. My immediate conclusion is the letter is from Gabby, but why deliver it in a pewter trinket box?
I snatch the envelope and take a second to study it. The thick, quality paper suggests the sender had an eye for premium stationary. But if this is a formal notice of intended blackmail, why not just use run-of-the-mill stationery that is near impossible to trace?
Something tells me the letter isn’t from Gabby.
The flap of the envelope is folded inside rather than stuck down. I prise it open and extract a single sheet of equally expensive writing paper, before slowly unfolding it.
“Good God!”
It takes a moment to fully absorb what I’m looking at — my father’s headed stationery with his title and Hansworth Hall address embossed at the top in gold leaf. Below the header are six paragraphs of hand-written text, and the date the letter was penned.
“21st November, 1999,” I whisper to myself.
The date is relevant because it was the day before my father died. Suddenly, the significance of what I’m holding in my hand becomes obvious. Whatever the six paragraphs reveal, the lines of scrawled text are some of my father’s final thoughts.
I carefully place the letter on the table and begin to read…
My Dearest William,
There is much to say but little time to say it. I’m afraid my mind is now fading but I’ll try to make some sense. My son, I am sorry to say my time is nearly over and while I hold no fear of death, the fact I may never see you again makes that hard to bear. Even in poor health, if I knew your whereabouts I would be with you tomorrow. I would gladly travel the world to spend a final day in your company. And I would beg your forgiveness for the way I failed you, and th
e way I failed your mother. Sadly, it is not to be and I must therefore confess to those failings on paper.
You will never know just how much I loved your mother. She was my world and perhaps when she left, some part of me left with her. That is not to excuse the dreadful way I treated you. I pushed you away when you needed me most. I would never seek forgiveness because my actions were unforgivable, but I now carry the burden of that behaviour. It weighs heavy, and of that I am glad — it is no less than I deserve.
More than anything, I wish I could end this letter now, but I must now write what must be read. My sin is great and if I am to find peace, I have to pray you can help me find it. There are no words to truly convey, nor excuse, the shame of what I’m about to tell you. Please be prepared.
Some years ago, I made a mistake. I let lust and alcohol cloud my judgement. It was for one night, and it was a decision I came to rue. You may recall my assistant, Susan Davies. We were at the party conference, in Bournemouth, and I am ashamed to say I shared my bed with Susan on the final night.
If my shameful behaviour had ended there, perhaps I might not be telling you this, but it did not. Nine months after our night together, Susan gave birth. To even acknowledge the existence of the child would have ended my marriage and ended my career. I chose not to lose either. I provided financial support but that was all I provided. I never felt worthy of your mother’s love ever again.
It is too late for me, but I needed you to know — you are not alone in this world, and the Huxley bloodline does not end with you. I understand this must be a shock, and for that, know I am so very, very sorry.
I cannot tell if it was prompted by sadness or anger, but a single tear rolls across my cheeks and falls on the paper. I read the letter again, and again. More tears follow and with them, a dull ache forms in the pit of my stomach; the like I have never felt before. That ache is joined by a stabbing truth. To learn my father betrayed my mother is difficult enough to bear, but his astonishing revelation that I have a sibling is the cruellest of twists.
All these years I’ve been alone — an only child with no parents; an orphan, or, so I thought. Somewhere I have a brother or sister who almost certainly doesn’t know I exist. How could he have kept that from me?
As an entire inquisition of questions pummel my mind, and two in particular hit hardest — where has the letter been all these years and how did Gabby get hold of it? If, as my father clearly intended, I had seen it in the weeks after his death, I might already have some kind of relationship with my estranged sibling. So many wasted years have passed, so much time lost.
Long minutes slip by as I sit alone in the darkened corner of Fitzgerald’s — confounded, shocked, saddened. But beyond any other emotion, my anger is so intense it’s near paralysing. That anger is not towards my father, although God knows he deserves it. No, my anger is focused on the woman who has not only kept this secret from me, but chosen to use it as in instrument for blackmail.
I pull my phone from my pocket and curse the unfamiliar screen layout. Frustration mounts as I try to extract Gabby’s phone number from her text message. Twice I have to stop and calm myself. A third attempt and I finally manage to call the number. It rings four times before she answers.
“That was quick. Ready to do that deal?”
“Where did you get it,” I growl.
“Get what? The letter?”
“Don’t mess me around, or so help me God I’ll swing for you. Where did you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter where I got it. What matters, William, is where it goes next.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I gave you my terms. You agree to sell me the house tomorrow. If you don’t, the terms change and I’ll want the flat too. The alternative is I go to the press and daddy’s little secret becomes public knowledge. Be warned, William, I’m not messing around here.”
She hangs up. I redial the number but it goes straight to a generic voicemail.
I slap the phone on the table and press my fingertips into my temples in an attempt to quell my rage. Anger is such a debilitating emotion — it’s impossible to think rationally, to find any sense of clarity. All I want to do is upend the table and scream. Mercifully, there remains enough of my rational mind I don’t, and stare at the letter instead, all the while pulling deep breaths.
“Bill?”
I look up to find Clement stood over me.
“You finished with your plate?” he asks.
I nod and return my gaze to the letter.
“You alright, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
As much as I’d rather not antagonise Clement, his interference is the last thing I need.
“If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather be left alone.”
Ignoring my protest, he pulls up a chair.
“Can’t do that, Bill. Goes against my terms of employment.”
I shoot him a puzzled look.
“It’s complicated,” he adds.
I drop my head and hope my silence will be enough for him to get the message.
“You gonna tell me what’s up then?”
Just go away.
“Something to do with this?” he asks, tapping the letter.
I snatch the letter from the table and stuff it in my jacket pocket.
“For a politician, you ain’t got much to say.”
My head snaps up. “Who told you I was a politician?” I bark, paranoia fuelling my aggression.
“Frank.”
“Right. Of course.”
Silence descends over the table as the juke box loads another record. Clement appears comfortable waiting for me to break. It doesn’t take long.
“With respect, Clement,” I sigh. “I don’t think you can help.”
He sits forward and rests his elbows on the table.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t say if I don’t know what’s pissed you off.”
Up until I met Gabby, I always considered myself an excellent judge of character. A decade working in politics exposes you to the very best and the very worst of people. But looking at Clement, all I see is a conundrum — a man who looks the very personification of trouble, yet there’s an almost inescapable gravity about him; his gravelly voice and blunt tone feel assuring, genuine.
Without thinking, I blurt a response. “I’m being blackmailed.
His blue eyes widen a fraction, their cold edge softening.
“That woman?”
“Yes.”
“Something to do with that letter?”
“Yes.”
“Bleedin’ hell, Bill. You wanna stop playing twenty questions and give me something to go on?”
As much as I might welcome the opportunity to offload, I’m not sure Clement is the man I should be offloading to.
“Don’t get me wrong, Clement, I appreciate your good intentions, but I really don’t think you can help. In fact, I think it’s time I spoke to the police.”
“You think? Why ain’t you already been on the blower to them then?”
It’s a good question.
“Because I was hoping not to. She has…certain information that I really don’t want in the public domain. The moment I invite the police in, there is every chance that information will leak — there’s always somebody willing to sell their soul when a politician is involved. To be frank, it’s looking like a choice of lesser evils at the moment.”
“And I’m guessing that letter is part of her blackmail plot?”
“It is. I can’t even begin to consider the consequences if it were made public.”
He sits back and strokes his moustache, seemingly deep in thought. Seconds tick by before a conclusion is returned.
“Well, Bill. I can’t fix stupid, but I think I can show it the door.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No offence, mate, but I thought you politicians were supposed to be bright.”
“I…what?”
“The letter,
” he groans. “It didn’t look like a photocopy.”
“No, the gold leaf in the letterhead is…”
I fear my initial anger might have clouded the obvious.
“It’s…it’s the original,” I splutter.
“Yeah, and I’m no lawyer but I doubt a newspaper will run a story on the back of photocopy cos’ it ain’t worth shit in court. You sue for libel and they ain’t got a leg to stand on. So, what’s she gonna do without the original?”
It seems Gabby has dropped the ball. She must have known a photocopied version of my father’s letter wouldn’t be anywhere near convincing enough for me to believe it was genuine, so her only option was to give me the original.
“Clement, if I didn’t think it would end in violence, I could kiss you.”
“Yeah, you’re not my type, Bill.”
“Thank you so much. I can’t believe I didn’t realise it myself.”
He gets up. “Anytime. Need anything else?”
“No, thank you. But, please, let me buy you a drink.”
“Nah, you’re alright, mate. I’ve got shit to be getting on with.”
He picks up my tray and with a parting nod, he ambles away.
I watch him go and finish my drink. The temptation to have another one is great, but I need a clear head. Perhaps Clement’s observation is enough to thwart Gabby for now but if I’ve learnt anything about her, it’s that she doesn’t easily give up. Even so, her plot is no longer my primary concern.
Those six paragraphs of scrawled text have undermined everything I knew to be true. They have created a new truth; that my father was a cheat and a coward, and my poor mother oblivious to the most despicable of betrayals. And what of my forgotten sibling? Where are they? Who are they? Do they know the truth about their father?
There is however, one overriding question to be asked before any answers will be forthcoming — what do I do next?
14.
Sleep is elusive and I eventually give up trying to find it despite dawn still being an hour away.
I clamber from my bed and head to the kitchen. Tea won’t deliver sufficient caffeine so I make a cup of strong coffee and retire to the lounge. Beyond the windows, London slumbers the way it always does — never quite silent, never quite still. It mirrors my mind ever since I left Fitzgerald’s last night.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 10