Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “I don’t bloody believe it,” Clement gasps. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes it is.”

  The rolling stock on the island consists of pre-war London Underground trains. It amazes me how they keep them running, or why, but they have become something of a tourist attraction in their own right.

  Clement approaches one of the carriages and gently runs his hand across the battered red paint.

  “Alright old girl,” he says under his breath.

  I’m somewhat taken aback by his reverence towards the tatty old train. I don’t like to pre-judge people but there’s no way I would have taken Clement for a train enthusiast.

  “You obviously know what this is.” I remark.

  “Yeah, I do,” he replies, still eyeing the outside of the carriage with obvious interest. “This old girl used to run under the streets of London.”

  “Are you an enthusiast?”

  He ducks through the open door into the carriage without a reply. I shake my head and follow him in.

  The inside of the carriage is in better condition than the outside but still a world away from the interior of modern trains. The window frames are in varnished wood and the seats heavily sprung like an old sofa. I take one of those seats while Clement continues his inspection.

  He eventually joins me as the trains sets off. As we reach speed, the carriage fills with a cacophony of whines and clickety clacks, reminiscent of today’s London Underground. Close your eyes and you could just as easily be on the Bakerloo Line.

  Clement appears mesmerised but it’s too noisy in the carriage to question his reasons. I turn my attention to the darkening view outside, leaving him to indulge whatever trainspotter fantasy he’s engaged in.

  We stop at four stations, too briefly to allow any meaningful conversation, and arrive in Sandown a little after twelve. Thankfully our arrival coincides with a break in the rain. As we stand outside the station, Clement returns his attention to the matter in hand.

  “How far is her gaff from here then?”

  I extract my phone and waste a minute familiarising myself with the map function.

  “A ten minute walk.”

  “Good. You ready for this?”

  I’m not sure I am. The journey here has provided a welcome distraction from the purpose, but with just a short walk to our final destination there is nothing to focus on other than the imminent challenge.

  A ten-minute walk followed by either a constructive discussion, or a door slammed in our faces.

  Soon enough I’ll know which.

  18.

  The Isle of Wight is just twenty-five miles across, and thirteen miles north to south. Clement’s long strides make it feel even smaller as the duration of our walk turns out to be less than seven minutes. The blusterous tail wind probably helped.

  Too soon, we’re stood in front of a semi-detached bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac.

  “Ready, Bill? Now or never.”

  Never would be my preference but I have no choice. With Clement at my heels, I make my way up the path to the front door.

  I ring the bell.

  Seconds pass and the knot in my stomach returns with an ever-tightening vengeance.

  The door opens.

  “Yes?” comes the curt greeting.

  A woman, who I assume to be Susan Davies, stands in the doorway. The years don’t appear to have been kind and it’s hard to imagine this frumpy, grey haired woman was once the object of my father’s desires; for one night at least.

  “Susan Davies?”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  “We’re looking for Susan Davies,” I repeat. “Would that be you?”

  “Tell me who you are and I’ll answer your question.”

  “I’m, William, and this is my friend, Clement…”

  I don’t want to offer my surname yet for fear she’ll slam the door in my face, and I’m suddenly minded I don’t even know Clement’s surname.

  “And what do you want?” she asks, her tone spiky.

  “Well, assuming you are Susan Davies, I was hoping we could have a chat.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s a bit sensitive and I’d rather not discuss it on your doorstep.”

  She sighs but finally relents. “Yes, I’m Susan Davies. And you’ve got five minutes.”

  I wasn’t sure what to expect but I hoped Susan might be a little more friendly than this frosty harridan. Nevertheless, I follow her into the hallway and through to a twelve-foot square lounge. The tight space is crammed with mismatched furniture including two armchairs, a small sofa, three overstocked bookcases, and several wall-mounted shelves laden with cheap ornaments.

  “Take a seat,” she mumbles, waving a hand at the sofa.

  I do as instructed while Clement stands in the doorway. Susan glances in his direction but seems indifferent to his presence as she lowers her plump frame into one of the armchairs.

  “Come on then. What is it you want?” she mumbles.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well make it short,” she snaps back.

  “Fair enough. I’ll get straight to the point — Charles Huxley was my father.”

  I wait for a reaction but other than a slight twitch in her left cheek, she doesn’t erupt as I feared she might. I press on.

  “And your daughter, Gabby, is…how can I put this…blackmailing me.”

  Her eyes narrow but there’s no immediate response to my bombshell. I expected something more than the stony glare she’s offering.

  “Did you hear me, Susan. Your daughter has recently discovered who her father is, and she’s using that fact to blackmail me.”

  A clock ticks somewhere in the room but otherwise silence fills the air.

  “So?” she eventually grunts.

  “So I was hoping you would talk to her.”

  “And say what?”

  Agitation prickles but I try to keep my voice calm. “I’d like her to stop, obviously, and I assumed she might listen to you.”

  Susan shrugs her shoulders. “Nothing to do with me.”

  “What do you mean it has nothing to do with you? It has everything to do with you. I assume it was you who gave her the birth certificate and my father’s letter which, I might add, was not yours to share. How did you even get hold of it?”

  She shuffles in her chair but doesn’t answer.

  “Well?” I bark, my patience wearing thin.

  “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “Hold on a second. I’ve just told you that your daughter is blackmailing me and you couldn’t be less interested. You do realise blackmail is a serious crime.”

  “You better call the police then,” she snipes.

  An obvious suggestion but not an option.

  “And that’s okay with you, Susan? You don’t mind if Gabby is sent to prison for blackmail?”

  “She’s bloody minded, that one — always has been. She won’t listen to me even if I wanted to intervene.”

  I’m about to try pleading when Clement steps across the room and stands next to the sofa.

  “Oi. Look at me,” he growls at Susan.

  She looks up at him but remains impassive. The tone of his voice is far from friendly but as Susan appears unwilling to listen to reason, I’m prepared to let Clement try his approach, to a point.

  “Do you know what the mad bitch did?” he says.

  Another shrug of the shoulders.

  “She slept with Bill here, and then told the poor bloke she’s his sister. What sort of fucked up chick does something like that?”

  I stare up at Clement, horrified he chose to reveal the specifics of my tawdry secret. However, when I turn back to Susan, it’s her expression that stuns me. There’s not even a hint of shock or disgust. In fact, it appears the old woman is not to be intimidated and she glares back at Clement.

  “Good on her,” she spits.

  She then fixes her glare on me. “The way your father treated
us, I hope Gabby takes your every last penny. She’s entitled to it as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’m not debating the fact she’s entitled to something,” I plea. “I offered her my flat in London, and if you need money I’m willing to help. What my father did was totally wrong but what Gabby is doing is wrong too. Can’t you see that?”

  Oddly, she begins to chuckle. “You’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Throw us a few crumbs and expect gratitude. Typical of your sort.”

  “I hardly think a two-million-pound flat in central London is a few crumbs,” I scoff. “And whatever sort you think I am, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  We reach an impasse. The clock ticks away while both sides assess their next move. I’m out of ideas. Thankfully, Clement intervenes again.

  “Let me ask you something old woman. Do you think Bill here is just gonna roll over and give her everything?”

  “He will if he’s got any sense.”

  “Oh, he’s got sense alright. Trouble is, I ain’t.”

  The twitch in her cheek becomes a spasm, flickering rapidly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t roll over for no one. I suggest you and your daughter take Bill’s generous offer while it’s on the table.”

  “Or what?”

  Clement leans forward and looks Susan straight in the eye. “Or, sweetheart, there won’t be an offer, and I’ll take over proceedings.”

  Her expression changes and the defiance withers. But as much as I might find some hope in Susan’s sudden change in demeanour, I really hope I haven’t misjudged Clement’s temperament.

  “You’ve got till Monday to call the dogs off,” he adds. “Otherwise the rules change. That nutter might think she’s got Bill in a corner, but he ain’t alone, and I’m no stranger to helping people out of corners. It’s what I do…by any means.”

  His final three words are delivered with enough intonation to make his position clear. I’m pretty sure he’s strayed beyond our agreed strategy but for the first time since Gabby delivered her ultimatum, the balance of power appears to have swung a few degrees in my direction.

  “I think we’re done here,” I say. “But as Clement says, Gabby has until five o’clock on Monday and then my offer of the London flat will be withdrawn. I think that’s more than fair, considering the circumstances. Don’t you?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Goodbye, Susan. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  We leave her sitting shell shocked in the armchair.

  Once we’re the other side of the front door, I release a sigh of relief almost as strong as the gusting winds that greet us.

  “That went better than I expected.”

  “She knew we were coming.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t bat an eyelid when I said what her daughter had been up to.”

  On reflection, I shouldn’t be surprised Gabby covered all her bases, and it’s not unreasonable to think her mother was in on it. It seems sick that she would condone Gabby’s tactics, but I’m seldom surprised by how low some people are prepared to sink to get what they want.

  “Anyway, I thought the way you handled her was superb. It never crossed my mind to counter her threat with one of my own.”

  “Just common sense, Bill. Dunno why you’re offering her your bleedin’ flat though.”

  “Because, Clement, she grew up with nothing, and that no doubt contributed to her angst. No matter what the flat is worth, it’s a small price to pay to settle my father’s debt and get Gabby off my back.”

  “If you say so. Your money, mate.”

  “It is, and if Mrs Davies tells Gabby we’re serious about pulling that offer, she’d be mad not to accept.”

  “Trouble is, Bill, we know she is mad.”

  I don’t share Clement’s reticence at the outcome. While there’s no doubting Gabby is quite deranged, only a fool would chance losing two million pounds whilst risking the wrath of a man like Clement. I’m not sure what we’re to do if she passes on my offer, but I’m quietly confident she won’t.

  “Well, I think we’ve put a pretty compelling case forward. I wouldn’t be surprised if I receive a text from Gabby in the next few hours, accepting the offer.”

  “Hope you’re right, Bill.”

  We make our way back along the cul-de-sac.

  “To be honest with you, Clement, I had reservations about today, but I’m both glad and grateful you came along. Thank you.”

  “Thank me when we know for sure she’s done with you.”

  “Of course, but I didn’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your input.”

  “It’s alright. You can buy me lunch to show your appreciation.”

  “It would be my pleasure, although I’m not sure what the restaurants are like in Sandown.”

  “Do I look like the sort of bloke who eats in restaurants?”

  “Um…”

  “Let’s just find a cafe where I can get a mug of tea and a fry-up. That’ll do me.”

  “A fry-up sounds perfect. I’m pretty sure there are a few cafes towards the front.”

  After a quick check of the location on my phone, we head towards the sea front.

  What we find as we turn onto the esplanade, a few minutes later, is a depressing view of a typically downtrodden seaside town in October.

  “Shit. What happened here?” Clement remarks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at the place. I know it’s October but this ain’t like any seaside town I remember.”

  His observation is valid. It’s a bleak scene of boarded-up amusement arcades, empty shops, and once-grand hotels entombed in wire fencing; prepped for demolition.

  “It’s a similar story in many seaside towns, I’m afraid. When was the last time you visited one?”

  “Clacton-on-Sea. A long time ago.”

  “It must have been a long time ago because the rot set in several decades back. A consequence of cheap overseas holidays with guaranteed sunshine — hard to compete with.”

  If the sorry view wasn’t depressing enough, the backdrop of black clouds does little to improve it. Coupled with the bitter wind rolling off an angry sea and I can quite see why people would rather spend their autumn break in the Mediterranean.

  With fear of being blown from the promenade, we retreat to a side street. Good fortune favours us when we stumble across a small cafe, still open.

  As we step through the door we immediately double their customer count; an elderly couple, seated by the window their only other patrons.

  We take a seat and a middle-aged woman gratefully takes our order. As she returns to the kitchen, I can’t help but feel sympathy. Chances are, this little cafe is hanging on by the skin of its teeth and I’d be surprised if it sees another summer.

  The woman returns after ten minutes with two enormous plates. Spain may have its tapas, Italy its pasta dishes, but nowhere in the world can you enjoy an all-day breakfast quite like those served in a British seaside cafe. Clement destroys his in minutes.

  “Hungry were we?” I comment.

  He stretches his arms before patting his belly in appreciation. “Peckish, mate, and that was good.”

  Such is the generous portion size, I can’t quite finish mine.

  I pay the bill and leave a generous tip. As we ready ourselves to leave, the black clouds offload and fat droplets of rain pepper the windows.

  “I don’t fancy a soaking. Maybe we should get a cab to the station,” I suggest.

  Clement nods and I ask the waitress if she knows a local cab number. She goes one better and calls a cab for us.

  Two minutes later, we depart the cafe and hurry through the torrential rain into the back of a waiting saloon. The car is in almost as sorry a state as the town in which it operates. The driver asks if we’re on holiday. I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or he’s a deluded optimist, but a gla
re from Clement makes it clear we’re not looking for a conversation.

  With the windscreen wipers going full tilt, we make the short journey to the station, arriving minutes later. Another dart through the rain and we reach the ticket hall at Sandown station.

  Much like the town itself, the place is deserted apart from a weary looking chap at the ticket kiosk. I enquire about the departure time for the next train to Ryde.

  “Twenty minutes,” he replies.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you heading back to the mainland?”

  “We are.”

  “Were,” he replies with a smirk.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “All the ferries have been cancelled due to the weather.”

  “Seriously? Until when?”

  “Tomorrow morning at the earliest. They reckon this storm is set to stay for the next twelve hours.”

  “There must be another way back to the mainland, surely?”

  “You might be able to charter a boat from Cowes, if you can find a skipper stupid or desperate enough. Won’t come cheap, mind.”

  I relay the news to Clement. It’s not well received.

  “I ain’t getting on no boat to be tossed around like a bleedin’ cork.”

  “It’ll only be for forty minutes or so.”

  “Listen, Bill. I could just about stomach the ferry but I ain’t getting on a tiny boat. It ain’t happening.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is, Clement. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe, even in this weather.”

  “Yeah. Perfectly safe, right up until it capsizes.”

  His stern glare tells me this is not an argument I’m likely to win.

  “Fine. Looks like we’ve no choice but to stay here for the night.”

  I reluctantly refer to my phone and search for local hotels. Google return a selection of grim, two and three-star establishments in Sandown. I search in Ryde and it's even worse so I return to the Sandown search. The only saving grace is they’re all fairly inexpensive and rooms are, unsurprisingly, in plentiful supply.

  “There’s a hotel a few streets away.”

  We both look towards the glass doors we just entered. On cue, wind whistles past the frame as a curtain of rain sweeps across the pavement.