“Could just be an ambulance. You did go a tad overboard in there.”
“Dunno about you, but I’d rather not hang around to find out. Think we better head down towards the front and make our way from there.”
I concur with a nod, and in near darkness, we make our way down a grassy bank towards the beach. By the time we reach the footpath at the bottom, which I hope leads us back to the hotel, the fresh air and exertion of jellied legs has exasperated my drunken stupor. With the waves crashing on my left and the footpath bathed in the orange light of street lamps, I enter a surreal world a million miles away from sobriety.
I stumble twice, find some balance, and then stumble again. On the third attempt, I fail to hold my balance and end up sprawling across the pavement.
Clement offers me a hand up, together with his prognosis. “I think you’re wankered, mate.”
My mouth moves but nothing intelligible comes out. With Clement’s assistance, I get to my feet and take a few steps forward; holding onto the big man’s shoulder for support. Slow progress is made but I somehow manage to stay upright.
After a hundred yards I attempt speech again. “You’re a good man, Clement,” I slur.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re a brilliant…punchy man…fighting.”
“Whatever you say, Bill.”
“You really gave them what for…buggers and bastards.”
“Cheers.”
“Have you…hic…have you ever…lost a fight?”
“Once.”
“No! Don’t believe it…someone beat you?”
“Sort of. Got hit from behind with a cricket bat.”
“Bloody coward. I hope…hic…I hope you got them back.”
“Nope.”
“No? Why not?”
“Cos’ I died.”
“That’s…awful. I’m so sorry…my condo…my commis…I’m...”
Going to pass out?
And I do.
21.
Three times I was woken in the night: once by the wind outside and twice by the wind emanating from the adjacent single bed.
It’s not quite eight o’clock and it’s all I can do to lie here and stare at the ceiling. Even blinking hurts. To make matters worse, the air is laced with a stench so foul it would make a billy goat puke.
Clement grunts, rolls over, and breaks wind again.
What have I done to deserve this?
I doze for another half hour but the constant fear of suffocation proves a barrier to actual sleep. I have two choices: endure the pain of getting out of bed or stay put and suffer more of Clement’s rancid flatulence.
I attempt to sit up. Every slight movement causes my brain to shift and thump against the inside of my skull — unlikely, but certainly how it feels. That same brain then provides vague flashbacks of last night. Little by little, those flashbacks all come together into one horrendous show reel, ending at the moment we left the pub. The journey back to the hotel is lost, though, and I have no recollection of how I managed it.
It’s scant consolation, but I suspect six unfortunate men are feeling far worse than I do this morning.
I stumble to the bathroom and collapse in front of the toilet bowl. After several minutes of dry heaving, I clamber to my feet and lean against the sink. The view in the mirror only adds to my suffering. A face suddenly appears, reflected from the doorway beyond my shoulder.
“Morning, Bill. Sleep well?”
Dressed only in his socks and a pair of unflattering underpants, Clement ambles over to the toilet. Unabashed, he empties his bladder and breaks wind.
“Jesus, Clement. Must you?” I groan.
“What’s the matter? You feeling a bit delicate?”
“I feel like death.”
“You’ll be fine,” he chirps, still urinating. “Nothing a cooked breakfast won’t sort out.”
Even the thought of food induces more dry heaving.
Clement shakes himself, and just when I think he’s about to leave me in peace, he pauses. Without warning, he drops his underpants and sits on the toilet.
I stare at him, open mouthed. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth closed.
“What?” he says, staring up at me. “I need a shit.”
I find a surprising turn of speed and hurry from the bathroom, closing the door on the way. To a soundtrack of grunts and groans, I locate my discarded trousers and pullover. It is with some relief I find both my phone and wallet still in my trouser pockets.
It takes several minutes to get dressed and put my shoes on. By the time I’ve finished, Clement has returned from the bathroom and is in the process of getting dressed himself.
“Cracking night weren’t it?” he says.
“It was…eventful.”
“Did you get anywhere with that Sandra bird?”
I inwardly cringe. “No, not really.”
“Never mind. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
Once we’re both dressed, Clement insists we take advantage of the hotel catering and frog marches me down to the dining room. I have no appetite but I’m in desperate need of fluids. We arrive to find Emma setting a single table.
“Morning gents.”
She invites us to take a seat and we’re handed a menu each. Clement orders a pot of tea and a full English breakfast while I opt for dry toast and orange juice. Emma heads off to fulfil her role as cook, leaving us alone in the empty dining room.
“She ain’t a bad sort,” Clement remarks.
I nod.
“You should get her number.”
“I think I have enough complications in my life at the moment, don’t you?”
For the first time this morning, Gabby crosses my mind. In truth, I haven’t given her a great deal of thought since we left Susan’s place, but the fact I haven’t heard from her is troubling. Has she called my bluff on this occasion?
Before I can give the matter further thought, Emma returns, carrying a tray.
“Here we are. One pot of tea and one glass of orange juice.”
I smile politely as cutlery and condiments are decanted to the table.
“How was the pub?” she asks casually. “I don’t suppose you saw what happened last night?”
I stare at Clement but he appears preoccupied pouring his tea.
“No. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. There was some vague post on Facebook about a fight.”
“Oh, it must have happened after we left. Just our luck to miss the excitement,” I chuckle nervously.
She returns my smile and heads back to the kitchen.
“Did you hear that, Clement?” I hiss. “People are talking about the fight on Facebook.”
“On what?” he replies before slurping his tea.
“Facebook.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Never mind. The point is, we need to get out of town before the police get involved.”
“Why?”
“Because you assaulted five, or was it six men last night? You do actually remember?”
“Unlike you Bill, I remember everything that happened last night. Anyway, it was self-defence.”
“That’s as maybe, but I doubt they’ll consider your retaliation reasonable force. One of those men will be walking with a limp for the rest of his life.”
“Yeah,” he replies with a chuckle. “And two of them are probably still looking for their bollocks.”
I have to fight back a smirk. I really shouldn’t encourage him but I have to admit, recollecting what happened does trigger a frisson of excitement. It was certainly more eventful than my average Friday evening.
“I think we should catch the ferry back to the mainland at Yarmouth, just in case the police are keeping an eye out for us at Ryde.”
“Great idea, Bill. Let’s hope they haven’t informed Interpol yet,” he replies, his tone sarcastic.
Beyond my paranoia, there is some logic in getting the ferry from Yarmouth as it sails into Lymington wh
ich isn’t far from my country home in Marshburton. I can leave Clement at the train station and recover at the cottage in peace.
“No matter. We’ll go from Yarmouth,” I confirm, just as Emma arrives with our breakfast.
Five minutes later, I’m still struggling with my second slice of dry toast. Clement’s plate is empty. I give up on breakfast and we make our way to the reception and ask Emma to call a cab. She does offer to drive us to Yarmouth but as it’s the opposite side of the island, it doesn’t seem fair. Besides, I need to travel in a car that would allow a quick escape, such are my levels of nausea.
I settle the bill and leave a generous tip. I also hand Emma my business card, just in case she ever wants that guided tour of the Palace of Westminster.
By the time we head out to the car park, our cab is already waiting.
Lymington is only eighteen miles from Sandown. However, the island’s roads are not designed for speedy transit and the cross-country journey takes almost fifty minutes. Our journey time is further extended by the fact there’s a forty-five-minute wait until the next ferry departure. The only saving grace is the weather, with the return of clear blue skies and a gentle breeze. I suggest a wander around Yarmouth’s quaint shops but Clement decides he’d rather sit on a bench by the quay and watch the world go by.
I while away the time mindlessly staring in shop windows, happy just to be breathing the crisp sea air. On the way back to the quay, mindful the ferry takes three times as long to cross the Solent from Yarmouth, I pop into a newsagents and buy a paper.
I return to find Clement eyeing up the various yachts moored in the marina.
“Thinking of buying one?” I joke.
“Not unless you’re paying.”
I join Clement in gazing at the expensive yachts. Some of my previous trips to the Isle of Wight have been as a guest at Cowes Week — the island’s world-famous regatta. I’m no sailor but Cowes Week is as much about the accompanying social scene as the sailing. That said, I can appreciate the sense of freedom that must come with owning a yacht; able to dock whenever and wherever the fancy takes you. There is a certain appeal to that lifestyle.
As much as I could happily remain on the bench, romanticising about life on the ocean wave, a trip on a much larger vessel beckons.
“We better get going, Clement.”
We head to the ticket office and make our way on board the ferry. There’s no sign of any police or Interpol detectives, as Clement repeatedly points out.
Fifteen minutes later, we depart the island; a day later than we envisaged and with one or two stories to tell.
The sea is far less choppy than our outbound journey, and coupled with comfortable seats, Clement decides to take a nap. As tired as I am, I’ve never been able to sleep on public transport. I glance enviously at my snoozing companion and resort to reading my newspaper. The first four pages are full of the usual fayre: depressing forecasts about the economy and Brexit, thinly disguised as news. I keep turning pages, hoping to find something worthy of my interest.
On page eight, I spot a headline which is not so much interesting as it is alarming — Tory MP in Sex Tape Leak.
I read the headline again, barely able to bring myself to read the article. What are the chances one of my colleagues has been involved in a sex tape leak? At best, the chances are remote. This can only mean one thing. My mouth now bone dry, I swallow hard and begin to read.
It was only ever going to be about one Tory MP; the same Tory MP currently on a ferry, and about to suffer a seizure.
“Clement!” I gasp. “Wake up.”
He slowly comes around. I fold the paper over and hold the page in front of his face.
“Look what that bitch has done now.”
Bleary eyed, he studies the article. Seconds pass, and as his eyes dart left and right, the crease in his forehead deepens.
“Shit,” he growls.
If there’s any consolation, it’s that the article doesn’t mention the minor fact the two people involved are siblings. If it had, I doubt very much it would be buried at the bottom of page eight.
“I don’t get it,” Clement adds.
“Get what?”
“Why she went to the papers with this. Apart from making you look like a dickhead in public, how does it help her?”
Whether I look like a dickhead or not is immaterial. However, his point about her motive is salient.
“I don’t know how it helps her.”
He strokes his moustache a couple of times. “Maybe she’s pissed off cos’ we paid her old dear a visit.”
I’m not convinced. Thus far, Gabby’s scheme has been enacted with clinical planning. Everything she’s done has been for a reason and a retaliatory strike feels too impulsive, too unplanned. There has to be more to it.
“It’s not her style, Clement. She’s done this for a specific reason.”
We both sit and frown at the newspaper for a long minute. A theory eventually breaks through the fog in my head.
“Christ,” I mumble. “I think this is a precursor.”
“A what?”
I sit forward, conscious of nearby passengers eavesdropping.
“Okay. Ask yourself a question: why would a national newspaper have any interest in an illegally filmed video of a backbench MP having sex?”
“Gotta fill their pages with something.”
“Yes, but I have no public profile. This isn’t a newsworthy story, otherwise they wouldn’t have buried it on page eight.”
“So why did they print it then?”
“I can only think of two reasons and they both fit with Gabby’s threat.”
“Go on.”
“This is just a teaser. I reckon Gabby convinced them to print it on the understanding they’d get an exclusive when the real story breaks.”
“The whole brother knobs his sister story?”
My stomach churns, and not because of the hangover. “Precisely.”
“So she’s only done this to pile on the pressure?”
“Yes, and I suspect, in reaction to our ultimatum. I think it’s fair to say she won’t be accepting my counter offer.”
“Bollocks,” he groans. “That’s us back to the drawing board then.”
I slump back in my chair and shake my head. Whichever way you look at it, this entire trip has been nothing but a monumental waste of time.
22.
In need of fresh air and time to think, I head out to the deck. I grip the handrail and squeeze it until my knuckles turn white. The sun might be shining but there’s a distinct chill to the breeze whipping off the Solent. It does nothing to cool my growing anger.
How could I have been so stupid, so reckless?
Granted, the fact I spent an entire day on the island was beyond my control, but I should have stayed at the hotel and formed a contingency plan. But no; I allowed myself to become distracted. Rather than thinking of all possible outcomes, I had to act the fool and get blind drunk.
I have nobody to blame but myself.
And now it’s over. I’ve lost. It’s time to do what I should have done in the first place.
I head back inside and find a quiet corner to stand; away from the other passengers and away from Clement. With no more time to waste, I pull out my phone. It’s still switched off from last night. I turn it on and it immediately chimes the arrival of a text message. I’m not surprised to see Fiona Hewitt’s name as the sender. The video was one thing, but now I’ve been named and shamed in the press, the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards is duty-bound to intervene.
I open the message — Call me. It’s urgent.
Fiona will have to wait. I’ve a more pressing call to make.
I scroll through my contacts until I find Rupert Franklin’s details. I call my solicitor’s number and he answers on the fifth ring.
“Sorry to call on a Saturday, Rupert, but it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“It usually is,” he chuckles. “What can I do for you, Wil
liam?”
“I’m selling Hansworth Hall and the flat in Blackfriars.”
“Really? I must say, I’m surprised to hear that.”
“It’s a long story and unfortunately time is not on my side. I need both sales to be completed by Friday.”
“Which Friday?”
“This coming Friday.”
“Very funny, William. This is obviously a joke, right?”
“I wish it were but I’m serious.”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “I’m not sure what’s behind this, but it’s not possible anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Well, firstly there’s all the information your buyer’s solicitor will require: local authority searches, leasehold information, energy performance certificates, and not to mention surveys. All of that will take weeks to organise.”
“They won’t need any of that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There isn’t a solicitor in the land who would allow their client to purchase a property without it.”
“They would if they were only paying a pound for the property.”
The line goes quiet again. I can only begin to imagine the thoughts going through Rupert’s mind. It doesn’t take long for him to air them.
“I simply can’t allow you to do this, William. It’s madness on every level.”
“I appreciate your concern but my mind is made up. I’ll sign whatever disclaimer you require but the sales have to be completed by Friday. If you won’t do it, I’ll simply find another solicitor who will.”
We spend another ten minutes going backwards and forwards. In the end, he reluctantly agrees to send the contract out first thing on Monday morning. I thank him and hang up before he makes another attempt to change my mind.
One call down. One to go. I ring Fiona.
“At last,” she blusters, bypassing any greeting. “Where have you been?”
“Don’t ask, but I assume you wanted to talk to me about the newspaper article?”
“You’ve seen it then?”
“I have.”
“And you know we have to open a file on it?”
“I do.”
“I’m not suggesting you’re to blame, William, but we have to follow procedure just in case there’s more to it. You do understand that?”
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 17