Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Ahh, government is going to give us more money, yes?”

  I wish. If ever a sector needed better funding, it’s social care. Still, why waste taxpayer’s money on the sick and needy when we have a pointless nuclear deterrent to fund.

  “I can’t make any promises, but I would like to chat with Miss Douglas. Is that possible?”

  The woman’s smile dissolves as she points to a sign fixed on the wall behind her.

  “I’m sorry. Visiting hours don’t start until eleven o’clock.”

  Almost three hours away. Time I can ill-afford to waste.

  “Unfortunately, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister at eleven, which is why I’m here so early.”

  The lie flows effortlessly. If I am to have a meeting with the PM today, I suspect it will involve my very public sacking.

  “You know the Prime Minister?” she asks, seemingly impressed.

  “Well, yes. She’s my boss.”

  Some sort of thought process appears to take place as the woman stares off into the distance.

  Her attention eventually returns to me. “Can you ask the Prime Minister to pay us more money? London is too expensive.”

  “I can ask.”

  “You definitely ask?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay. You come back in thirty minutes. Miss Douglas will be with her carer now but you can see her later.”

  “Thank you, and will you be here?”

  “Yes, I’m always here,” she huffs. “Too many hours.”

  “Right, yes, and your name?”

  “Anna.”

  “Thank you, Anna. I’ll pop back in half an hour.”

  Seeing as I couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation for a giant man in retro clothing accompanying me, Clement wisely chose to sit in one of the chairs while I spun my lies. As I walk back towards the doors, he gets up and follows a few seconds later. We don’t exchange words until we’re back on the street.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  “We can see her in half an hour.”

  “Cool. Let’s go grab a cuppa then.”

  We wander back up Adam Street and find a grotty little cafe that Clement decides will do. Despite the greasy table and questionable hygiene standards, at least it’s warm, and virtually empty.

  Twenty minutes are wasted as we drink insipid tea and avoid the elephant in the room. Inevitably, it proves too large.

  “This voice of yours? How often do you hear it?”

  “Haven’t heard it for best part of a year. Then, it came back last week at Fitzgerald’s, when you were first there with that Gabby bird. Since then, I hear it…I dunno…maybe once or twice a day.”

  “Right. And what does it say?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Bill. It’s not as if it speaks to me like you are now. I can’t make out clear sentences…it’s just a faint whisper in your ear, you know?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “You ever play hide and seek as a kid?”

  “Considering I was an only child with no real friends, no, I did not.”

  “But you know how it works, right? The one who has to do the seeking, you tell them they’re getting hot if they’re close, or cold if they ain’t.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “That’s how it feels. I don’t get directions — just a sense if I’m going the right way, and the odd word which don’t often make sense.”

  “But it’s telling you to help me?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Kind of? It either is or it isn’t, surely?”

  “Look, Bill, I can’t explain any more than I have. I don’t know why the bleedin’ voice is there, or why I’m supposed to help you — I just know I do. But I’ll tell you something for nothing: I could do without it.”

  His claim, if you discount what he actually said, appears sincere; almost believable. Then again, I’ve witnessed people make equally sincere declarations at work. They truly believe they are right about a particular subject and it becomes their truth. In essence, that is the very heart of politics: trying to persuade others that your version of the truth is the correct version.

  It follows that perhaps Clement is simply hearing his own version of a truth; concocted in a broken mind.

  “Do you know who’s voice it is you’re hearing?”

  “Fucked if I know.”

  “Alright, but why did you ask if I’m religious? What does that have to do with anything?”

  He plays with his empty cup for a few seconds, either avoiding my question or trying to conjure a plausible answer. My money would be on the latter.

  “I don’t think we should go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think the voice in my head is hard to believe? If I told you the full story, you’d have the men in white coats here in a flash.”

  “Try me.”

  “Nah, Bill. I ain’t gonna take that risk.”

  “What happened to trust?”

  “Nothing to do with trust — this is about getting the job done. If I go spooking you now, there’s every chance the job could go tits up. Can’t let that happen.”

  “Is that what this is then? A job?”

  “Yeah, of sorts. S'pose it’s more like a test, though.”

  “And what happens if you pass the test?”

  He stares directly at me, and delivers his reply completely dead pan. “Redemption.”

  I’m no expert on mental health, but clearly Clement is dealing with some serious internal issues. If it were not for the fact I have my own issues to contend with right now, I might well be suggesting he seeks immediate medical assistance.

  “Okay then,” I hesitantly reply. “I think perhaps we’ll leave it there.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and returns to his usual self. “Shall we go then? I need a fag.”

  A minute later we’re ambling back along the road; Clement with a cigarette in hand, acting as if our conversation had never taken place. If indeed he is suffering a mental illness, he’s done a remarkable job of hiding it up until this morning.

  I just hope his delusions return to wherever they came from, for now.

  31.

  We return to Orchard Lodge to find Anna still at her station. I approach the desk and deal with the first issue: introducing Clement and explaining his presence.

  “This is Mr Clement. He’s my security detail.”

  “Like a bodyguard, yes?” she replies.

  “I’m afraid we live in troubled times, so yes, he’s like a bodyguard.”

  Anna looks Clement up and down. Sensing her concern, I intervene.

  “I apologise for my colleague’s attire. The public don’t want to see members of parliament with bodyguards as it undermines their sense of security. For that reason, they wear clothes to blend into the background as required.”

  Convinced or otherwise, she nods and hands us visitor badges. “Okay. Come this way please.”

  We follow Anna down a corridor past a series of numbered doors like a hotel. The drab magnolia walls, vinyl flooring, and cold lighting suggest this is not a place people stay of their own choosing.

  “Miss Douglas is not a well lady,” she remarks as we walk. “Her stroke was very bad.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She cannot speak much, and very little movement in her body.”

  I shake my head and shoot Clement a frown to confirm I’m not happy harassing the poor woman.

  Anna comes to a stop and raps her knuckle on door number sixteen. Without waiting for an answer, she half opens the door and pokes her head through the gap.

  “I have a visitor for you, Miss Douglas. A man from Westminster,” she states in a slow monotone voice. “Are you okay for him to come in?”

  After a brief pause, Anna turns and beckons us in. I lead and Clement follows behind.

  Within seconds of stepping into the room, I want to leave. A frail bag of bones is seated in an armchair near the window. Her silver-
grey hair is a tousled mess and she’s wearing what I assume is a standard issue nightgown.

  Besides the chair in which Miss Douglas is seated, the cramped room is furnished with a single bed, over which a hoist is fixed, a wardrobe, two plastic guest chairs, a chest of drawers, and a commode. Beyond the single window, a slither of blue sky is just about visible beyond a brick wall, with more vinyl flooring and magnolia walls completing the drab accommodation.

  “I have to go back to reception,” Anna says. “You must check out when you leave. Not more than fifteen minutes, please.”

  I nod and watch her close the door on the way out, wishing I could follow.

  Once Anna has left, there is no option other than to face Miss Douglas.

  “Good morning,” I chime, trying to offer some semblance of cheer.

  She stares up at me through widening green eyes and grunts a series of sounds that might have been words.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that,” I reply, trying to mimic Anna’s monotone voice.

  “I don’t think she’s deaf, Bill.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to shout.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Clement drags the two plastic chairs across the floor and positions them in front of Miss Douglas. We sit, and she continues to stare at me, as if I’m the oversized oddball wearing seventies attire.

  “I’m William Huxley and this is my associate, Clement.”

  Whatever mobility Miss Douglas possesses, it appears she’s trying to communicate by waving her left hand as her bottom lip moves frantically up and down.

  “Chaa,” she eventually blurts.

  I look at Clement and he shakes his head.

  “Sorry?”

  “Chaa,” she repeats.

  “Chair?”

  A deep furrow creases her forehead and the left hand is waved dismissively.

  Clearly frustrated at our inability to understand, she tries again and a different sound comes out. “Chars.”

  Again I look at Clement. Again he shakes his head. This is ridiculous. I decide to ignore whatever it is she’s trying to say and move the conversation along.

  “Miss Douglas. I’m here regarding a recent security breach at Westminster. There’s nothing for you to worry about but the address of your flat came up during the investigation. I was hoping you might be able to answer some questions if that’s okay?””

  I can’t tell if her shaking head is a nod or just an involuntary movement. I need a more robust system if this isn’t to become the pointless exercise I feared.

  “Miss Douglas. Are you able to make a thumb sign?”

  I demonstrate by giving her a thumbs-up sign.

  “This is yes,” I say, before turning my hand over so my thumb is pointing to the floor. “And this is no.”

  With an unsteady hand, she slowly replicates the thumbs-up sign.

  “Excellent. And are you able to do the thumb-down sign?”

  With a concentrated turn of the wrist, she copies my action.

  “That’s great. Thank you.”

  Now we have a rudimentary form of communication, I can at least ask her some questions.

  “Okay. First question: Do you know somebody called Rosa Jones?”

  Her hand twist and she give me a thumbs-up.

  That explains why Rosa used the flat address for her reference.

  “And is she related to you?”

  The thumb remains up.

  “Is she your niece?”

  Thumb down.

  “Daughter?”

  Thumb up.

  Surprising, considering they have different surnames.

  “Great. So Rosa Jones is your daughter. That’s the first answer established.”

  “Now, do you know a woman called Gabby?”

  Thumb down.

  “Perhaps you know her as Gabrielle Davies?”

  The thumb remains in the down position.

  Damn it.

  Detecting my annoyance, Clement steps in with a question of his own.

  “Alright, darlin’. Did you know somebody was staying in your flat?”

  Thumb down.

  Clement sits back in his chair and strokes his moustache. I have no idea what else there is to ask so offer a feeble smile. Seconds tick by and the silence becomes awkward. There doesn’t appear to be any good reason to continue this farce.

  “I think we should leave Miss Douglas in peace now, Clement.”

  He ignores me and leans forward. With his elbows resting on his thighs, he addresses her again. “You were trying to say something a minute ago. Was it a name?”

  Thumb up.

  I turn to Clement. “How did you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” he replies before posing another question to Miss Douglas. “That name you were trying to say. Was it Charles?”

  Thumb up.

  “Like his dad?” Clement adds, nodding in my direction.

  Thumb up.

  “Wait a minute,” I interject. “How on earth would she know my father’s name?”

  “Dunno,” Clement replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Puzzled, I follow his suggestion. “Miss Douglas. Did you by any chance know my father?”

  Again the thumb is pointed upward.

  I’m taken aback at her revelation. And although her positive response might explain why she was staring at me when I first stepped into the room, it also opens up an entirely new set of questions. However, I can’t think of a single one with a simple yes or no answer.

  Perhaps noting my quizzical expression, Miss Douglas becomes as animated as a person with limited movement can be. She points across the room towards the chest of draws. Her pointing is accompanied by a series of frantic grunts.

  “Is there something in the chest of drawers?” I ask.

  Thumb up.

  “Did you want me to look for it?”

  Thumb up.

  I get up, cross the floor, and stand in front of the chest of drawers. Facing Miss Douglas, I point at the top drawer like an amateur furniture salesman.

  “This one?”

  Thumb up.

  Without any clue what I’m even looking for, I open the drawer. On first glance, it looks like it contains nothing other than clothing.

  “Pus,” Miss Douglas grunts.

  I look in the draw, hoping to spot something that connects with her sound. Nothing.

  “Purs. Purs.”

  “I think she’s saying purse,” Clement suggests. Miss Douglas gives him a thumbs-up.

  I move a few of the folded garments and find a black leather purse.

  “This?” I ask, holding the purse aloft.

  Thumb up.

  After closing the drawer, I return to my chair and place the purse on Miss Douglas’s lap. With her one good hand, she tries to undo the clasp.

  “You wanna hand there, darlin’?” Clement asks.

  Perhaps I should have considered her lack of dexterity before dropping the purse on her lap. Clement flicks the catch open and passes it back to Miss Douglas as I watch on; curious what she’s so keen to show us.

  The purse flops open. The inside flap has a row of credit cards one side and a photo behind a transparent plastic window on the other. Miss Douglas jabs at the photo with a spindly finger.

  Clement and I both lean forward to take a closer look, but the photo is upside down and obscured by light reflecting off the plastic window.

  “May I take a closer look?” I ask.

  She gives me the thumbs-up.

  I pluck the purse from her lap and turn it around. The photo is small and faded with age. But it’s not the condition that prompts my reaction; more the subject of the photo.

  “Good Lord,” I gasp.

  “What is it?” Clement asks.

  “It’s Hansworth Hall,” I reply, holding the purse up for him to take a closer look.

  “And who’s that?” he adds.

  The photo is of a middle-aged woman stood on
the gravel driveway outside my family home. Whoever took the photo must have been some distance away as the face lacks much in the way of definition. However, there’s enough to determine a similarity with the woman now seated a few feet away.

  “Is…is this you?” I ask, pointing at the photo.

  She gives me a thumbs-up.

  I squint at the photo again; more perplexed than ever. Dozens of questions pepper my mind, and that’s where they’ll stay because Miss Douglas can’t answer any of them. All I know is that this frail woman once visited my family home, and somehow she knew my father. And then, many years on from that visit, her daughter teamed up with my sister to blackmail me. Are these events connected? If they are, the lines are simply too faint to follow.

  A toxic combination of frustration and irritation bubble beneath my calm exterior.

  The smile fades.

  “Miss Douglas. Did you know your daughter is involved in a plot to blackmail me?”

  Her hand drops to her lap, her expression confused.

  “Bill? What you doing?” Clement asks.

  “Getting answers,” I spit back at him. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  I turn back to Miss Douglas and continue to vent my irritation. “I’m going to assume you probably did know Rosa was involved. Now, I want to know where Gabby is?”

  She makes another grunting sound and shakes her head.

  “Oh, come on, Miss Douglas,” I blast. “Where is she? Are you in on it too?”

  “Bill. Cool it,” Clement rumbles.

  “Like hell I will.”

  I lean forward and stare straight into the woman’s eyes. “I’ve had just about enough lies from you and your daughter. You know who Gabby is, don’t you? She was staying in your damn flat, for crying out loud.”

  Her eyes tell me nothing and the irritation boils over. I stand up and kick the chair away.

  “Damn you woman,” I roar, jabbing my finger towards her. “Answer my questions.”

  “William!” a voice screams from behind me. “Stop it.”

  I spin around to find Rosa stood in the doorway. With no point in hiding the fact we know of her subterfuge, I now have a new target to aim my rage at.

  “Welcome to the den of liars, Rosa. So glad you could make it.”

  “Please, William. Calm down,” she pleads. “You’re scaring my mother.”