Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

“It’s a motor,” Clement replies as we stand in front of a battered Ford of some kind.

  I’m no expert, but even I can tell that Frank’s car should have been consigned to a salvage yard some years ago.

  “No wonder he doesn’t mind you driving it. I’ve seen skips with better bodywork.”

  “You wanna walk?”

  “No,” I groan. “But I’d better check my tetanus jabs are up to date before I sit in the damn thing.”

  “Just quit your moaning and get in.”

  I open the door and flop into the passenger seat. The interior is no better and stinks of cigarette smoke, and more worryingly, petrol. It does at least start on the first turn of the key.

  “She’s no oil painting but reliable as clockwork.”

  A fair assessment.

  Clement pulls out of the parking bay at the rear of Fitzgerald’s and heads up Furnival Street. With Mr Davies’ address plugged into the navigation app on my phone, a synthesised voice offers directions out of the city. Clement, like most people who drive in London, shows utter contempt for all other road users. Many, many expletives are hurled, and I get to enjoy his full repertoire of obscene hand gestures.

  It is with some relief we finally escape central London and reach the A3. The synthesised voice falls silent as we have nothing but several miles of dual carriageway ahead of us.

  With just the whistling of air through the ill-fitting windows for entertainment, Clement decides we need some music. He switches the radio on and tunes it to a crackly medium wave station playing seventies tunes.

  “You nervous?” he asks, as the disc jockey introduces a track by Showaddywaddy.

  “Just a bit.”

  “You reckon you’ll get to meet your sister then?”

  “I’m not sure. I got the impression Mr Davies has more to say before, or even if, I get the chance to meet Gabrielle.”

  “But you wanna?”

  “Of course. It’s not my decision though.”

  We listen to the rest of Under The Moon of Love before I reluctantly decide to return some calls. I call Fiona and listen to a five-minute rant about trust and standards before I can get a word in edgeways. She eventually runs out of steam and I offer my explanation. Once she’s satisfied I’ve done no wrong, I tell her about my decision to quit politics — with much enthusiasm she congratulates me.

  Next up is the Prime Minister’s prissy personal secretary, Camilla. I’ve never liked her and I suspect the feeling is mutual. With no small talk offered or sought, I simply refer her to Rupert’s statement, confirming my innocence. Not wishing to miss the opportunity to berate, she then launches into a tirade about letting the party down. With some degree of glee, I cut her short by confirming my resignation letter will be on her desk by tomorrow.

  Those two sorted, I allow myself a moment to bask in self-satisfaction. It doesn’t last long as Clement poses another question.

  “Had enough?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you’re resigning.”

  “Oh, right. Sort of. If this whole episode has taught me anything, it’s that I need to re-evaluate my life choices.”

  “What you gonna do then, for a job?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas, but I want to get away for a bit first. And before you say anything, I’m not running away — I simply need a little space to think.”

  “I wasn’t gonna say that, but since you mention it, where you going?”

  “Somewhere nobody knows me. Somewhere quiet, but not too far away.”

  “And that’s where exactly?”

  “The Isle of Wight.”

  “Christ, why there? It’s bleedin’ dead.”

  “Exactly. There’s hardly a soul around this time of year and I quite like the idea of bracing walks along the sea front whenever the fancy takes me.”

  “Rather you than me.”

  “So I take it you won’t be popping over to visit?”

  “No offence, Bill, but I’d rather shag my own sister than spend another second over there.”

  “You couldn’t resist one final dig, could you?”

  “Sorry, mate,” he replies with a grin.

  “Anyway, shall we talk about your typically vague plans?”

  “Not much to say.”

  “Are you going to continue working at Fitzgerald’s?”

  “Probably not, but it depends.”

  “On?”

  “Let’s just say I’m waiting for a call.”

  “A call from who?”

  He taps the side of his nose with his finger to suggest it’s none of my business. He then reaches across and turns up the volume on the radio.

  “Love this track,” he shouts over David Bowie’s Life on Mars.

  I know by now when he doesn’t want to continue a conversation, so I settle back in my seat whilst we listen to a succession of seventies tracks in glorious mono. Thoughts of Clement’s future give way to those of Kenneth Davies, and why he’s so keen to meet with me. The fact he almost called three years ago raises more questions than answers.

  By the time we approach Guildford, I conclude there is precious little point second guessing the man. I’ll know precisely what he wants to talk about soon enough. And I certainly don’t wish to tempt fate by hoping I might finally meet my sister.

  The navigation app returns to service and directs us from the A3, through the centre of Guildford, and on towards the village of Cranleigh. Although the road itself is fairly busy with traffic, the scenery becomes more rural as we head into the Surrey countryside.

  As my nerves begin to jangle, the app directs us from the main road up a single lane track bordered by hedgerows. Those nerves are not helped by Clement’s aggressive driving style.

  “Can you slow down?” I plead as he throws the car into a blind bend.

  “Trust me, Bill. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “Today’s newspaper article was bad enough. Let’s try and avoid a follow-up in tomorrow’s obituary column shall we.”

  Thankfully we have to slow down behind a tractor, much to Clement’s annoyance.

  “Before you even consider an impossible overtaking manoeuvre, Brooke Cottage is just up here on the right.”

  Fifty yards later, we pull into a shingle driveway fronting a double-fronted cottage. Clement switches off the engine while I breathe a heavy sigh of relief we made it in one piece.

  “You go on in. I’ll wait in the motor.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. You don’t want me hanging around while you talk to the bloke.”

  “Thank you.”

  I clamber out and cross the driveway to the front door, passing an Audi four-wheel drive on the way. A few seconds to regain my composure and I ring the bell.

  A moment later, a tall, gaunt man with wispy white hair opens the door.

  “Mr Davies?”

  “Yes, and you must be William. Come in.”

  I step into the hallway and he closes the door.

  “Good trip?” he asks with no suggestion he really cares.

  “Yes, thank you. A friend drove me down.”

  “This way.”

  He turns his back on me and strides down the hallway. I follow him into a farmhouse-style kitchen with a pine dining table and chairs in the centre.

  “Take a seat,” he says, waving an arm towards the table. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  I sit down. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He stops, and for a second appears unsure what to do now I’ve declined his offer of tea. He eventually turns around and shuffles over.

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” he rasps while gingerly lowering himself onto a chair. “I appreciate you must be a busy man.”

  “I’ll be honest with you Mr Davies, I was intrigued why you wanted to have a chat.”

  A pair of frosty grey eyes peer over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “It’s not a case of wanting to. I’m afraid it’s a necessity.”
/>   His tone is as frosty as his eyes.

  “Why is it a necessity?”

  He sits back and scratches his scalp. “I’m guessing you’re not married?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “In which case, you won’t know how it feels.”

  “Sorry? How what feels?”

  “To know your wife slept with another man.”

  I had an inkling this might be the starting point of our conversation. And while I’m sympathetic, I can hardly be held responsible for my father’s actions.

  “No, I don’t,” I reply, standing my ground. “But it’s not something I would ever condone or try to justify. I’m not my father, Mr Davies.”

  “I know precisely who you are, William. I’ve been following your career with some interest.”

  “Have you? Why?”

  “To see what kind of man you are.”

  Agitation prickles. “Well, seeing as you’ve gone to so much trouble, perhaps you can tell me what kind of man I am.”

  “Don’t be so defensive,” he retorts. “Up until this morning, I was under the impression you were a veritable saint. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I studied politics at university and I know nobody survives a decade in Westminster unless they’re of good standing.”

  His expression softens slightly but I’m still no clearer to his motive for this line of questioning.

  “I appreciate the reference, Mr Davies, but why is my reputation of any concern to you?”

  My question is left hanging as his attention appears to drift off.

  “Mr Davies?”

  “Susan,” he eventually sighs. “Did you ever meet her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She was the love of my life.”

  I don’t know what to say to the man. I try a sympathetic smile.

  “And for that reason only, I agreed to bring up Gabrielle as if she were my own flesh and blood. We were never blessed with children, and I couldn’t deny Susan the chance, no matter how sordid the conception might have been.”

  Still nothing. I try a slow nod.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.”

  “I, um…yes.”

  “Gabrielle might not be my flesh and blood, William, but I couldn’t love her any more if she were. That girl is my world.”

  “Right.”

  He appears to steel himself with a deep breath.

  “As I mentioned on the phone, my health isn’t what it once was.”

  “You seem fairly fit, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “In mind and body perhaps, but not of heart — the old ticker has seen better days. I had major heart surgery three years ago and that’s why I was going to contact you. I don’t know how long I’ve got left. It could be six years, or six months, but either way I need to make plans.”

  “Forgive me, Mr Davies, but I’m still not clear why you were going to contact me then, or now for that matter.”

  “Because Gabrielle doesn’t have any family, other than me. Susan, her mother, was killed in a road accident twelve years ago.”

  “Well, if it’s of any comfort, I’ve managed to function without any family for the last eighteen years.”

  “That much I know, William, but Gabrielle isn’t you.”

  He sits forward and tries several times to clear his throat; an action which clearly pains.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” I ask.

  “No, no,” he wheezes. “I’ll be okay in a moment.”

  He takes a few deep breaths and regains his composure. “Where was I?” he mumbles to himself.

  “Gabrielle. You said she’s not me.”

  “No, she’s not. My daughter…your sister…has Down’s Syndrome.”

  Somewhere across the room a boiler fires up. It’s the only sound in an otherwise silent kitchen.

  “Down’s Syndrome?” I parrot.

  “I’m assuming you’ve heard of the condition?”

  “Yes, of course, although I can’t profess to know much about it.”

  “Let’s not dwell on that for the moment. My concern is for Gabrielle’s future — not her condition.”

  “Her future?”

  “Yes, and whether I like it or not, you are her only blood relative.”

  The reason I’m here is now clear. I’m being interviewed for the position of Gabrielle’s guardian, although I suspect Mr Davies is struggling to get past the fact I am my father’s son.

  “I think I understand.”

  “Do you? Gabrielle is an incredible young lady, William. She’s kind, humorous, and loving, but I don’t think she’d cope, living on her own. Don’t get me wrong, her condition is immaterial inasmuch she lives a full life, but...”

  His voice breaks. He swallows hard before continuing. “But she needs somebody to look out for her.”

  “Are you suggesting I care for her when you’re…no longer around?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. Gabrielle is not an object, to be haggled over.”

  “No, of course not. I’m just not sure I understand what you’re asking of me.”

  “Let me put it another way, William. Imagine if I died tomorrow — what would you do?”

  “I, erm…”

  “Before you answer,” he interrupts. “Please don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. I need you to be completely honest, even if you think the truth might offend me.”

  I don’t need to think too long or too hard for an answer. “I’d want to care for my sister in any way I could.”

  “Even though you might find her a burden?”

  “A burden?” I reply with some indignation. “Why on earth would I think that?”

  “I don’t know, William. You tell me.”

  I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. If I’ve got any measure of Mr Davies, I need to make it abundantly clear I appreciate the magnitude of what he’s asking me, and how difficult it must be to even ask it, considering the circumstances.

  “May I ask you something, Mr Davies?”

  “Ask away.”

  “When we first sat down, you asked me a question? Do you recall?”

  “Remind me.”

  “You asked if I knew what it felt like: knowing another man had slept with your wife.”

  His eyes narrow a fraction. “I did. And your point?”

  “I don’t know what that feels like, but I’d imagine there must be a lot of anger, resentment, and jealousy?”

  “Correct.”

  “And somewhere amongst all that, probably a fair amount of loneliness? It’s a betrayal you’d rather suffer alone, I’d guess?”

  “There is no lonelier place than being the wrong side of an infidelity.”

  “I’d beg to differ. I grew up in a house, not unlike this one, in the middle of nowhere and with no siblings for company. I lost my mother at fourteen and my father sent me off to boarding school. Trust me when I say I know what loneliness feels like.”

  “I…wasn’t aware of that.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be — it’s not on my Wikipedia page. My point is: it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and certainly not something I would ever want my own sister to experience.”

  He appears to ponder my statement, and slowly nods. “I appreciate your candour, William.”

  “You’re welcome, and perhaps you could answer my question as frankly: what is it you want from me?”

  He drums his fingers on the table, perhaps stalling while he finds the right way to phrase his reply.

  “When I’m gone, you’ll be the only family Gabrielle has left. Is that a responsibility you’d embrace, assuming it’s what she wants?”

  I sit forward and look him in the eye. “Without question or condition.”

  The old man takes a moment to process my answer. We’ve taken the long way round but finally arrived — he now has a decision to make.

 
“Very well. That’s all I needed to hear.”

  He checks his watch and slowly gets to his feet. I still don’t know if I’ve passed his test.

  “Of course, this is all hypothetical,” he adds with the thinnest of smiles. “My daughter might think you’re a tiresome bore and want nothing to do with you.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first,” I reply, returning his smile.

  “But I guess there’s only one way to find out,” he adds. “Would you like to meet her?”

  The one question I prayed I might hear but it still takes me by surprise.

  “Sorry…really?” I splutter. “What, now?”

  “Unless there’s somewhere else you need to be?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Okay, let’s go then, before I change my mind. Gabrielle is down at the stables at the moment but I said I’d collect her about now. She’s a keen rider and fanatical about her horse, Archie. Damn thing costs me a small fortune but he’s worth every penny for the joy he brings to her life.”

  “Does she know who I am?”

  “No, not yet, and perhaps it’s best if I introduce you as an old friend, just until she gets to know you.”

  “Fine by me.”

  As Mr Davies puts his coat on, it dawns on me Clement has been waiting outside all this time.

  “Would it be okay if my friend came along? He won’t get in the way but I feel a bit guilty leaving him in the car all this time.”

  “If you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  We leave the house and as Mr Davies locks up, I scoot over to Frank’s battered car. Clement winds down the window.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  “A bit tense at times, but he’s taking me to meet Gabrielle. Come on.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “This is only happening because of you, Clement. Of course I’d like you to come.”

  He extracts himself from the car and I introduce him to Mr Davies.

  “This is my friend, Clement. This is Mr Davies; Gabrielle’s father.”

  “Alright, mate,” Clement booms, extending one of his meaty hands.

  Somewhat hesitantly, Mr Davies reciprocates. “Nice to meet you. I think you’d better sit in the front.”

  The three of us then get into the spacious Audi which, unlike Frank’s Ford, is thankfully void of combustible fumes.

  “Nice motor, Ken,” Clement remarks as Mr Davies puts his seatbelt on.