Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  “Did he say anything else, Toby?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “Right. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Erm, sure.”

  “Did he say anything to you on Monday, at the pub?”

  “What? Monday?” he splutters.

  “Karl said you called and asked to meet him at the pub on Monday evening.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.”

  “Toby. Don’t lie to me. Did you meet Karl on Monday evening?”

  “No,” he eventually gulps.

  This just gets worse.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Toby, I’m really worried about him. Clearly he’s been lying to both of us but there might be a legitimate reason behind it. I need to know.”

  “Okay. I’ll help, if I can.”

  “Has he been particularly stressed at work lately? Any problems?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s been working on a fairly complicated application for a large commercial development, but that went to the planning committee last Friday.”

  “What happened?”

  “The application was unanimously refused by the committee, against Karl’s recommendation.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Now you come to mention it, he was livid when he got to work on Monday morning and found out. Obviously it’s part and parcel of the job that sometimes the planning committee go against our recommendations, but I think Karl took this refusal personally. I think he was particularly annoyed it even went to the planning committee in the first place.”

  “Couldn’t he do anything about it?”

  “No. It’s frustrating, but it’s just part of the job. After it happens a few times you let it wash over you.”

  “But Karl didn’t with this one?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks, Toby. Is there anything else? Anything at all?”

  “Sorry, Beth. I wish I could tell you more but Karl always keeps his cards close to his chest, even with work projects.”

  “Alright. I appreciate your help. If you do hear from him, promise you’ll let me know?”

  “Sure, I promise. Look, Beth, I’ve, err, got a meeting to get to.”

  Toby appears relieved his interrogation is over, and quickly ends the call.

  I lean against the counter and try to piece together Toby’s revelations. Something is clearly going on in Karl’s life that I’m not party to.

  I run through a series of possibilities but they all feel like clichéd plots from one of my awful novels. All but one.

  If Karl has been under so much pressure at work, and seemingly troubled by the latest project failure, could he have spiralled into a depressive state? Has he had some sort of breakdown and decided just to cut himself off?

  I’ve only ever known Karl to display one of two moods. His default mood is happy-go-lucky, and boundlessly enthusiastic. But when he’s down, he’s really down, often sulky and withdrawn. Thankfully, he’s rarely in anything other than a good mood, but could this setback at work have pushed him too far the other way?

  I start to feel uneasy. A feeling resurfaces; one I’ve kept buried away for decades.

  It was such a long time ago, but a man once left my life without saying goodbye. He was there, and then he wasn’t. No opportunity to prepare, no chance to adjust. One minute that man is the centre of your life, the next minute he’s gone, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind.

  I can only pray to God that Karl hasn’t done something stupid.

  6

  For almost an hour I do nothing other than stare into space and imagine the worst. Six attempts to call Karl all end in the same way as I’m greeted by his bloody voicemail message.

  I don’t know what to do. Should I call the police and report him a missing person? Should I call Karl’s parents? Or should I do nothing and hope he gets in touch?

  I hate this feeling and I hate Karl for bringing it to my door.

  In the end I decide I’ll call the police if I haven’t heard anything by tomorrow morning. I already feel guilty about wasting PC Kane’s time and I’d rather avoid another, potentially pointless visit from the police so soon after the first.

  I need to focus on something positive so I bend down below the counter to locate the King James Bible. My positivity is short-lived when I also find the pile of unopened post from this morning.

  I reluctantly extract the wad of letters and drop them on the counter.

  I open two brown envelopes first. Good news rarely comes in brown envelopes so I’d rather get it out of the way.

  The first letter is just a circular from the local council about a change of parking policy in the town centre. Not interested.

  The second letter is a reminder about my impending tax return. Already in hand.

  Two letters are addressed to the occupier and obviously junk mail. Straight in the bin.

  A large purple envelope is marked with the logo of a supplier I haven’t used in years. Also in the bin.

  The final piece of mail is a plain white envelope with no stamp or postmark. I can only assume it was delivered by hand before the postman arrived. My name is printed on the front in capital letters. If it’s junk mail, I’ll give them some credit for piquing my interest.

  I tear the envelope open and extract the contents. I’m slightly taken aback by what I find.

  There are three photographs, held together with a paper clip. The resolution of the top photo is grainy; almost like the photographer took a picture of a computer screen. Despite the poor lighting, I can just about make out two bodies — one male, one female, both naked. The woman is lying on her back, facing away from the camera, her legs spread wide. The man is lying on his front, his face buried between the woman’s legs.

  I feel a little sordid, looking at a scene so personal.

  I pull the paper clip away and slap the first photo face down on the counter.

  The second photo is of equally poor quality. I assume it’s the same couple but in a different pose. The woman is on all fours, again facing away from the camera. The man’s head has been cropped, the photo ending at his shoulders. He’s knelt behind the woman with his hands on her hips, clearly going at her doggy style.

  I feel my cheeks flush red. I’m no prude but I draw the line at unsolicited pornography being shoved through my letterbox. The second photo joins the first; face down on the counter.

  The final photo is the final photo for a very good reason — I can clearly make out the faces, both facing the camera, probably unaware their liaison is being recorded.

  The man is lying on his back and the woman is straddling him. His arms are outstretched, his hands cupping her breasts.

  You utter, utter scumbag!

  I stare at Karl’s face in the photo. He appears to be enjoying himself, certainly more than his companion, Dakota, who looks bored stiff.

  Realisation washes over me like a tsunami. Her visit to the shop on Monday was to toy with me. The title of the book she wanted, Lies in Plain Sight, and Karl’s name. His reaction when I mentioned her name during the evening.

  Oh, my God, how did I not make that connection?

  Dakota must have delivered the photos, knowing full well they’d destroy my relationship with Karl. With me out of the picture, she could have him to herself.

  You dumb cow.

  It’s not how I’d expect myself to react upon seeing photographic evidence of my fiancé cheating, but I start to laugh.

  I can only put my involuntary mirth down to sheer relief. Suddenly everything makes perfect sense.

  Karl is not currently on the edge of a cliff, ready to end his life. He’s probably holed-up in some seedy hotel, banging his equally seedy girlfriend.

  My relief quickly turns to something else.

  When I was dating boyfriend number four, Andy, I found him screwing my best friend in the back seat of her car. I still recall their shock when they eventually realised I was on the other side of the glass. Before they noticed me, I must ha
ve watched them for a minute or two. Crazy really, that I’d torment myself like that, watching my boyfriend pummel my best friend in such a frenzied manner. Perhaps I just didn’t want to believe what I was seeing, so I continued to watch in a state of self-denial.

  And of course there was boyfriend number two, Danny. When I walked in and found him fellating his tutor, there were no hysterics. I calmly shook my head, turned around, and walked out, closing the door behind me.

  Having caught two previous partners in the actual act of betrayal, seeing pictures of Karl doing the same thing doesn’t quite deliver the same level of shock.

  Even so, I don’t think it’s the shock of being cheated on that really irks, because I don’t explode with fury as one might. It’s more the shock of realising I’m so stupid for putting my trust in these men. It’s more disappointment really. Every man in my adult life has let me down. Granted, for different reasons, but the net result is the same: crushing disappointment.

  I hoped Karl might be different, but I think he has literally screwed the final nail in the coffin.

  Fuck him. Fuck all of them. I’m done with men.

  There is only one thing on my mind now — expunging Karl Patterson from my life.

  It’s still an hour before closing time but I can’t face anyone. I lock the door, put my coat on and head home.

  Two women stop me on the way back to Elmore Road, both concerned that I’m stumbling through the streets, a little dazed, and crying. I assure both of them it’s just ‘man trouble’, and continue on my way.

  Both women probably assumed my tears were of grief, when in actual fact they were tears of anger.

  I arrive home, head straight up to the bedroom, and throw the wardrobe doors open. Every stitch of Karl’s clothing is unceremoniously dumped on the bed. I pull out drawers and tip the contents onto the growing mound of clothes. Once every piece of furniture has been emptied of his possessions, and the mound is complete, I transfer it all into black sacks. When each one is full, it’s tied, and thrown down the stairs.

  Such is my determination to remove any semblance of that man from my life, it takes less than an hour to complete the pile of black sacks in the hallway. It proves to be a cathartic process and my anger subsides a little. I still feel bitterly disappointed though, and foolish for not spotting the obvious signs of Karl’s infidelity.

  As I stand and proudly examine my work, the doorbell rings.

  I open the door to a skinny young man in dark blue overalls.

  “Alright, Love,” he grins. “I’m Luke, the mobile tyre fitter.”

  I take an exaggerated glance at my watch. “You’re ten minutes late,” I growl. “And it’s Miss Baxter.”

  His cheeks glow pink and, seemingly unsure how to react, he goes for a feeble smile.

  “Sorry. Miss Baxter.”

  Luke fiddles with a set of keys and looks everywhere but at me. I close my eyes for a second and let out a sigh.

  “No, I’m sorry, Luke. I’ve had a bad day. Ignore me.”

  His cherub-like face brightens a little as I hand over my keys.

  “The car is just down the road. You can’t miss it; it’s bright yellow. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “Nah. You’re alright, Love.”

  The second the word leaves his mouth, horror crosses his face.

  “Sorry…Miss. Miss, erm, Baker.”

  “Baxter.”

  “God, yeah. Sorry. Sorry.”

  I chuckle at his fumbling, and with obvious relief, he scoots off down the road.

  While Luke is busy replacing my tyres, I turn my attention to locating and bagging Karl’s possessions from the kitchen and lounge. That process also involves extracting his Xbox games console from beneath the TV.

  I spend five minutes blindly tugging at cables before I’m able to transfer the console and a dozen games to the sack mountain in the hall. In hindsight, the Xbox should have served as a warning. Any man willing to dedicate large parts of his weekend to shooting digital aliens in a make-believe world was never going to possess the emotional maturity I sought.

  The doorbell rings again just as I’m putting the last of Karl’s tat into a final black sack.

  “All done, Miss Baxter.”

  Luke returns my keys and asks me to sign a receipt. I scribble on the grease-blotched form and hand it back to him.

  “Thank you, Luke.”

  He turns to leave.

  “Luke. Do you like video games?”

  He spins around, his face puzzled.

  “Err, yeah. I do actually.”

  I pick up the black sack containing Karl’s Xbox and games, and place it on the floor at Luke’s feet.

  “There’s an Xbox and a dozen games in there. Consider it a generous tip.”

  “What? Really?”

  He tentatively opens the sack and stares wide eyed at the contents.

  “Yep. All yours. Have a nice evening, Luke.”

  I give him a parting smile and shut the door.

  Screw you, Karl.

  I return to the kitchen and pour myself an overly generous glass of Merlot. I sit at the table, sipping at the wine and contemplating how I now move forward with my life. A dozen different thoughts cloud the horizon.

  I snatch my phone from the table and compose a text message to Karl…

  I’ve seen the photos of you and Dakota, so suffice to say we’re done. Your stuff is bagged in the hall. Collect by the weekend or it goes to the tip.

  As I make a start on a second glass of Merlot, I compose another text to Karl…

  And if you even think about causing me any trouble. I’ll tell your boss where you really were this week.

  The second glass of Merlot is quickly consumed, and a third started. One final text I think…

  And just so you know, I faked it most of the time.

  I think a couple of threats and a fairly base attempt to undermine his masculinity are the least Karl deserves. I might regret my texts tomorrow, in the sober light of day, but for now I can bask in a self-satisfied glow.

  I head to the lounge with another bottle of Merlot. Getting drunk on your own is a bad idea at the best of times. To do it after the day I’ve had is a terrible idea.

  I don’t care.

  I turn the TV on and flick through the music channels. It’s probably not the wisest choice, but I select a channel playing love songs. I curl up on the sofa with my wine glass in hand.

  With no anger left to hide behind, I’m fully exposed to the reality of my failed relationship. The wedding date I had yet to decide upon, will never come around. There won’t be any Mr & Mrs Patterson, nor will there be that perfect little family I had once imagined. That stings more than anything else. I can deal with the deceit and the betrayal, just, but the wider implications of that betrayal cut a much deeper wound.

  Four years of my life — wasted. My biological clock ticks on relentlessly while my relationship clock resets to zero.

  I think this was it. My final chance of motherhood stolen away by a two-bit slag.

  Bitch.

  My mind swirls with thoughts of the two of them, together, at this very moment. Are they laughing at me? Do they know what they’ve taken from me?

  The anger returns, as do the tears.

  Where is my Edward Rochester, my Fitzwilliam Darcy?

  It’s not fair. I will never be a wife, or a mother, or an author for that matter. I will never be all the things I dreamt of being. For all the good my dreams did me, I might as well have wished for handsome princes, unicorns, and cats in hats.

  The room begins to spin. I put my wine glass on the floor, close my eyes, and curl into a foetal position.

  This is it. It’s just you now, girl.

  In reality, it always has been just me. And I fear it always will be.

  7

  At some point during the night I must have staggered from the sofa to my bed. I wake to the kind of hangover only red wine can induce.

  It takes a mome
nt for memories of yesterday to clamber through the fudge in my head. One by one, they all arrive, my fiancé’s infidelity standing at the head of the line.

  When a marriage breaks down and culminates in a divorce, you become a divorcee. I never made it that far so I don’t know what I am now. Maybe the term is simply ex-fiancé. Semantics, I suppose. Today I have awoken as a single woman and that’s all that really matters.

  Bleary-eyed, I check my phone to see if Karl replied to any of my text messages. He’s nothing if not consistent — not a peep. Should I even care now?

  I take a long shower, get dressed and plod down to the kitchen. It’s silent, tidy, and that’s the way it will be for the foreseeable future. I’m not hungry but I force down two slices of buttered toast and a cup of green tea; the two empty Merlot bottles offer a reminder of why my head feels so thick.

  Was it such a good idea to drink when my emotions were already raw? Maybe not, but an hour of alcohol-fuelled blubbing is surprisingly therapeutic. I’m still bitter about those wasted years, and my confidence in men is now at an all-time low, but I won’t let Karl Patterson keep me down. Dakota is welcome to him, and his untidiness, his mood swings, and his premature ejaculation.

  I ceremoniously drop the wine bottles in the bin, symbolic of my relationship going the same way. A couple of aspirin, a deep breath, and I think I’m ready to face the first day as a freshly-minted singleton. I’m hoping by the time I get to work I’ve managed to ease both my headache and any lingering self-pity.

  I step beyond the front door into a repeat of yesterday’s frigid weather. A chill wind whips down the street to greet me. I scamper to my car and fall into the driver’s seat, gratefully slamming the door behind me.

  Just as I’m about to pull away, I pause for a second. Should I have checked my tyres are okay? Sod that, it’s too cold out there and I’ll find out one way or another in the next twenty yards.

  I draw a deep breath and pull away. No rumbling noises and no errant steering issues. I breathe again.

  The traffic is a little heavier this morning and it takes almost twenty minutes to get to the shop. I pull into the parking bay, unlock the door, and go through the same routine as yesterday: kettle, heating, front door.