“Campanology.”
“Eh?”
“People who study bells and bell-ringing are called campanologists.”
“Right. Anyway, he said the bells were rung by some of Harry’s fellow ringers, as a mark of respect I suppose. That got me thinking. If Harry was a regular bell ringer at the church, he’d have access to the bell tower — the perfect hiding place for something small, like a bar of gold. I doubt anyone would have reason to go in there very often, and it’s not as though the old bill would raid a church is it? Think about it, doll.”
Clement’s tale sounds so plausible, I can’t do anything other than think about it.
“But surely someone else would have made that connection?”
“We’re talking about Cole’s gold here. If somebody had found it, there’s no way they’d have been able to keep it a secret. They’d have needed a fence to get rid of it, and all the fences I knew would never have kept their traps shut. There’d have been whispers around the manor, and everyone would have been talking about it within days. It would have been like finding Lord Lucan.”
“Okay. So we just go to this church and somehow take a look around the belfry?”
“Ah, that’s the only snag. I don’t know which church.”
“You didn’t think to ask the old man?”
“By the time I’d made the connection, he’d already left the pub. I was planning on going back the next day to ask him.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“On account I was dead the next day,” he replies matter-of-factly. “It was the same night I got whacked, in the alley.”
In a split second, his plausibility is shattered.
“I do wish you wouldn’t keep saying that.”
“Saying what?”
“That you died. You do realise how ridiculous it sounds?”
“Says the woman who writes unbelievable tosh.”
“What?”
“While I was watching TV last night, I found a notebook down the side of the sofa. Now, what was it, written on the front? Novel Ideas & Concepts, or something like that?”
“You had no right to read that,” I snap.
“Bit touchy aren’t we? To be frank, doll, the shit I read in that notebook was a damn sight more ridiculous than anything I’ve told you.”
I feel my cheeks burn red. Partly in embarrassment, partly in anger. As my embarrassment is greater, I swallow the anger and move the conversation on.
“Can we get back to the plan?”
I hate losing an argument and I suspect Clement is taking pleasure in my defeat, his lips curling into a faint smile.
“Whatever you say, doll.”
“There must be hundreds of churches in North London alone. Where do we even start?”
“I suppose we just hop on the tube to Camden, find the first church, and go through them one by one.”
“Or we could use the Internet?”
“Second time you’ve mentioned it, but I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
I delve into my handbag and pull out my phone. A quick search on Google maps reveals the magnitude of our task. I hold the phone up so Clement can see the screen.
“There’s about a dozen churches in the Camden area.”
Clement appears more interested in the phone than my revelation.
“You got a map on that thing?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s a camera, and a phone?”
“Yes.”
“What else can it do?”
“All sorts. I can watch movies, listen to music, read a book.”
He leans back in his seat. “That’s just crazy, doll. There’s not even any wires.”
This feels like a conversation I had with my mother, a few months ago. She was trying to remember the name of the band who sung Ventura Highway. I opened Spotify on my phone, found the track, and played it, all within about thirty seconds. My dear mother thought it was some sort of witchcraft.
“Tell you what, Clement, If we find that gold I’ll buy you one.”
“And if we don’t, no magic box of fuckery is gonna help either of us.”
“Yes, right. So, do we just go through the churches one by one?”
“Guess so, unless that thing can tell us which ones have a bell tower, and which don’t?”
“Actually, it might.”
Clement shakes his head as if his comment was only meant in jest. I open the list below the map to view tiny thumbnail photos of each church.
“Well, we can strike at least half of them from our list as they’re not traditional churches.”
“Just the half dozen then,” he grunts.
“It’s not the number that worries me, Clement, it’s how we’re going to physically check the belfry of each one.”
“Only one way, doll. We bullshit our way in.”
“We lie to the priests?”
“Yeah, put it down to God’s will.”
I doubt God will see it that way but in lieu of not being able to ask him, I suppose I have no choice but to follow Clement’s lead. That thought prompts a niggling concern: lying to members of the clergy probably won’t be the worst thing we do today.
Forgive me, Father. I think I’m about to sin.
17
The train clacks to a standstill beneath the cavernous roof of Waterloo station.
Clement is already on his feet, standing in front of the carriage doors. I get up from my seat and join him. The doors hiss open and Clement takes one huge stride onto the platform. He turns to me as I step down from the carriage.
“Can you smell that, doll?” he asks as he sniffs the air.
To me, the air smells dirty but there’s no discernible odour.
“Smell what?”
“The smell of London,” he confirms proudly. “Greatest city on God’s earth.”
I’m not such a fan, but keep my opinion to myself. I’ve visited our capital city scores of times, but I’ve got mixed feelings about the place. Somehow, London feels bewilderingly vast, and yet claustrophobic at the same time. I know some people love the general hustle and bustle, but I hate the crowds, and I hate the constant din.
Despite my general ambivalence for our crowded capital, I visit fairly frequently because it also happens to house some of the best book shops on the planet. Amongst the noise and the dirt and the throngs of faceless humans, there are these calm oases. Quaint little shops, hidden away in back streets, and serving only those who have the desire to find them. To bibliophiles such as myself, those shops are like a peaceful corner of nirvana.
I doubt I’ll be visiting any today, though.
Clement lifts his hand to the pocket of his waistcoat. I throw him a frown and his hand drops back to his side.
“I need a fag, doll, and something to eat. I think better on a full stomach.”
I have no craving for nicotine, but my rumbling stomach reminds me I didn’t eat anything for breakfast.
“Alright. We’ll grab a bite to eat first.”
We make our way along the never ending platform, Clement striding purposefully as I scurry along in his wake.
“Can you slow down a bit,” I puff.
Clement comes to a halt and turns to me. “Sorry, doll. Wanna piggy-back?”
I assume he’s joking, although the offer is tempting. He chuckles to himself and continues towards the ticket barriers at a slower pace.
We make our way through the barriers, with no great drama this time, and into the cathedral-like concourse.
This is the London I hate. I couldn’t begin to estimate how many people occupy the vast space, but it’s too many for my liking. Some are just loitering, others scampering across the tiled floor, hauling bags or dragging wheeled suitcases. Some people don’t seem to know where they’re going. Those that do aren’t looking where they’re going.
Clement chooses to join those who are loitering.
He stands with his hands on his hips, casting his gaze from left to right, h
igh and low.
“Christ, this place has changed,” he murmurs.
Dozens of shops and kiosks line the perimeter, and Clement studies the names, one by one.
“What’s a….”
“Don’t, Clement. Just don’t.”
“Suit yourself,” he replies with shrug. “Where do you wanna eat then?”
There’s no shortage of options.
“Starbucks. I could do with a caffeine boost.”
It’s my turn to lead and we carve our way through the crowd towards Starbucks. Unlike our earlier walk from the shop, no heads are turned by Clement’s attire. Only in London would his bizarre outfit be deemed perfectly normal.
With Clement at my heels, we enter Starbucks and join the short queue.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Do they do a full English?”
“No.”
“Alright. I’ll just have a couple of bacon sarnies then.”
“This is not a greasy spoon, Clement. Can you please choose something they actually sell?”
Clement’s eyes follow my finger as I point to the menu above the counter. He studies it for a moment, his face suggesting he’s not enamoured with the choice of fare.
“What’s pesto?”
“Just choose something you recognise.”
“Ham and cheddar toastie then,” he grumbles.
The queue edges forward and an enthusiastic young woman asks for our order.
“One ham and cheddar toastie. One tuna baguette. A medium Americano, and…”
“Clement. What do you want to drink?”
“They got Tizer?”
“No.”
“Tea then.”
I turn back to the young woman and confirm Clement’s beverage choice. She taps away at the screen on the till and I pay with a credit card. I’ve got a horrible feeling it won’t be the last time it leaves my purse today.
With Clement standing by the entrance like a nightclub bouncer, we mill around in silence for a few minutes until the young woman calls our order. I grab the tray, and a handful of sugar sachets, and we head upstairs to the seating area.
Typical of most coffee shops, the scene is a sea of ghostly faces fixed to a variety of digital devices.
I place the tray on the nearest empty table and take a seat. Clement falls onto the chair opposite, his attention focused on our fellow diners.
He eventually turns to me. “Reminds me of a movie I saw at the flicks once.”
“Sorry?”
“Night of the Living Dead. You seen it?”
“Um, no, don’t think I have.”
“Look at them,” he says, nodding his head towards a twenty-something couple sitting at a table against the far wall. Both are holding phones and staring blankly at the screens. The fact they’re at the same table is the only reason you’d assume they’re together.
“That’s our digital society for you, Clement.”
“Has everyone got one of those things then?”
“Yep.”
He shakes his head as he removes the lid from his tea. Five sachets of sugar are deposited in the cup before he takes a sip.
“Can you hear that, doll?”
I pause for a second and listen. I don’t hear anything untoward. “Hear what?”
“Fuck all, that’s what I mean — nobody is talking. Every cafe I’ve ever been in, people sit and natter.”
“Yes, well, people communicate in different ways now.”
“What? You saying people don’t talk?”
“No, it’s just that people tend to say things using social media, or by texting.”
“Well, whatever those things are, you’re living like bleedin’ zombies.”
I let my gaze drift around the room. I guess Clement has a point.
We join the massed silence as we eat, sipping quietly at our overpriced drinks. Now Clement has mentioned it, the lack of conversation around us is hard to ignore. If it wasn’t for the barely audible background music and the ambient noise from the station concourse, the silence would be uncomfortable.
A prolonged belch breaks through the muted atmosphere.
“Pardon me,” Clement booms.
A dozen heads snap in our direction, accompanied by a chorus of loud tuts.
“Christ. They’re alive,” he adds.
Clement stands up and the dozen heads quickly snap back to their original position. It doesn’t appear anyone is keen to challenge his lack of social grace.
My leather jacket suddenly feels like a cloak of shame.
I grab my handbag and dart towards the stairs, keeping my head low to avoid contact with the eyes following me.
My legs don’t stop until I’m at least thirty yards across the concourse and partly hidden behind a ticket machine. Clement appears a few seconds later, and strolls across to my hiding place.
“You alright, doll? You need the lav?”
“No, Clement. I do not,” I snap. “Nor do I need your appalling manners or embarrassing comments. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Wasn’t thinking anything.”
“No, you weren’t. Wherever the hell you were dragged up, it’s a shame they never taught you any manners. You’re so uncouth.”
“Calm down, doll. I was just trying to lighten the mood. That lot seemed like they could do with it.”
In any other circumstance I’d have stormed off in a huff. Now, I have no choice but to front this out.
“Before we go any further, I want your word you’ll behave yourself. Honestly, Clement, I’d expect that sort of behaviour from a ten year-old. Grow up will you.”
My rant over, he stands motionless, staring down at me. I don’t know him well enough to determine what’s going on behind those blue eyes. Perhaps he’s contemplating hell as an appealing alternative to my company. Or perhaps he’s considering the various ways he’d like to kill me.
As the seconds pass, it dawns on me that antagonising this huge man was probably not wise, especially after witnessing the brutally efficient way he dealt with Messrs Black & Blue.
Maybe discretion is the better part of valour in this instance. I’m about to swallow my pride and apologise when a smile breaks on his face.
“You’re a feisty little thing, ain’t you?”
“Um, sometimes.”
“You always get your own way?”
“Eh? No, it’s nothing to do with getting my own way. I just…”
“Like everyone to dance to your tune?”
“No. That’s not fair. I don’t…”
“If you say so, doll,” he interrupts, again. “I need a smoke.”
Conversation over.
Clement turns and heads towards the nearest exit. He gets a dozen yards away before I follow.
The steps down from the concourse lead out to the rear of the station. It’s almost as chaotic, with the added delight of suffocating fumes from the idling buses and taxis buzzing past every few seconds.
Clement leans up against a stone pillar, lights a cigarette and stares off into the distance. The view of a brick viaduct is nothing to write home about.
Time to offer that apology.
“I’m, um, sorry, Clement. I overstepped the mark.”
He puffs a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air, and then looks down at me.
“No need, doll. You are who you are.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t mean to be so judgemental.”
“Forget it. You weren’t so far from the truth.”
“Sorry?”
“I was dragged up. And when I wasn’t being dragged, I was being kicked, shoved, or generally battered. Twelve years in boys’ home might account for my uncouth behaviour.”
Nicely handled, Beth. Real sensitive.
“I’m so sorry, Clement. I didn’t think.”
“Seems the way of the world now, from what I’ve seen. People talking too much without thinking, or thinking too much without talking.”
He stamps his cigarette out o
n the floor and steps away from the pillar.
“And just so you know, I prefer the less talking option.”
He turns and walks away.
18
I catch up with Clement and we make our way across the station concourse towards the Underground entrance. If I did offend him, he appears to have got over it pretty quickly as he hums a tune I don’t recognise.
He also appears to have mastered the automatic barriers, and we pass seamlessly through the main ticket hall and down the escalator towards the Bakerloo Line platform. I assume it’s the correct line for our destination, Camden, but my knowledge of the Underground is sketchy at best. All I can do is follow Clement as he bulldozes through the crowds.
For a woman of my diminutive stature, the Underground is usually a hellish experience, but this time I’m able to follow the path cleared by my bulky travel companion. However, the one aspect of travel on the London Underground I still have to suffer is the halitosis of hot, stale air that engulfs you at the bottom of the escalators. Within seconds I’m craving a shower and full body scrub.
As we descend the crowds thin and we’re able to navigate our way through the tubular walkways down to the northbound platform, without the usual weekday stampede I’ve experienced on previous visits.
We’re eventually spat out onto the platform alongside a gaggle of other passengers awaiting the next northbound train.
I follow Clement as he wanders twenty yards down the platform, passing a group of men in football shirts, a young couple holding hands, a family with two excitable kids, and numerous lone passengers who all look like they’d rather be somewhere else.
We find a few square yards of empty platform and Clement leans up against the wall, his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. I take up a position alongside him.
A digital sign, hung from the curved ceiling, confirms the next train will arrive in four minutes.
No words are exchanged for a minute or so, until Clement makes a confession.
“I thought we’d make a slight detour before we go to Camden. Shouldn’t take more than half hour.”
“A detour to where exactly?”
“Not far. Somewhere special I visited a few times a month as a kid,” he says solemnly. “Suppose you’d call it a place of refuge.”
I assume he’s talking about a church or maybe some quiet spot on the banks of the River Thames. Either way, I’m wary of saying the wrong thing again so I just agree with a nod. It’s clear that Clement had a troubled childhood and perhaps this is an opportunity for some sort of closure.
Who Sent Clement? Page 15