Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  “Where shall we start?”

  Clement looks up and down the road, frowning.

  “Don’t recognise much.”

  “Maybe you will, as we wander around. Where do you think we should start?”

  “You’re the one with the magic map, doll.”

  “Right, yes.”

  I pull my phone out and open the Google Maps app. My previous search is still on the screen and I wait for our location to update.

  “First contender is only a few minutes away, in that direction,” I say, nodding to our right.

  Clement sweeps his arm out to indicate I should lead on. “After you, ma’am,” he says mockingly. “You can tell me your plan on the way.”

  “Plan?”

  “To get into the bell tower.”

  “That’s my responsibility now, is it?”

  “Yeah. It’s called delegation.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I plod ahead and we make barely forty yards when Clement stops abruptly. He turns to the building on our right; one of the two places I’ve visited in Camden.

  “It’s still here,” he says excitedly, looking up at The Electric Ballroom.

  As legendary music venues go, it’s a pretty understated building: mid-terrace, three storeys high, and the Victorian brickwork painted black.

  “You know The Electric Ballroom?” I ask.

  “No, but this place used to be called The Carousel. I had some crazy nights in there, doll.”

  “Right. I had a pretty crazy night myself in there too, a few years back.”

  I intended my response to sound nonchalantly cool. I failed. It sounded lame, even to me.

  Clement turns to face me, his eyebrows arched. “Really? Who’d you see?”

  “Kings of Leon.”

  “Any good?”

  “They were fantastic. Do you like anything of theirs? Sex on Fire? Use Somebody?”

  Step into my trap, Clement.

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Oh.”

  Foiled again.

  “Who did you see here then?” I ask.

  “Christ, dozens of acts, but I was pretty wasted most of the time. I remember some, though. Led Zeppelin was a top night.”

  “Gosh, that must have been quite something?”

  “Yeah, it was, and then there was Wings, with Paul McCartney, the bloke from The Beatles.”

  “Yes, Clement, I know who Paul McCartney is.”

  “Is he…”

  “Yes, he’s still alive. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for John Lennon or George Harrison, I’m afraid. Ringo Starr is still around though, but he doesn’t seem to do much these days.”

  “Sounds about right,” Clement huffs. “Seems some things don’t change.”

  We both stare up at the building for a moment, reflecting on our respective memories, and then walk on.

  We pass Camden Market and Clement slows his pace, studying the wares on offer. He stops to inspect a leather jacket and the stall holder, a middle-aged woman in a hijab headscarf and full-length dress, approaches him.

  “Very nice,” she says, gesturing at the jacket.

  Clement appraises the woman for a few seconds. A sudden sense of panic engulfs me.

  “How much is it darlin’?” he says.

  “To you, my love, just seventy quid,” she replies in a strong London accent.

  For a man who claims not to have any money, he ponders her answer a little too long.

  “You mind if I ask you a question?” he eventually says.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Would it be inappropriate to run away at this point? I won’t discount it as an option just yet.

  “Why are you dressed in that garb?” he asks.

  “Garb?” she replies, puzzled.

  “Yeah, the scarf and the dress, like an Arab.”

  This could go one of two ways.

  “I’m a Muslim,” she replies, thankfully with a smile.

  “Right, ta. I’ll have a think about the jacket.”

  He gives her a nod and walks away. The woman turns her attention to another prospect browsing the rails.

  I skip up alongside him. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing. Just curious about that woman’s garb. I thought it was some sort of fashion statement.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Take a look around, doll. Loads of woman wearing something similar. Never saw it in my day.”

  I glance up the road, and he’s right. But with London being so multi-cultural, it’s not something I consciously notice, or give any thought to.

  “Well, you’re lucky she didn’t take offence.”

  “Not every bird is as uptight as you, doll.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and grab his arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He looks down at my hand, still fixed to his forearm. A quick stare over the top of his sunglasses is all it takes for me to remove my hand.

  “Just an observation, doll. Shall we get on with finding this church?”

  I throw him a frown before consulting my phone.

  “Next turning on the right.”

  We walk in silence down Buck Street.

  Our first target is the Trinity United Reformed Church, at the end of Buck Street and on the corner of Kentish Town Road. It takes barely half a minute to locate.

  I’m no expert on architecture, but the brick-built church looks sternly Victorian. The masonry and brickwork are heavily soiled with a layer of carbon residue, courtesy of the busy road on which the church sits. If I were to imagine a quaint, picturesque church for my dream wedding day, this one would be about the furthest I could get from it.

  We cross the road, and from the pavement opposite, stare up at the church roof for evidence of any bells.

  “I can’t see anything that looks like a belfry, can you?”

  “Nah. It’s too modern, I think.”

  “Shall we cross this one off the list then?”

  “Yeah. Where’s the next one?”

  I check the map, and the location of our next target. “St Michael’s. Not far from here.”

  We head up Kentish Town Road, past a number of independent shops that probably can’t afford the rent on Camden High Street. Many of them look as down on their luck as Baxter’s Books.

  We take a left turn into Camden Road and quickly cover the few hundred yards to St Michael’s.

  First impressions don’t bode well. The same style of architecture and the same grubby facade as the last church. Another contender for the church I’d least like to get married in. However, there does appear to be a bell, set in an alcove just below the roof ridge.

  “Don’t look like you’d need a bell ringer for that,” Clement remarks.

  “I think you might be right.”

  “There’s a first.”

  “What?”

  “You think I’m right about something.”

  I ignore his comment.

  “I think we should go and check, just to be sure.”

  There’s no entrance on the front elevation so we head down the left flank of the church, and find the main door set within an imposing stone archway. The door is wide open so we step inside.

  I’d guess I’ve probably been in a few dozen churches over the years, and I have to admit they all look the same to me. St Michael’s appears to follow the same template as every other church, with rows of wooden pews to the left and the right, and a central aisle leading up to the altar. The still air is tinged with the familiar scent of aged paper, probably from the dozens of bibles and hymn books tucked behind the pews.

  We edge across the stone floor towards the aisle, the silence a stark contrast to the noise beyond the thick walls.

  “These places give me the willies,” Clement whispers.

  “Ironic, considering your claim.”

  He’s about to argue my point when a door creaks open, somewhere off in the far left corner.

&nbs
p; The sound of footsteps echo through the quiet and a figure appears from beyond one of the stone columns.

  “Can I help you?”

  The priest is young, certainly younger than me. He has the same butterscotch-coloured hair as Karl, although it’s neatly trimmed and clearly more familiar with a hairbrush than Karl’s mop.

  “Oh, hi, yes…hopefully you can,” I stammer.

  The priest offers a patient smile, waiting for me to expand. A thousand words flutter through my mind like confetti, but my mouth is unable to collate enough of them to produce a coherent sentence.

  “We…um…”

  “We wanna get hitched,” Clement interjects.

  I turn and look up at him in disbelief.

  “Don’t we, doll?” he adds, smiling down at me.

  Damn you, Clement.

  “Yes, we want to get married,” I confirm through gritted teeth.

  The young priest must meet some fairly odd couples in his line of work. His expression suggests we might be the oddest, but he does a reasonable job of sounding sincere. “Congratulations to you both. And were you hoping to get married here at St Michael’s?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Clement says. “But my fianceé here is dead keen on having a traditional wedding with all the trimmings. You know, choir, flowers, massive organ, and bells — definitely lots of church bells.”

  Clement places a hand on my shoulder and grins at me. “You just love a good ding-dong, don’t you, doll?”

  “Yes, love it,” I laugh nervously.

  The priest’s face washes with relief, as if he’s just plucked the Get out of Jail card in a game of Monopoly.

  “That’s a pity. We only have a single bell here, I’m afraid.”

  Clement frowns. “Ahh, that’s a bitch. Still, suppose it saves you hiring bell ringers?”

  “Erm, yes. The warden usually rings it.”

  “Well, thank you anyway, Father,” I hurriedly interrupt. “We’ll leave you in peace.”

  I turn to leave but apparently Clement hasn’t finished. “Wait one sec, doll.”

  He throws a final question at the priest. “Father, are there any other churches locally that have a full set of bells?”

  There must be times when a priest really wishes they could tell the odd white lie. I think this is one such instance.

  “I’ve not been here long so I don’t know all the local churches that well,” he offers. “But you might want to try All Saints, or maybe St Jude’s in Kentish Town. I think they’re probably the closest.”

  “Cheers, Father. And I’m sorry we can’t get hitched here, but Beth here is a demanding girl, used to getting her own way.”

  I suspect Clement’s closing statement was followed by a wink. I don’t know because I’m already cringing my way back down the aisle.

  I continue through the doorway and don’t stop until I’m back on the pavement at the front of the church. Clement appears a few seconds later, smiling as he approaches me.

  “That didn’t go too badly. Least we know where to go next.”

  I have other concerns.

  “Did you have to embarrass me like that?” I snap.

  “Eh?”

  “Why did you tell him we were getting married?”

  The smile is gone. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “But you were standing mumbling like an idiot, so I had to say something.”

  “You could have said something more believable. Honestly, Clement, that was humiliating.”

  He reaches for his chest pocket and pulls out the crumbled cigarette packet. After a peek inside, he crushes the packet in his hand.

  “Fucking great. What a time to run out of fags.”

  “Maybe this is a good time to give them up,” I venture.

  “You know what I’d like to give up, doll? This. You’re doing my bleedin’ nut in.”

  “What have I done?”

  “You never stop whinging. If you won the pools, you’d complain about the cost of the stamp to send the coupon in.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Ain’t it? For somebody who needs help, you’re pretty bloody ungrateful. Honestly, doll, do you think I really wanna be schlepping around town with a prissy-knickered brat?”

  Ouch.

  This isn’t an argument I can win. Actually, this isn’t an argument I really want to win. I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me, but I can’t deny his words don’t sting, and I’m not keen on hearing any more. What is it they say? Truth hurts?

  I think it might be better to sidestep this one.

  “Um, can I buy you some more cigarettes?”

  I hope Clement’s need for nicotine is greater than his pride.

  “Yeah, ta,” he eventually sighs. “But if we’re gonna carry on with this, you’ve gotta drop the attitude, doll. Clear?”

  I offer a feeble smile. “I’ll try.”

  Game, set, and match to Clement.

  20

  True to its name, there’s a convenience store directly opposite the church. We cross the road and Clement follows me in.

  A sour faced woman with bottle-blonde hair is standing idle behind the counter, picking at her nails.

  “A pack of Marlboro please.”

  Without a word, she turns to slide the door across the cigarette cabinet behind her. I can almost sense Clement’s mind questioning why the cigarettes aren’t on open display. He doesn’t ask though.

  A pack of Marlboro are slapped on the counter.

  “£10.50, please,” she says wearily.

  “How much?” we both choke in unison.

  “£10.50. If you want to save fifty pence, go to a supermarket.”

  I pull a twenty pound note from my purse and begrudgingly hand it over. The price some people are prepared to pay for their addiction.

  I take my change and grab the pack from the counter. “Thank you.”

  The woman returns to her nail picking.

  We step back outside and I pass the cigarettes to Clement.

  “More than ten quid for a packet of smokes?” he grumbles. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “You’re telling me. You’d better smoke those sparingly because I’m not made of money.”

  He removes the cellophane wrap and examines the packet, specifically the picture of a diseased lung on the front.

  “What the hell is that? Looks like a Scotsman’s breakfast.”

  “It’s a smoker’s lung. I think it’s supposed to deter you from smoking.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and lights up a cigarette. “Didn’t work.”

  With Clement puffing away, I check the location of the two churches the priest suggested.

  “All Saints is a fifteen minute walk, and St Jude’s six minutes on from there.”

  “Alright. Let’s get going then.”

  I double-check our route, which is fairly straightforward, and we set off in a northerly direction along Camden Road.

  For the first few minutes we walk in silence, but I’m keen to avoid any more of Clement’s little surprises and question the specifics of our plan.

  “So, how are we going to get into the belfry?” I ask.

  “Thought you’d have come up with something by now.”

  “Erm, I’m still thinking.”

  “No need. We’ll use the marriage line again.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Can you think of any other reason a bloke and a woman would want to chat to a priest?”

  I can’t, and my expression gives me away.

  “It’s easy enough, doll. We chat to the priest, and I’ll ask to use the lav. You keep him occupied so I can take a look around.”

  “Will that give you enough time? There’s only so long I can keep him chatting for.”

  “Maybe you can do a confession while you’re there. That’ll keep him busy.”

  “I doubt it. I’m a good girl, Clement.”

  “Yeah, thought as much,” he snorts. “Anyway, how many places are there to hide someth
ing in a bell tower? It’s just four walls and the wooden parts that hold the bells in place.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”

  We continue along Camden Road, passing an eclectic range of independent shops, restaurants, takeaways, coffee shops, and a surprising number of estate agents. The one consistent is the traffic; a never ending stream of vehicles pumping exhaust fumes in our direction. I do wonder whether, if people could actually see pollution, like a cloud of red smog, they’d be so ambivalent about it.

  I’m dragged from my environmental concerns when Clement stops abruptly outside a Thai restaurant.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “This was it,” he gasps. “The pub where Harry Cole used to drink.”

  “Really? You sure?”

  “Yeah, hundred percent. Can’t believe it’s a bloody chinky now.”

  “It’s actually Thai, and that’s another word you probably shouldn’t say.”

  “Chinky?”

  “Correct.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  His apologetic response surprises me, especially after the last time I corrected his use of politically incorrect language. We appear to be making progress.

  Clement then turns and surveys our surroundings as if he’s looking for something.

  “What’s so interesting?” I ask.

  “It was over there I think. The alley.”

  “What alley?”

  “The alley, doll.”

  So much for progress.

  “Oh, the alley where you…died?”

  No answer. He continues to stare off into the distance.

  I wait a long moment for him to answer. “Yeah. Sounds like bullshit when you say it, though.”

  “Does it? Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise, doll. I know how it sounds and I wouldn’t believe me either.”

  He blows out a lungful of air and turns back to the pavement ahead of us.

  “Let’s get out of here. It’s making my balls itch.”

  He takes a few strides and I gallop up beside him. I don’t have anything to say in response to his itchy balls so I wait for him to speak again. It doesn’t take long.

  “You know what I find odd, doll? You don’t believe what I said about being whacked, and I get why, yet here we are — you and me, strolling through the streets of London looking for a gold bar that hasn’t been seen for decades.”