“Yeah, course it is. There’s loads of disused stations on the Underground, and they just locked them up and forgot about them.”
He stares at me, expectant, enthused.
“Wait. Just hold on a minute. Are you seriously suggesting we search a disused Underground station for a gold bar? Notwithstanding the fact it’ll be locked up, and dark as hell, where do you even start looking? It would take forever with just the two of us.”
“But we know exactly where to look — in the ticket office, obviously.”
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath as I try to expunge a growing sense of deja vu.
I’m tired, dejected, and I feel disgusting. What I really want is to go home, take a long shower, and then hide under my duvet for a month. What I don’t want is to have my hopes raised and then dashed again. I can’t keep doing it. I can’t keep ceding my dwindling faith; there’s so little left as it is.
I open my eyes and turn to Clement. “I’m sorry. I’m done.”
“What?”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“But, doll, this could be it. Everyone was looking at the church angle, but how many people knew Harry worked on the underground? And how many would have known he worked at the old Tower Hill station? None, I reckon. We only found out cos’ the priest told us, and Harry was given the boot years before the Baker Street job. Forget the church stuff, this makes far more sense.”
“I appreciate your efforts, Clement, but I’m tired, and I just want to go home.”
“And then what? How are you gonna get twenty grand together in five days?”
“I’ll have to speak to a loan company on Monday.”
“If you really thought that was a realistic option, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
We wouldn’t, I know that. It’s just a feeble excuse to avoid any more of this madness.
“Doll, look at me.”
I slowly turn my head and do as instructed. Clement removes his sunglasses, his blue eyes fixing on mine.
“I came here to do a job. I don’t care what you think about me, if you think I’m bleedin’ crazy, I only care about getting the job done.”
“I appreciate that, Clement, but…”
“But nothing,” he interrupts. “I might be wrong about the tube station, but it’s gotta be worth a look ain’t it? And if I’m wrong, we find another way. I’ll keep looking until I draw my last breath, but you have to trust me, doll. I need you to believe I can do this.”
Over the last eighteen years, five men have declared their love for me. Subsequently, all five men left me questioning the sincerity of that declaration. I’m sure they meant it at the time, and I probably believed them at the time. Not one of them ever displayed the intense sincerity currently burning in Clement’s eyes.
“If you need to know anything about me, doll, know that I never give up. Ever.”
For a fleeting moment I bask in Clement’s sincerity, happy to believe almost anything he says. Unicorns are real, the moon is made of soft cream cheese, and not all men are complete shits — I’d willingly believe it all.
Like most good things in my life, the moment soon passes.
“I don’t know, Clement.”
“Tell you what, why don’t we just go and have a look at the old station, see how the land lies?”
He puts his sunglasses back on and pulls out the Marlboros. I watch him as he flicks the Zippo open and lights it in one fluid action, like he’s done it a thousand times before, which he probably has, come to think of it.
He takes a long drag before slowly exhaling a plume of blue-grey smoke. It drifts over my head, close enough for me to catch a whiff of the pungent odour. Coupled with the smell of freshly cut grass, I’m suddenly seven years old again, standing at my father’s side in the garden as he puffs on a cigarette while tinkering with the lawnmower. A time when I was untainted by the lies and perpetual disappointment life would eventually throw my way.
“Just a quick look?”
“Honestly, doll, just a quick look.”
“And no breaking and entering?”
“Scout’s honour.”
“I must be crazy. Come on then.”
“Good girl. You won’t regret it,” he beams.
“Please don’t patronise me, Clement. I’m a woman, not a girl.”
He gets up and crushes the cigarette butt under his boot. He then looks down at me, a wry smile on his face. “Sometimes, you’re still a girl.”
He turns and strides towards the gate.
I’m left on the bench, trying to answer a question — did he just say that?
24
As we stroll back up Camden High Street towards the tube station, it dawns on me that we could have simply gone to Kentish Town, only a five minute walk from St Jude’s.
“Why didn’t you say we could have used Kentish Town?” I ask Clement.
“Fancied the walk. Besides, it gave us a chance to chat.”
On reflection, I suspect our little detour to the park was all part of his plan.
Whether it was planned or not, his pep talk has prodded my motivation back into life. And despite my skin feeling like the floor of a kebab shop, maybe a teeny part of me is secretly pleased our quest isn’t quite over yet; not that I want Clement to know that.
“What happened to all the pubs?” he randomly remarks as we stroll along.
“Eh?”
“That’s the fourth building we’ve passed that used to be a pub.”
“Oh, I’m afraid it’s a pretty similar story across the whole country. There was something on the news about it, last week. Apparently three pubs close down every day.”
“People don’t drink so much?”
“Maybe, but it’s probably more to do with supermarkets selling cheap booze, and the smoking ban of course.”
“No, don’t tell me…”
“Afraid so. You can’t smoke in pubs either.”
“Shittin’ hell. A pint and a fag is a British institution, like fish and chips.”
“You can still have a pint and a fag; you just have to stand outside.”
“That must be fun in the winter — freezing your bleedin’ knackers off just to have a smoke.”
“Well, it’s one reason people stay at home and drink, and why so many pubs have closed.”
He shakes his head and looks genuinely saddened. Another masterful piece of acting, or chronic delusion? I really can’t tell which.
We pass Camden Market and The Electric Ballroom, and then enter the tube station.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.
“Yeah. Northern Line down to Bank station, then a short walk to Monument. Tower Hill is one stop from there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
We head down to the Northern Line platform and three minutes later, we’re on a train down to Bank.
The first leg of our journey takes thirteen minutes. Our carriage isn’t overly crowded and I’m relieved we’re able to secure seats. A gaggle of new passengers hop on at every stop, many of them eyeing the empty seat next to Clement. None of them take it.
We pull into Bank station a little after four o’clock. As we shuffle away from the platform, I spot a sign for Monument station.
“Clement, it says this way.”
We then follow a confusing maze of walkways and escalators that wind between the two stations.
“What’s the DLR?” Clement asks as we pass a sign.
“The Docklands Light Railway. I don’t really know too much about it, other than it connects all the new developments to the east of the city.”
“Have you been on it?”
“Once or twice. I think we used it a few years back when we went to the O2 Arena.”
I regret saying it within a second of finishing my sentence.
“What’s…”
“It’s a big entertainment venue. They hold concerts there.”
I look across at Clement. His f
rown is like that of an overly inquisitive child who puts his hand up too often in class, and is eventually overlooked by the teacher.
“If we find what we’re looking for, I’ll take you on a limousine tour of all the sights.”
“Promises, promises,” he replies, his frown fading away.
We emerge from the tunnel and take the Circle Line for the short journey to Tower Hill. The train arrives, and barely a minute later, we reach our destination.
As we emerge back into daylight, I remind Clement this is purely a reconnaissance exercise.
“Yeah, alright. Trust me, doll.”
Hmmm…
I google the location of the old Tower Hill station. It’s just a few hundred yards away.
We follow a path away from the station entrance, and head towards the main road which leads to our destination. We turn right and I check the map again, to ensure we’re heading in the right direction.
“Christ on a bike,” Clement bellows.
I snap my head up. “What? What is it?”
“Look at that.”
I assume he’s talking about the Tower of London, directly opposite our location. I went there once, on a school trip, and while I recall being vaguely impressed at seeing one of London’s most famous landmarks, I’m surprised at Clement’s reaction.
“Surely you’ve seen the Tower of London before?”
“Course I have, but not that bloody thing.”
He points a few degrees to the right of the Tower, at the Shard — the latest addition to the London skyline.
“Ohh, you mean the Shard?”
“What is it?”
“It’s the tallest building in Europe, if my memory serves me correctly. I think it was built a few years ago.”
Clement continues to stare at it as we wander along the road.
“It’s bleedin’ massive,” he murmurs.
I’m more interested in Tower Bridge, which comes into view as we pass the Tower of London. It’s a bridge so distinctive, so iconic, not least because its picture adorns every bit of tourist gift tat, from tea towels to fridge magnets. Despite my frequent visits to London, I rarely get to see any of our famous landmarks. I take a few seconds to admire the impressive structure, much like the scores of tourist taking photos on the opposite side of the road.
We pass the Trinity Square Gardens, home of the grand Trinity House, and I check our location on the map.
“It’s just up here on the right.”
With only the point of the Shard now visible above the buildings across the street, Clement regains his focus.
“Just think, doll. We could be within fifty yards of that gold.”
We reach the entrance to the old Tower Hill station, and it becomes clear we won’t be getting any nearer.
A steel scissor gate stretches across the entrance, secured by a cylinder lock within a sturdy frame. Beyond the metal latticework, there’s a tantalising view of the stairs down to the old station. Unfortunately, the stairs take a ninety degree turn so it’s impossible to see more than seven or eight yards beyond our position.
“Shit,” Clement mumbles.
“Now what?”
He turns around and stares at something on the opposite side of the road.
“Look over there, doll.”
I do as instructed, but besides an old red phone box, I see nothing of note.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“There’s another entrance over there. I bet there’s a subway below the road.”
“You reckon?”
“Yeah. Lots of tube stations on busy roads have more than one entrance. We ain’t gonna be getting in this way, so we might as well check it out.”
We wait a few seconds for the lights to change and the traffic to stop. We then scoot around the back of a stationary double-decker bus, straight into a fog of diesel fumes belching from its exhaust. The west-bound traffic is still buzzing along and we have to choose our moment to cross.
If you didn’t know it was there, the second entrance to the old Tower Hill station would be easy to miss. A waist-high brick wall surrounds a stairwell, protected by a gate that even I could hop over. Beyond the gate, the stairs lead down to a pair of steel mesh doors. From the street, it would be near impossible for anyone to see those doors unless they stood next to the wall and deliberately looked over.
“This looks a better way in. Wait here a sec, doll.”
Before I have chance to argue, Clement clambers over the gate and disappears down the stairs.
Keen to distance myself from anything illegal Clement has in mind, I slowly edge away from the wall. Behind it stands an ancient-looking church; All Hallows by the Tower, according to the sign adjacent to the door. I might have had some interest in its history, if I hadn’t already had my fill of churches today. Nevertheless, it gives me a reason to loiter in the middle of the pavement.
I become just another tourist, drinking in the architecture, but all the while keeping one eye out for the police car I fear will arrive any second.
Barely a minute passes before Clement emerges and clambers back over the gate.
“Good news,” he shouts above the noise of the traffic. “The doors are locked with a run-of-the-mill padlock.”
“Do you want to shout a bit louder,” I hiss. “I don’t think somebody in Leicester Square quite heard you.”
“Keep your knickers on, doll” he says dismissively.
“So why is that good news?” I whisper, somewhat pointlessly as another bus rumbles past.
“With the right tools, I reckon I could have it open.”
“And what are the right tools exactly?”
“Quickest option would be a decent set of bolt cutters. Failing that, just a couple of hair pins, but that might take a while.”
“Well, forgive me for not checking, but I’m fairly certain I don’t have either in my handbag.”
Clement lets his gaze drift over my head and across the street, as if pondering our next move.
“Don’t think there’s much we can do then. Not now, anyway.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
“Head back to your place and regroup. Work out a plan, and what we need.”
I’m slightly relieved at his pragmatism. As much as I want to find out one way or another if we’re chasing another wild goose, today has been just a tad too much for me.
“Good idea. What’s the quickest way back to Waterloo?”
“Via that pub over there.”
“Eh?”
“Go on, doll. Shout me a pint. I’m gagging, and I need a piss.”
It’s actually one of his better ideas. I don’t think I’ve ever needed a glass of wine more than I currently do.
“Okay. Just a quick one.”
We cross the road and wander twenty yards along the pavement to the pub. A variety of meal and drink offers are advertised on garish posters outside, suggesting it’s a typical chain pub similar to thousands across the country.
The decor inside is suitably generic; all light oak veneer and faux brass. I guess it’s somebody’s idea of a traditional British pub, geared towards the hordes of tourists visiting the Tower.
Clement heads off to the toilets while I make my way to the bar. It’s reasonably busy but I think we’ve arrived before the early evening dinner rush.
As I wait to be served, it strikes me that I have no idea what his idea of ‘a pint’ actually is.
It matters not, as I’m still waiting to be served by the time he returns.
“What did you want to drink, Clement?”
“A pint.”
“Of what?”
“Lager.”
“Which lager?”
I point to the array of pumps lined up behind the bar. “Take your pick.”
He studies each pump, his frown deepening. “Suppose I’ll have a Heineken. Never heard of the others.”
A chirpy barman eventually takes our order and furnished with our drinks, we take a
seat at a table next to the window. After three large gulps of white wine I relax a little, knowing our quest for the day is over. The alcohol also helps.
“Don’t suppose you could stretch to some fodder too?” Clement asks. “I’m starving.”
I suppose a toasted sandwich isn’t enough for a man of his size to survive on. I take a quick look at the menu and I’m pleasantly surprised how inexpensive their meals are.
“Go on then. Keep it under a tenner though.”
“Cheers, doll.”
Clement grabs a menu and eyes it hungrily. His enthusiasm quickly wains once he realises that, even in here, a tenner isn’t going to get him a banquet.
“Guess I’ll have the steak and kidney pudding.”
“Right. I need to order at the bar so try not to get in any trouble while I’m gone.”
He nods, and continues to study the menu.
I head back to the bar and place our order. The barman is good enough to advise me that I can save money by ordering another round of drinks with our meals. It seems churlish not to take advantage, and I return to the table with another pint and another glass of wine.
“You’re not a cheap date, Clement.”
“I’m not a cheap anything, doll.”
We sup our drinks and stare out of the window at the passing traffic. Clement seems perfectly happy to do nothing and say nothing. I, on the other hand, feel obliged to make conversation.
“Can I ask you a question, Clement?”
“Sure.”
“You never said. Is Clement your first name or your surname?”
“Neither. Both. It’s just a name.”
“Surely it has to be one or the other? What does it say on your birth certificate?”
“Dunno. Never seen it.”
“Okay. What about your passport?”
“Never had one.”
“I don’t understand how you can go through life without a proper name.”
“Why do I need one?” he shrugs. “I’ve never paid taxes and never claimed anything. Never got called up for national service, and never had a bank account.”
“So your name isn’t listed on any government database?”
“Nope.”
“But what about…,” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “…your death certificate.”
Who Sent Clement? Page 21