“Funnily enough, I never got to see it. But I’d guess it says, John Doe.”
“Right, of course. But your, err, previous line of work. Didn’t you ever get arrested?”
“Never.”
“So no criminal record, and no fingerprints or DNA on file?”
“Dunno what DNA is, but no.”
Seemingly bored with my questioning, Clement returns his attention to the scene beyond the window. I take a sip of wine and quietly ponder his revelation.
I can’t imagine anyone being able to slip through the system in this day and age, let alone be able to function. I mean, without any official identification, how do you open a bank account? And without a bank account, how do you get a line of credit? And with no line of credit, you couldn’t even get a mobile phone contract, let alone a tenancy agreement or a mortgage.
Of course, he could just be lying, and that actually makes far more sense. If I don’t know his full name, I can’t use the Internet to check up on him.
I’m about to probe a little deeper when we’re interrupted by somebody shouting from the bar.
“Clem! Clem!”
We both turn our heads in the direction of the voice. We’re greeted by the sight of an old man, slowly shuffling across the floorboards towards our table. Dressed in a navy overcoat and crumpled grey trousers, he looks frail and gaunt.
He gets within ten feet and slowly raises his hand in the air. He calls out again. “Oi, Clem! You bugger.”
I look at Clement but his eyes are now fixed to the table, as if he’s deliberately ignoring the old man.
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath.
Before I get a chance to question Clement, the old man finally completes his journey, stopping a few feet from our table.
“I thought it was you,” the old man wheezes. “How you doing, mate?”
Clement doesn’t move, steadfastly ignoring the old man. I can’t.
“Hello there,” I chirp.
“Ello darlin’,” he replies in a strong London accent. “What’s the matter with him?”
“You know him do you?”
“Course I bloody do. Me and Clem are pals, ain’t we?”
He smiles down at Clement but the smile isn’t returned. No acknowledgement. Nothing.
“How do you know Clement?” I ask.
He ignores me and continues to address the top of Clement’s head.
“She’s a nosey tart ain’t she, Clem? Where’d you find her?”
Old man or not, I’m not having that.
“How dare you,” I snap. “Show some respect.”
He ignores me and throws another question at Clement. “She ain’t another barmaid from the Flamingo Club is she? Thought you’d learnt your lesson after the last one. Do you remember her, Clem? Bleedin’ mental, that one, but a smashing pair of knockers.”
He chuckles away to himself; strangely oblivious to the fact Clement is blanking him.
I have no idea what’s going on here, but I’ve had enough of it.
“Clement, will you deal with this man, please.”
My turn to be ignored.
I turn to face the old man, intent on asking him to leave, when a middle-aged man in a maroon sweater scoots up beside him.
“Christ, Dad, don’t slope off like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
The old man’s son looks like a man more accustomed to wearing a pinstripe suit. His brown hair has a stern side parting and sits above horn-rimmed glasses. His accent is more home counties than London.
“Is he with you?” I ask the son. “Because his language is highly inappropriate.
He looks visibly shocked. “I’m so sorry.”
The younger man shuffles a little closer to our table and leans towards me.
“He’s suffering from dementia,” he says in a low voice. “I’m afraid he still thinks it’s the 1960s and some of his language is, well, a bit outdated shall we say.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologise,” he sighs. “Unfortunately this is not the first time he’s done this today. He gets confused, thinks he knows people that are probably long dead. He grew up in London, you see, so we bring him up here every now and again. Initially, it seemed to help him with his memory, but I think this will probably be the last time.”
The man offers me a weak smile. “I hope you’ll forgive him.”
“Yes, of course.”
The man digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a wallet. He extracts a twenty pound note and places it on the table.
“Please, let me pay for your meal.”
It seems an over-the-top gesture considering his father’s illness. Maybe he just fancies me, or more likely, maybe he’s concerned Clement will beat the crap out of him.
“Honestly, that’s very kind but there’s really no need. We couldn’t take your money.”
“No, I insist. And thank you for your understanding.”
Before I can argue any further, he turns and drapes his arm around the old man’s shoulder.
“Come on Dad. Let’s leave these good people in peace.”
“Seeya tonight at the Flamingo, Clem,” the old man calls over his shoulder.
I wait until they’re out of earshot. “What the hell was that all about? And who was that old man?”
Clement finally looks up from the table. “Dunno.”
“Bullshit, Clement. He knew you.”
“Nah. Think he got me confused with someone else. You heard his son — his head is messed up.”
“You expect me to believe he guessed your name? It’s not exactly common is it?”
“Just leave it, doll.”
He picks up the menu again and stares at it blankly. It seems this conversation is over.
If Clement won’t tell me what the old man was on about, I’ll dig around myself. I pull out my phone and google ‘Flamingo Club London’.
Wikipedia once again proves the source of information. I click on a link and scan the page. According to the article, the Flamingo Club was a somewhat notorious nightclub in Soho. Some years after it opened, it was relocated to Wardour Street, before it finally closed in 1967.
However, the one question Wikipedia can’t answer, and the one which puzzles me the most, is why Clement totally ignored the old man?
25
After two glasses of wine, I’m currently standing on that narrow patch of ground located somewhere between sober and tipsy.
As we wait for our overdue food, Clement necks the dregs of his first drink while I consider the acquisition of a third. It’s not a good idea, but it would be in good company with the other bad ideas I’ve embraced in the last twenty four hours.
Sod it.
“Another pint, Clement?”
“Yeah, please,” he mumbles.
“Great. And when I get back, you can tell me all about the Flamingo Club.”
I skip off to the bar and return a few minutes later with our drinks, and possibly too much alcohol-fuelled bravado.
“So, the Flamingo Club. Did you ever go there?”
“Now and again.”
“And you went with the old man, whose son paid for these drinks?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you used to be friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you ignore him then?”
Clement takes a slow swig of his lager. He then places the glass on the table and continues to stare at it.
“Well?”
“Why do you think, doll? His head is messed up enough without me confirming I’ve returned from beyond the friggin’ grave.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol impairing my judgement, but I can’t untangle the truth in all of this. Did the old man simply mistake Clement for an old friend he used to hang out with? Or did his dementia convince him he was back in the 1960s; chatting to Clement like it’s just another Saturday afternoon?
“If he hadn’t been suffering from dementia, how do you thin
k he’d have reacted?”
“Stupid question. How would I know?”
“Don’t you think he’d have been a bit freaked out, seeing you sitting there looking exactly the same as you did over forty years ago?”
“Suppose so. Or more likely, he’d have just assumed it wasn’t me.”
“You’re quite, err…distinctive though.”
“Yeah, well, so what? I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
“Just chatting, Clement.”
“Can we chat about something else? Like, where’s our bleedin’ food?”
“What was his name, the old man?”
Another slow swig of lager and another long pause before he answers.
“Freddy Markham.”
“Were you close?”
“Honestly, doll. I really don’t wanna talk about Freddy.”
I know I’m pushing my luck with all these questions, and I was kind of expecting him to close me down. But rather than agitation in his response, there’s more than a hint of sadness. It sounds familiar, like when people ask me about my father. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about him, it’s just that it rekindles feelings I’ve spent my life trying to suppress.
“Okay. Sorry. We’ll talk about something else.”
“Good.”
Before we get a chance to move onto another subject, our food finally arrives.
We eat in silence. Clement devours his steak and kidney pudding in minutes, while I pick at my chicken salad. Drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea as it kills my appetite.
With an empty plate and an empty glass, Clement appears keen to leave.
“Let’s get out of here, doll.”
I’m not fussed about finishing my salad, but neck the remainder of my wine.
“I’m just going to pop to the loo. Give me five minutes.”
“Alright. I might join you.”
“What?”
“I need another piss.”
“Oh. Right.”
He follows me towards the toilets, but thankfully doesn’t join me in the ladies.
We reconvene five minutes later, Clement leaning against the wall outside the gents. He already has a cigarette and Zippo in hand.
“You fit?” I ask, now feeling just a little tipsy.
He nods, and we make our way towards the exit. As we reach the door, I feel a little guilty about not leaving a tip, but it doesn’t weigh so heavily I return to the table. I’m sure lots of wealthy tourists will make up for the few quid I didn’t leave.
It could be the alcohol, but back on the street the noise of the traffic and the chatter of the crowds seem to have intensified. I think I really want to go home now. Clement finishes his cigarette by the time we reach Tower Hill.
Three tube trains and a route march later, we finally arrive back at Waterloo. I check the departure board and inwardly groan when I see we have a forty minute wait until our train departs.
We find a couple of empty seats opposite WH Smith. With nothing else better to do, we sit and stare at the posters in the window, promoting a best-selling novel from a debut author I’ve never heard of. Out of interest, I look it up on Amazon. The reviews are mixed, but overall, it seems the book has left its readers underwhelmed. Maybe the book was just over-hyped, as is often the case these days.
Still, what I wouldn’t give to see my name on those posters. I think I’d happily take the underwhelming reviews.
I let my mind drift to novel eighteen, hoping some inspiration might bite. Not even a nibble. If there’s anything in my head, it’s clouded in a fog of alcohol and tiredness.
“I need a piss again. That beer went straight through me.”
Clement’s statement pierces the fog.
“Eh? Oh, right. Again?”
“Joys of middle age.”
He climbs to his feet and wanders off towards the toilets.
I toy with the idea of popping into WH Smith and reading a few pages of that best-selling novel. Perhaps it will show me where I’m going wrong. More likely though, it’ll just induce pangs of jealousy.
I revert to my phone and browse Facebook. I’m not surprised to see Karl hasn’t updated his status for almost a week. I let my thumb hover over the message icon as I consider the rationale of sending him a message.
There’s nothing to say.
I remove him from my friends list and block him. It’s a small but cathartic gesture.
As I return to my news feed, two twenty-something men, dressed in football shirts and jeans, flop down in the seats next to me. They stink of booze.
“How you doin’ sweetheart?” the nearest one slurs.
“Fine. Least I was,” I reply, without taking my eyes from my phone.
“I’m Lee, and this is Davey.”
I ignore him.
“You fancy joining us for a few drinks?”
“No. I’m waiting for my friend.”
“That’s alright, darlin’. She can come too.”
“I don’t think he’s your type.”
Lee thinks this is hilarious. “We’re definitely not arse bandits, are we Davey?”
“Fucking queers,” Davey mumbles.
I finally lift my gaze from the screen and stare at Lee. “Can you take your homophobic views somewhere else, please?”
“Wassa matter? You a lezza?”
I’m about to give the scumbag a piece of my mind when two shovel-like hands descend on Lee’s shoulders. I look up at Clement, standing behind the seats.
He leans forward and speaks slowly, measured. “Five seconds to hand it back. Five…four…three…”
Lee squirms in his seat but Clements hands are like clamps, holding him firmly in place.
“Da fuck you talking about?” Lee spits. “Let me go or I swear, we’ll fuck you up bad.”
He clearly can’t see the giant man standing behind him, as otherwise I suspect his reaction would be a little different. Davey, on the other hand, can see Clement, and his face suggests he wants no part in Lee’s threat.
“Two…one…”
Clements hands depart Lee’s shoulders and encircle his scrawny neck. “Last chance, dickhead,” he growls as his knuckles whiten.
Lee slips his hand down the side of the seat and pulls out my purse. I snatch it from him; now wise to the reason Clement is currently throttling the little shit.
“Now, apologise.”
“Sorry,” Lee wheezes.
Clement then lifts him to his feet and shoves him forward like a rag doll. Lee’s legs can’t move fast enough and he staggers a few steps before face-planting the floor.
Clement then turns his attention to Davey, feigning a sudden movement towards him. Davey’s eyes almost pop out of his head before he scampers away, collecting his fallen comrade on the way.
“Check your bag, doll.”
I do as I’m told and check nothing else has been pilfered.
“It’s all here.”
“Good. I need fifty pence.”
“Eh?”
“That’s why I came back. They charge fifty bleedin’ pence to take a slash. Robbing bastards. “
I open my purse and hand him a fifty pence piece.
“Cheers, doll. You do tip then?”
Before I have a chance to thank him, he turns on his heels and strides away.
It’s probably the alcohol, but I feel a warm glow, not too dissimilar to when my father wrapped me in that towel. The same safe haven where nothing can harm me.
Shame Clement isn’t as fluffy as the towel, though.
I decide to wait for him in WH Smith. I loiter just inside the entrance and pluck a random magazine from the rack. It’s only when I start flicking through the pages I realise it’s one of those celebrity gossip mags. No, thank you.
I slip it back in the rack and grab an interior design mag. I might as well have read that best-selling novel as the glossy pages summon pangs of jealousy for beautifully designed rooms, all beyond any budget I can afford.
An insignificant word of just six letters, but all my hopes are pinned on it.
“Oi, bookworm. You coming?” Clement calls from outside.
I slip the magazine back and skip outside.
“You disappeared before I got the chance to thank you. We’d have been screwed if they’d taken my purse.”
“All part of the service, doll. I knew they were up to no good the moment I clapped eyes on them.”
“Really? How? I just assumed they were a couple of drunken idiots.”
“Obviously they weren’t chatting you up so just a process of elimination.”
“They might have been.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorts. “I don’t think you’re their type, doll.”
I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered. I choose to assume the latter.
We check the departure board again, and with only five minutes before our train is due to leave, make our way to the platform.
We find a relatively quiet carriage and settle in for the journey home. A few minutes after we leave Waterloo, Clement spots another famous landmark, just beyond the office buildings and graffiti-ridden bridges.
“What’s that, doll?”
“The London Eye.”
“What does it do?”
“It just goes around like a giant Ferris wheel,” I say, pointing up at the transparent pods dotted around the circumference. “The views are quite something.”
It quickly disappears from view and Clement settles back in his seat. Five minutes later, his head lops to the side and his breathing slows. Seems I’m not the only one who’s tired.
I take the opportunity to call Stanley and check on Mum. It’s not a particularly long call and I lose connection three times, probably due to their rural location and the fact I’m on a moving train. Mum sounds happy enough, though. They’ve been for a walk in the woods this afternoon, and are just about to visit the local pub for dinner. It’s enough to put my mind at rest sufficiently so I can join Clement in the land of nod, or at least I can try.
I don’t sleep, but I manage to slip into a semi-conscious doze. My paranoia that we’ll miss our stop prevents me falling any deeper.
We get within five minutes of our destination when the train comes to a juddering halt. The guard announces there’s a slight delay due to emergency engineering works at our station. Fantastic.
Who Sent Clement? Page 22