That slight delay turns out to be ten minutes.
The train sets off again and I attempt to wake Clement. Repeatedly saying his name doesn’t work, so I’m forced to gently shake his shoulder.
“Wassup?” he mumbles.
“We’re nearly there.”
He stretches out his huge frame and expels a yawn.
“I feel better for that, doll.”
“Good for you. I still feel horrendous.”
Concern for my well-being apparently has its limits, and he just stares out of the window.
The train rattles into the station and we get up. As we move towards the doors, Clement’s attention is suddenly focused on something beyond the window. He cranes his neck to the right, staring back towards the end of the platform.
The train comes to a standstill and we wait for the doors to open.
“Got a little job for you, doll.”
“What job?”
“One sec.”
The doors hiss open. Clement steps onto the platform and positions himself behind a vending machine. I follow him out and we wait for the dozen other passengers to pass.
“See that guy in the orange work outfit?” he says in a low voice.
He points to a man in hi-viz orange clothing and hard hat, standing at the far end of the platform. Judging by the collection of tools around him, I assume he’s a track engineer, sent to fix whatever problem caused our delay.
“What about him?”
“I need you to distract him.”
“Why?”
“Cos’ he’s bound to have a pair of bolt cutters we could borrow.”
“No way, Clement. You can’t just steal his tools.”
“Fair enough. You gonna buy some then?”
“Erm, how much are they?”
“A decent pair costs an arm and a leg.”
I face a moral dilemma. My dwindling bank balance can’t take another significant expense. But stealing?
“We’re only borrowing them, doll. We’ll drop them back as soon as we’re done.”
“Do I have to?” I groan. I sound like a whiny teenager.
“No. I could just wander over and knock him out. Your choice.”
“Alright,” I sigh. “What do I say to him?”
“Tell him you’ve spotted something on the track, and lead him up the platform away from the tools. I only need half a minute.”
It sounds so simple, so easy. My quickening pulse and a flush of adrenalin suggests otherwise.
“Go on then,” Clement prompts.
I take a deep breath and pad down the platform towards the workman. Thankfully his attention is focused on some sort of digital device, a little larger than a mobile phone. I get within five feet and he continues to prod away at the screen with a sausage-like finger.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice scratchy.
He looks up from the screen. I feel a little better when a youngish face stares back at me.
“I, err, spotted something on the track and thought I should let somebody know.”
“What is it?” he replies curtly.
“I don’t know…a metal thing. It’s probably nothing, but better safe than sorry, eh?”
He doesn’t try to hide his annoyance as he slips the digital device into his pocket.
“Suppose you’d better show me.” he grumbles.
I don’t like his attitude, and my initial guilt about liberating his equipment eases a little.
I turn and walk as slowly as I can back along the platform. I pass Clement, leaning casually against a wall. There’s only a handful of other passengers loitering around, all of them distracted by mobile phones or chatting to one another.
“It’s just up here.”
I shuffle another dozen steps, coming to a stop by the platform edge. The workman stands beside me and we both stare down at the track.
“Where is it then, this thing?”
I scan the shingle in search of something, anything. Besides the rails and the wooden sleepers, there’s absolutely nothing down there.
“That’s odd. Maybe it’s a bit further up.”
I don’t wait for the workman to argue. I shuffle slowly along the platform edge, keeping my eyes fixed on the shingle bed. Tiny, tortuous steps.
I count to sixty in my head, stopping every ten seconds to focus on another part of the track. It all looks the same, nothing out of the ordinary.
“I think you’re seeing things,” the workman grumbles.
“No, wait. Look,” I splutter, pointing at a shiny object nestled next to a sleeper.
“It’s a beer can.”
“Really?”
“Are you having me on? It’s a bloody beer can.”
I lean forward and make an exaggerated attempt to inspect the object; so obviously a beer can.
“Oh, so it is.”
I turn to the workman. “Silly me,” I giggle, offering my best impression of an airhead. “What must you think of me?”
He’s clearly not impressed and shakes his head. I’m actually quite proud of my performance and continue to smile at him.
An obvious conclusion strikes the workman a millisecond before I draw the same conclusion.
Ohh, crap.
“Ahh, I get it,” he says. “This is some sort of ruse, so you could talk to me.”
“Oh, um…err.”
“So, you fancy a drink sometime then?”
“Well, I’m not sure…”
Clement’s voice booms across the platform. The sweetest sound.
“You coming, doll’?”
I look over the workman’s shoulder. Clement is standing a dozen yards beyond.
“Sorry. I’ve got to go. My fiancé is here to pick me up.”
The workman, clearly annoyed at this rejection, turns to eye up his competition. His shoulders slump when he sees Clement.
I join my partner in crime and we scuttle out of the station before the workman realises he’s been played.
Fifty yards beyond the station forecourt, Clement stops and unbuttons his denim waistcoat, inviting me to take a peek. A pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters are nestled against his torso, supported by his thick leather belt.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I grin up at him. “You’re a bad influence on me, Clement.”
“Funnily enough, you’re not the first person to say that.”
In truth, I’m beginning to wonder if Clement’s influence on me is anything but bad.
26
Three glasses of wine, the last of which was consumed over two hours ago.
Am I okay to drive?
As we stand behind the shop, Clement leans against the car and argues the case for the defence.
“You sound sober enough to me, doll.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t feel sober.”
“You’ll be fine.”
I really want to get home, but not so much I want to risk a driving ban.
“You’ll have to drive, Clement.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been drinking.”
“Come off it,” I scoff. “I doubt three pints would even register on a man your size. And besides, being a fraction over the drink drive limit would sit pretty low on your list of misdemeanours.”
“Fair point.”
Clement opens the driver’s door and attempts to get behind the wheel. He quickly gives up.
“Can you move the bleedin’ seat? I can’t even get in.”
I ease into the passenger side and slide the driver’s seat back as far as it will go. Clement clambers in as the suspension groans.
“There’s a lever on the right if you need to adjust the seat any further.”
With his head pressed up against the vinyl roof, I guess he probably does.
After a few adjustments, he eventually finds an acceptable driving position. I hand him the keys and point out the ignition barrel.
A thought crosses my mind. “You can drive, can’t you?”
“Yeah, course I can. Bit out of practice, min
d you.”
Five hundred yards later, I realise just how out of practice he really is.
“Jesus, Clement,” I shriek as he overtakes a cyclist, almost meeting a lorry head on. “How on earth did you pass a driving test?
“I didn’t.”
“What? You’ve never passed a driving test?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve never failed one either.”
He slips into third gear and floors the accelerator, racing to beat an amber traffic light.
“It’s got some poke, ain’t it?”
“For Christ’s sake, slow down,” I screech, stamping my right foot on a brake pedal that isn’t there.
After eight long minutes of screaming directions, and pleading for my life, we finally turn into my road and park up.
“Thank you for that, Clement. Suffice to say, I’ll be doing the driving from now on.”
“I did say I was a bit out of practice.”
“As what? A getaway driver?”
I grab the keys and peel myself from the seat. Clement collects our borrowed bolt cutters from the boot and we stroll back down the street to my house.
I’ve never been so glad to step through the front door.
“Right. I’m going up for a shower. There’s more beer in the fridge if you want one, and you can make yourself useful by pouring me a glass of wine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I traipse up the stairs and flop down on the edge of my bed. Removing my trainers is almost orgasmic; the smell less so.
With a pair of joggers, a hoodie, and clean underwear in hand, I head to the bathroom and scrub my skin raw in the shower for ten minutes. London might be a great city, but it penetrates every pore, every hair follicle. I’m not sure how people live there. I suppose they just get used to it — I never could.
I head down to the kitchen feeling human again, and I’m pleased to see a glass of wine waiting for me. Clement is sitting at the table supping beer from a can.
“Thank you.”
“No worries, doll. You mind if I grab a shower? I smell like a badger’s arse.”
“You’ve no clean clothes, have you?”
“I travel light.”
“I gathered. Come with me a sec.”
I lead Clement back into the hallway where Karl’s clothes are still bagged up on the floor. After a few minutes of delving, I locate some items that might help my stinky companion.
“Karl’s mum always sent him socks and pants for Christmas, and they were always the wrong size, but they should fit you. And he bought this sweater in the sales but it was way too big for him. Never got around to returning it.”
“Cheers, doll.”
Clement takes the clothes and disappears up the stairs.
“There’s a towel in the airing cupboard,” I call after him.
I hear the bathroom door close. As I take a seat at the kitchen table and sup my wine, the bathroom door opens again and Clement calls down the stairs.
“You got any soap, doll?”
Who the hell still uses soap?
I reluctantly get up and shuffle through to the hallway.
“No I haven’t,” I call up the stairs. “But there should still be some of Karl’s shower gel up there. It’s in a green bottle.”
“Shower gel?”
“Yes. It’s like liquid soap.”
“Right. Ta.”
I hear the door close again. I give it a few seconds and return to the kitchen.
For three or four minutes, all I can hear is the gentle hum of the shower pump. My chilled white wine is exquisite, and I wallow in that contented, post-shower feeling as I ease back towards tipsy.
I should have known my contentment wouldn’t last.
Clement screams from the bathroom above. “Jesus…fucking…Christ.”
Strangely, this is not the first time a man has screamed from the bathroom. I once left a razor in the shower tray and Karl stepped on it. He made a similar commotion. Seeing as Karl’s foot bled for an age, I’m seriously hoping Clement hasn’t done the same thing.
I put my glass down and traipse up the stairs.
Having already witnessed Clement parading around in his underpants, I have no desire to see the full reveal. I knock on the bathroom door and stand back.
“You okay in there, Clement?”
A few more expletives are offered in reply, and I think he asked me to wait a minute.
I’m about to return to my wine when the shower pump stops. I hear the slap of wet feet on the tiled floor and the bathroom door opens. Clement is standing with a towel wrapped around his waist, and a green bottle in his hand.
“What the bleedin’ hell is this?” he wails, thrusting the bottle towards me.
“Shower gel,” I reply, puzzled.
“You sure, doll? Feels like I’ve washed my knackers with Epsom salts.”
I lean in and look at the bottle.
“Ohh.”
“What? What is it?” he says, a hint of panic in his voice.
“Mint and tea tree. It does have a bit of a tingle.”
“Tingle? Are you shittin’ me? Why would anyone wash their jewels in this stuff?”
I can’t help but laugh. Clement doesn’t see the funny side and slams the door.
I’m still chuckling to myself five minutes later when Clement enters the kitchen.
“You smell nice.”
“Sod off.”
He grabs another lager from the fridge and slumps down at the table. The navy jumper I gave him, which I think was extra-large, clings to his upper body like Lycra. When Karl tried it on, he looked like a child who’d ransacked his father’s wardrobe.
“You’re not sulking are you?” I ask.
“Bleedin’ stuff,” he grumbles. “It’s like napalm. I can still feel it.”
“Karl said it was invigorating.”
“Karl said a lot of things that were bullshit, didn’t he?”
“Touché.”
I refill my glass and move the subject on. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“I think we’d be better off heading up there in the evening, when it’s dark. Fewer people around and less chance of being spotted.”
“I agree.”
“And we need a few tools, and a decent torch.”
I get up and open the cupboard under the sink. After a bit of rummaging, I locate Karl’s toolbox.
“This do you?”
Clement takes the toolbox and unclips the lid. It’s a fairly basic kit with spanners, screwdrivers, pliers, and a hammer.
“Yeah, that’ll do. What about a torch?”
“I think I’ve got just the thing. One minute.”
I dart up the stairs and head into the spare bedroom. I find what I’m looking for in the bottom of the wardrobe. My loft doesn’t have a light, so I bought a rechargeable halogen lamp to aid the annual search for suitcases and Christmas decorations.
I pad back down the stairs with the lamp in hand. As I enter the kitchen, I switch off the light and turn the lamp on.
“Light enough for you?”
“Perfect.”
I switch the light back on and plug the lamp in to charge.
“The battery is good for about four hours.”
“Christ, doll. I bloody hope we’re not down there that long.”
“You and me both.”
We sit for a while and finalise our plans for tomorrow evening. With the toolbox, the bolt cutters, and the lamp, it makes more sense to drive up to Tower Hill rather than lug everything on the train and tube. I wouldn’t normally dream of driving into central London but it should be fairly quiet on a Sunday evening.
With the plan settled, the finality of tomorrow’s foray begins to sink in.
“If you were a gambling man, Clement, would you bet on us finding it?”
“I might wager a fiver.”
“That doesn’t fill me with confidence.”
“Lots of things we don’t know for sure, doll. It’s definitely
worth a punt though, and we’ve got sod all to lose, have we?”
“We have if we get caught.”
“What they gonna do? Charge you with trespassing? You’d get a fine and a slap on the wrists.”
“I can’t afford a fine.”
“Best we don’t get caught then.”
I take a sip of wine and ask the question we’ve both been avoiding.
“What am I going to do if there’s nothing there? I’ll only have four days until Sterling wants paying.”
“You still don’t like my plan-A?”
“To beat him up?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I like it, Clement. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see that creep get his comeuppance.”
“Then why bother looking for the gold? Tell me where he lives and I’ll pay him a visit.”
“Because he’s an old man, Clement — chances are, you’d kill him. And even if you don’t, I get the feeling he doesn’t like losing. He still has that bloody contract with my forged signature, and no doubt, a team of expensive lawyers who could ruin me financially if I contest it.”
“So plan-A is still definitely a non-starter?”
“Afraid so.”
Clement gets up and retrieves another can of lager from the fridge.
“The best way to think is with a drink,” he says. “More wine?”
“Go on then.”
Clement empties the bottle into my glass. I’m beginning to wish I’d finished my chicken salad.
“Shall we go and sit in the lounge?” I suggest. “It’s a bit more comfortable and we can listen to some music.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, doll?” he replies with a grin.
I almost spit my wine across the kitchen. “Good God. No, I’m not.”
“Just checking. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint you.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
We head through to the lounge and Clement flops into an armchair. I turn on the TV and connect the Spotify app on my phone.
“I thought you said we were gonna listen to some music?”
“We are. I can stream music from my phone app through the TV surround system.”
“Explain that again, in English.”
“I’ll show you. What’s your favourite song?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Alright, a song you really like then.”
He ponders for a moment. “The Troggs, A Girl Like You.”
Perhaps the only positive legacy of Karl’s time living here is the home cinema system he set up last year. With five speakers dotted around the room, and a big base unit beside the TV, it makes an impressive noise.
Who Sent Clement? Page 23