I jab away at my phone and barely ten seconds after Clement has made his request, the first notes peel from the speakers. Once the vocals kick in, I recognise the song.
Clement sits forward, his foot tapping away. “That’s bloody clever. What else can it play?”
“Pretty much anything. I think there’s something like thirty million tracks available.”
“You’re shittin’ me?”
“No. You name an artist and I’m fairly sure they’ll be in here.”
“Any artist?”
“Yep, except Taylor Swift.”
“Taylor who?”
“Forget it. You wouldn’t like her anyway.”
“So let me get this right. I can name any song by any artist, and you reckon you can play it straight away?”
“Yep. Let’s try.”
“Alright. Queen, Seven Seas of Rhye.”
“Got it.”
As Freddie Mercury’s voice echoes around the room, Clement’s smile broadens. “He’s got some voice, ain’t he? I bloody love Queen.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him Freddie Mercury died over twenty five years ago.
“Okay. Next?”
“Let's have some Deep Purple. Strange Kind of Woman.”
“No problem.”
It takes me twenty seconds to establish I’m not a fan of Deep Purple, least not this track.
“Something else?”
“Yeah, a song that’s quite apt,” he grins. “Gary Glitter, Hello! Hello! I’m Back Again.”
He’s right inasmuch that it’s apt. Inappropriate, but apt.
“Err, slight issue with that one.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Gary Glitter also have a song about being in a gang?” I ask.
“Yeah, think it was called, I’m The Leader of the Gang.”
“Right. As it turned out, Glitter was in the same gang as Jimmy Saville.”
“No way,” he groans. “Gary Glitter is a nonce?”
“Afraid so. He’s currently in prison, so he won’t be back again any time soon.”
Clement shakes his head. “I need a smoke.”
He slopes off to the patio while I select some music a little more to my liking. I skip through my playlists and decide on an album from my university days, No Angel, by Dido.
Clement returns after five minutes and stands motionless for a moment.
“What’s this song?”
“It’s called, Here With Me.”
“It’s good.”
“You’ve never heard it before?”
“Nope.”
“I used to play this album all the time when I was at university. Seems such a long time ago now.”
He sits back down in the armchair and continues to listen intently. As the track ends, he makes another request.
“Can you play Misty by Johnny Mathis?”
“Sure. Give me a sec.”
It appears to be a song covered by a number of artists. I scroll down the results and find the version by Johnny Mathis, and press the play icon.
A piano, accompanied by the gentle brush of drums, and the stroking of a harp. The vocal begins and my skin tingles. It’s such a timeless classic, rendered in crystal clarity through the expensive speakers.
For three minutes and forty four seconds, Clement sits and stares into space. He doesn’t move or say a word. This continues for seconds after the song ends and silence fills the room.
“I’ve never really listened to that song before. It’s beautiful, Clement.”
“First heard it in the sixties,” he says wistfully. “A…friend played it to me, on a Dansette record player. We played it over and over again.”
“Friend?”
“Yeah. A good friend.”
“I’m guessing that friend was of the female persuasion?”
He strokes his moustache and his head drops, just a fraction. “Yeah. Was,” he sighs.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
He snaps out of his malaise and grabs his can. “Stick something a bit more cheerful on, doll.”
I pick a random playlist and turn the volume down so it’s mere background noise. We still have a twenty grand problem that needs addressing.
“If we don’t find anything tomorrow, we still don’t have a backup plan, do we?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Anything you want to share?”
“I don’t think you wanna know, doll.”
“It’s something illegal, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you not come up with something that doesn’t carry the risk of a prison sentence?”
“I can only help you with what I know, and most of what I know is…a bit dodgy.”
“Great. Why didn’t they send me a multi-millionaire with a briefcase full of cash?”
“Don’t think it works like that, doll.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind. I suppose a dodgy plan is better than no plan.”
“That’s the spirit. Want another drink?”
I’ve lost track of how much wine I’ve consumed, but it’s probably too much.
“No, thank you. I think I might hit the sack. It’s been a long day.”
“Right. You gonna sleep in the bath again?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “Um, no, not tonight.”
“That’s good. I think I might need the lav during the night.”
“Do you want to sleep in the spare bedroom?”
“Up to you, doll. I’m alright on the sofa.”
It’s only been twenty four hours since Clement burst into my life, and without even thinking about it, I’ve invited him to sleep in the room next to mine. There’s no bolt on my bedroom door, no chance of a quick escape through the window.
That should bother me, but it doesn’t.
Despite my instincts telling me not to, I’m slowly beginning to believe in Clement. What I don’t believe is his reason for being here, or his fanciful tales of a previous life, a generation ago. But if I can continue to separate the two, there might be a happy ending to all of this.
I only hope the lines don’t blur any further.
27
It’s just gone nine in the morning.
It wasn’t my alarm that woke me. No, it was the family of warthogs that appear to have taken up residency in the spare bedroom.
Even if I wanted to lie in any longer, there’s little chance of sleeping through the barrage of grunts echoing across the landing.
I get up and head into the bathroom. I make no attempt to be quiet as I take a shower and stomp back to my bedroom to get dressed.
And still the grunting continues.
I rap on the door to the spare bedroom.
“Clement. It’s nearly half past nine. You awake?”
No response.
I wrap on the door a little harder. “Clement!”
The grunting stops.
“Hope you’re decent. I’m coming in.”
I open the door and slowly peer into the dark room.
Very quickly, I wish I hadn’t.
I clamp my hand over my nose. “Good God, Clement. It smells like fetid cabbage in here.”
“Sorry, doll,” he coughs. “It’s the beer. Gives me wind.”
I retreat a safe distance back onto the landing. “Open the windows before you come down.”
With my appetite ruined, I trudge down the stairs to the more fragrant surroundings of the kitchen and put the kettle on. As I prepare the cups, I hear the bathroom door close, followed by a series of grunts and groans. The radio is immediately switched on.
Once I’ve made a cup of tea, I sit down at the table. Clement breezes in after a few minutes.
“Morning, doll.”
“Did you open the bedroom windows?”
“Yeah, and in the bathroom. I’d give it ten minutes if I were you.”
“Tha
t is so gross. I shouldn’t have to ask, but you have washed your hands?”
“Yeah, course I have. Wanna smell?”
“No, I’ll take your word for it.”
I nod towards the side. “I made you a cup of tea.”
“Cheers.”
Clement grabs his cup and joins me at the table.
“I’m guessing we’re not having a cooked breakfast.”
“You guess correctly. But as we’ll be occupied at dinner time, we can have something substantial for lunch.”
“What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
“A roast then?”
“Erm, probably not. I was going to go and see my mum for an hour, so I can pick something up from the supermarket on the way home.”
“You gonna break in?”
“What?”
“The supermarket. It’s Sunday. It’ll be closed.”
“No, Clement. Supermarkets are open on Sunday these days. And so are shops, and so are pubs.”
“Really? Do pubs still close after lunch?”
“Eh? No. Most of them are open all day, every day.”
“That sounds a good way to spend a Sunday.”
“Shame you’re skint.”
“Guess I’ll wait here then. Can I watch TV?”
“Yes, Clement. Actually, I think Karl set Match of the Day to auto-record if you want to watch that?”
“I can watch Match of the Day, from last night?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Does Jimmy Hill still present it?”
“No, I think it’s Gary Lineker.”
“Who?”
“Big ears. Likes crisps.”
He looks at me blankly as I get up and retrieve a loaf of bread from the cupboard.
“Do you fancy some toast?” I ask.
“Got any baked beans?”
“I think baked beans are the last thing you should be eating. Don’t you?”
“Spaghetti hoops?”
“Toast with margarine is all I can offer. Although, I might have some marmalade.”
“Nah. You’re alright. Three rounds of buttered toast will do.”
I drop three slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster and slide the lever down.
“Is there anything in particular you want for lunch?”
“I’m easy, doll. Not keen on faggots though.”
“Faggots? Ohh, you mean those little meatball things?”
“Yeah. I think they’re made from pig’s arseholes, or something.”
“Right. Noted.”
While I wait for the toaster, I grab a couple of plates from the cupboard.
“You got a newspaper?” Clement asks.
“No. I don’t have one delivered as there’s not much point these days. I get my news from social media or the BBC news app.”
“Great,” he mumbles.
The toaster pops and I drop the slices onto a plate before spreading a nob of margarine across each one.
I pass the plate to Clement. “Enjoy.”
“Cheers,” he says, with little enthusiasm.
I slide a couple more slices of bread into the toaster and sip tea while I wait. To think, I was standing here this time last week, going through the exact same motions with my fiancé. What a difference a week makes.
By the time I sit down with my plate, Clement has already demolished his toast.
“Can you get some bacon from the supermarket, doll? Don’t fancy toast again tomorrow.”
“I suppose so. Anything else sir desires?”
“Eggs, mushrooms, and some decent pork sausages wouldn’t go amiss. Oh, and some soap. “
How quickly the surreal becomes the mundane.
“I’ll see. I’m not exactly flush with cash at the moment.”
I finish my toast and Clement follows me through to the lounge so I can show him how to use the Sky box.
Painstaking doesn’t cover it.
It takes almost twenty minutes for him to get to grips with the remote control and on-screen menu. I can only compare it to training a chimp to use an iPad.
He eventually settles down to watch the football.
“I’m off then. I’ll be a few hours but there’s plenty on there for you to watch. Help yourself to tea but don’t go stuffing your face with cake or biscuits.”
“Yeah, alright,” he says dismissively.
“Oh, and no alcohol. We need clear heads for tonight.”
“Shh, doll. Arsenal are about to kick off.”
I roll my eyes and leave him to it.
I grab my handbag and leave the house. As I close the door, I quickly scan up and down the road, conscious that Messrs Black & Blue might have returned to their post. There’s no sign of them.
I hop into the Fiat and check the route to Stanley’s mobile home. It should take no more than twenty minutes but I’m in no great hurry.
The roads are relatively clear and it’s another glorious autumnal day, the watery sun glinting against a vivid blue canvas. As the miles slip by, the grey and brown scenery slowly gives way to shades of green.
I take a turning off the main road and head along a country lane. The tight bends and narrow carriageway were made for the Fiat, and I savour the thrill of throwing it into the tight bends. For a brief moment, I forget all about David Sterling. I forget about Karl, and I forget about the trip to London later.
And I almost forget about Clement too, that is until I see him standing in front of a five-bar gate, forty yards ahead of me.
I slam my foot on the brake just as a shard of bright sunlight bursts over a hedgerow, temporarily blinding me.
The tyres squeal and the smell of burnt rubber drifts through the heating vent.
The car comes to a standstill and through squinted eyes, I lower the sun visor.
I stare straight ahead, my heart thumping. Hedgerows, grass banks, and a metal gate. There’s nobody there, let alone the man I left back at my house a little over fifteen minutes ago.
I slip the Fiat into first gear and slowly crawl along the lane. I reach a tight bend, and pass the gate on my right where I thought I saw Clement. Not a soul around.
Christ, I must be going crazy, seeing things.
I edge the Fiat around the bend before I work through the gears and pull away, keeping my speed below thirty. Every few seconds I glance in my rear view mirror, but the scene just shrinks away, never changing.
I suddenly become conscious I’m drawing sharp, shallow breaths, and I can feel the blood pulsing through a vein in my neck.
I pull into a pass point and try to steady my breathing. My left eyelid begins to twitch, and my knuckles whiten as sweaty palms grip the steering wheel.
I know these symptoms. I’ve seen them before.
My mother suffered from anxiety throughout my early teenage years. She’d lock herself in her bedroom for days on end, leaving me to fend for myself. When she wasn’t crying or mumbling gibberish, she was listless and uncommunicative.
Then one day, it just stopped. I was relieved, until she confided in me that my dead father had appeared at her bedside, and told her everything was going to be okay.
As much as I wanted to believe my mother, the doctor provided a more rational explanation. Apparently, victims of acute anxiety can experience hallucinations. It’s rare, but it does happen. I just wanted my mother to be well again. If it helped her to function, I didn’t care what she believed.
I have to ask myself — has that same susceptibility to anxiety been passed down through my mother’s genes?
Is it now happening to me?
I have every reason to be suffering from anxiety, but I’m stronger than my mother. I’ve had to be.
As unwelcome as a bout of acute anxiety might be, at least it offers a rational explanation for what I thought I saw. Cold comfort, but it calms me slightly. Maybe I just need a holiday, or at least a week of doing nothing.
Yes, that’s it. Once I’ve put this mess behind me, I’ll take a break. I’ll b
e fine.
I close my eyes and take several long, deep breaths.
You’re in control, Beth. Keep it together.
It takes a few minutes for my composure to return before I drive the final two miles like an octogenarian.
28
I have to admit, it’s not what I expected.
Two brick pillars stand abreast of the entrance, with a black granite sign affixed to the left pillar. Gold letters form the name ‘Grange Park’; the location of Stanley’s home. A tarmac road cuts through the centre, with neat little mobile homes lined up either side and dense woodland beyond. There’s no more than forty homes, each with a parking space and decked patio area to the front. Every one of them is impeccably kept, not a blade of grass out of place.
I reach the end of the road and pull into the visitors’ parking area. As I step from the Fiat, I question my decision to turn up unannounced. I guess old habits die hard and I can’t help but fear the worst where Stanley Goodyear is concerned.
I lock the car and walk back up the road towards number twelve. It’s every bit as peaceful as Stanley claimed. I imagined something more like a scrap yard. I pictured a grotty caravan on bricks, a choking bonfire, corrugated iron fencing, and a couple of barking Alsatians.
Begrudgingly, I have to concede my mother is better off convalescing in Grange Park than in her council-owned flat.
Stanley’s mobile home is about half way along the road, on the left. A silver Honda Civic is parked outside, and a paved pathway leads up the side of the car towards the front door.
I follow the path up to the door and rap the brass knocker, twice.
Seconds pass but there’s no reply. I rap the knocker again, and wait. Still no movement from within.
With my innate mistrust of Stanley, the only conclusion I can draw is that something is wrong.
I thump the door hard, several times.
Long seconds pass and all I can hear is birdsong. My concern mounts, and I’m just about to thump at the door again when it swings open.
“Bethany!” Stanley blusters. “Why…what are you doing here?”
Clearly he got dressed in a hurry. His light blue shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, and one of his trouser legs is rolled halfway up his shin.
“Where’s my mother?” I growl, overlooking his dishevelled appearance.
Who Sent Clement? Page 24