Clement grabs my arm and helps me up. “You probably don’t wanna look in a mirror any time soon.”
I turn towards the lamp and look down. “Jesus Christ.”
My clothes are caked in a fine dust, as are my hands, thrown out to cushion my fall.
“What happened?” Clement asks.
“I tripped.”
I think it must be instinctive, but whenever anyone trips, they immediately look to the floor in search of the offending trip hazard. I glare at the floor in search of something to kick. I don’t care if it hurts, if I break a toe. I’ve had enough and want to vent my rage.
There is no debris on the floor, just a ten-inch square grate, embedded into the concrete but slightly proud along one edge — enough for me to trip over.
“And this is the bloody culprit,” I yell, stamping on the grate with all my might.
I stamp on it five times before the futility becomes all too apparent.
“Feel better for that?” Clement asks.
“No.”
“Do you wanna go home?”
“Yes.”
He stares back at the wall, screwdriver in hand.
“Give me one minute.”
Like a man possessed, he barrels along the length of the wall with the screwdriver scraping along the mortar. He reaches the end and moves to the next line down. Again he storms along the wall with the screwdriver trailing behind.
He runs out of wall and comes to a stop. His head drops, and the hand holding the screwdriver falls to his side.
He stands there, staring at nothing.
I take a dozen steps towards him. “Are you done, Clement?”
“Totally. Been a complete waste of bloody time, ain’t it?”
“We tried.”
“Yeah, and we failed.”
It seems I’m not the only one with a limited supply of optimism.
“I think it’s time we call it day, don’t you?”
He looks across at me and nods. “Guess so.”
He takes my screwdriver and packs it away in the toolkit. The toolkit is then thrust into the rucksack, which he hoists over his shoulder.
“You wanna grab the lamp and we’ll get the hell out of here?”
I do as instructed and pick the lamp up. With the battery more than fifty percent depleted, the light is shining far less brightly than when we first arrived — a suitable analogy for our optimism. Lamp in hand, I move slowly towards the stairs, careful not to trip arse over tit again.
I reach the stairs and turn to check Clement is close behind, just in case I finish my perfect day with a backwards tumble. He’s not there. He’s standing ten feet away staring at the floor.
“Clement?”
“Here a sec.”
Curiosity trumps irritation and I shuffle back across the floor.
“What is it?”
“Shine the lamp on that will you.”
His boot scuffs across the metal grate I tripped over.
“Why?”
“Just humour me.”
I place the lamp on the floor, a foot away from the grate. Clement pulls the rucksack from his shoulder and extracts the toolkit.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Ensuring no stone is left unturned.”
“Eh?”
“Best I can tell, there is absolutely no place in here Harry could have hidden a bar of gold without it being found.”
“That we know.”
“Except, beneath this grate,” he adds.
“Are you mad? God only knows how many rats are lurking under there.”
“Maybe, probably, but I can’t leave without checking, doll. It’ll bug me if I don’t.”
He places a screwdriver against the edge of the grate and taps the top of the handle with a hammer. Several more taps are administered before he levers the screwdriver downward. The edge of the grate pops from the concrete by half an inch.
“Do you wanna stand on the stairs in case more of our furry friends appear?”
Yes I do, but my curiosity is now piqued. “No, it’s okay. I’ll leg it at the first sight.”
Clement stands up and edges the welt of his boot beneath the grate. With a quick flick of his foot, the grate lifts and falls to the side, revealing a square black cavity in the concrete floor.
I was half expecting a re-enactment of The Pied Piper of Hamlin; hundreds of rats pursuing us up the stairs, but there’s no obvious sign of life.
“Now what?” I ask.
Clement picks up the lamp and guides the beam into the hole. I’m tempted to look but I’d rather wait for confirmation it’s rat-free.
He squats down and rests the lamp against his thigh.
“There’s something down there, doll.”
“Really?”
Have I found that winning lottery ticket? I edge towards the hole and peer down.
“What is it?”
“Not sure. Guess there’s only one way to find out.”
Clement slowly lowers his arm into the hole, down to his elbow. Tortuous seconds pass until he pulls his arm out, clutching a Tupperware container; the usually opaque white plastic smeared with grime.
I’m not impressed, and draw an immediate conclusion. “I bet you a fiver that’s a workman's lost lunch.”
Clement looks up at me and smiles. “I’ll take that bet. Here.”
He passes the container to me, and I flinch, not wishing to handle the filthy plastic. But with my hands already caked in dust and rat piss, I guess it doesn’t matter now. I take it in my right hand.
“Both hands,” Clement orders.
“I’m not that much of a wimp.”
I indignantly snatch the container, and my wrist immediately buckles. Thankfully, Clement still has a grip and stops it falling to the floor.
“Shit! What’s in there? It weighs a ton.”
“Not a ton. About ten pounds, I reckon.”
He places the container on the floor and peels the lid away. Whatever is in the container, it’s wrapped in newspaper.
Clement carefully prises the package out of the container and lays it on the floor. He then grips the newspaper in his fingertips and slowly tears it away.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs.
32
As Clement tears away at the newspaper, the content of the mystery package slowly reveals itself.
It’s definitely not a round of cheese and pickle sandwiches.
I fall to my knees, no concern for my already filthy jeans.
No matter how closely I examine the now-exposed object, I cannot believe my own eyes.
“Is that…?”
We look at one another, and then back at the object — a bar of solid gold. Actual, real gold.
Clement begins to chuckle, quickly building into raucous laughter. It’s infectious, and I can’t help but join him.
Relief, joy, shock — an explosion of emotion fuelling our hysteria.
My abdominal muscles ache and I can barely see through the tears. Our laughter echoes off the walls, booming back at us.
It takes several minutes before any sense of composure returns.
“We bleedin’ did it, doll.”
I remain speechless, unable to vocalise any of the thoughts tumbling through my mind. Within ten minutes I’ve travelled from the depths of despair to the very heights of elation. I can barely take it in.
All I can do is stare dumbstruck at my giant companion, and the block of gold sitting on the floor. To think how far we’ve come, together, a team. Incredibly ridiculous. Ridiculously incredible.
There really aren’t any words I can offer to suitably convey how I feel, so I do the next best thing — I throw my arms around Clement.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I…I…”
“Don’t tell me you love me, doll,” he chuckles. “That’d put a dampener on the evening.”
I break away and playfully slap his arm. “No. I was going to say…”
“Beers are on you?”
“Shut up
for a minute, will you,” I chide. “I was going to say, I am incredibly grateful for what you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome, but we’ve still got work to do, doll. And we should really get out of here sharpish.”
“Why?”
“Because of the noise we’ve been making for the last five minutes.”
An image suddenly floats into my mind — a squad of police officers bursting through the door. Then the horror of watching them confiscate our gold while we’re slapped into handcuffs.
“Time to go.”
“Yeah, like now.”
Clement returns all the tools to the rucksack. He then re-wraps the bar and places it carefully in the container before it joins the toolkit.
I collect the lamp from the floor as Clement hoists the rucksack onto his shoulder. Even with the additional weight, he makes it look effortless.
“Lead on, doll. And try not to trip over this time.”
I keep the lamp low to highlight any further trip hazards, and we make our way to the stairs. Another train conveniently passes, masking the creaky staircase and squeal of the door as Clement pulls it open.
As soon as we’re back in the subway tunnel, Clement suggests we lose the lamp and it’s added to the rucksack.
We make our way back along the tunnel courtesy of my phone torch.
The final challenge is climbing the stairs to the street, or more specifically, the gate at the top of those stairs. As unlikely as it is, the last thing we want to do is pop back over the gate just as a police patrol passes. Every action is now high risk and we simply cannot afford to take any chances.
Clement leads, and crouches down as he reaches the top of the stairs. He takes a quick peak over the retaining wall, scanning left and right.
“Traffic is flowing. Let’s move,” he orders.
In a flash, his right leg is over the gate, quickly followed by the rest of him. I’m left alone, two-thirds up the stairs, clutching a redundant torch.
I make my move, but ninja-like I am not. My little legs hurry up the final steps and I clamber over the gate, trying my utmost to look inconspicuous.
Clement is already standing by the kerb, cigarette in hand. I scurry over while glancing nervously up and down the road.
“Shit, doll. You look like you’ve been mud wrestling.”
“What?”
“Your clothes.”
I look down. Under the bright street lights I can see his point. I am ninety percent woman, ten percent dust.
“It’s not a good look, is it?”
Clement chuckles and shakes his head. “I was gonna suggest a quick pint, to celebrate, but maybe not.”
As much as I like the idea, my need for a shower and a change of clothes is far greater than my need for wine.
“No. Maybe not.”
We wind our way back to the car park where I feed the ticket machine as Clement deposits the rucksack in the boot. Once we’re seated in the car, I scrabble through the glove box and locate a pack of wet wipes. I manage to remove most of the grime from my hands, but my clothes will need a couple of cycles in the washing machine.
I could not care less.
I turn to Clement, beaming like a child on Christmas morning. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”
“You want me to pinch you?”
“You could punch me and I’d still be smiling.”
“I doubt that,” he chuckles.
As my euphoria eases, a crucial question begs to be answered.
“How much do you think the bar weighs?”
“Rough guess, I’d say about a hundred and fifty ounces.”
It’s significantly less gold than I initially hoped for, but still worth the best part of a hundred thousand pounds. That leaves me with eighty thousand once Sterling is paid — enough to make a huge difference to my life.
“You alright driving?” Clement asks.
“It’s a lot quieter out there now. I’ll be fine.”
I set the sat nav to take us home and reverse the Fiat out of the parking bay.
Five minutes later, we’re trundling across Tower Bridge, sticking vehemently to the twenty mile an hour speed limit.
“She’s quite the sight, ain’t she?”
“She?”
“London at night.”
I shift my gaze from the road and take a quick glance out of the side window towards the Thames. Even taking into account how much I hate driving here, I can still appreciate the picture postcard expanse of coloured lights stretching far into the distance, mirrored against the shimmering black water.
“I have to admit, it’s a stunning view.”
“Yeah, shame I’ll never see it again,” he replies matter-of-factly.
My head snaps from the window to Clement.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“I’m not with you. Why wouldn’t you see it again?”
“We’re nearly done, doll. As soon as we’ve converted that gold into cash and you’ve paid that arsehole, the job is over. Dunno where I’ll end up, but it won’t be London.”
“Here we go again,” I mumble under my breath.
“Just saying, doll.”
We navigate through the streets in silence for a couple of miles, but I’m not inclined to let the subject rest on this occasion.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Clement, but had it crossed your mind you might be suffering from some sort of mental illness?”
“You think I’m a nutter,” he snorts. “Suppose that makes sense.”
“No, I never said that, and mental illness is not funny.”
“I’m not a nutter.”
“Don’t use that word. It’s not nice.”
“Alright. I’m not mentally ill.”
“But the thing with mental illness is that you don’t necessarily know you’re suffering from it.”
“I dunno what you want me to say.”
“Would you consider seeing somebody?”
“What? Like a shrink?”
“No, a psychiatrist.”
“That’s what I said. And no, I wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
He turns and stares out of the window, clearly not interested in pursuing the conversation.
“Clement?”
“Just leave it, doll. There’s no shrink that can help me.”
“I’m only saying this because, well, I care what happens to you.”
“Do you?” he grunts.
“Yes.”
And there the conversation ends. Apparently.
We reach Brixton and the traffic builds. It’s nowhere near as frenetic as earlier, but enough to slow our progress. As we sit at a red traffic light, I make one final attempt to resurrect the conversation.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but will you promise me one thing?”
“I’m not big on promises.”
“Okay, will you keep something in mind?”
“What?”
“I know somebody who works as a counsellor for a mental health charity. Would you be willing to have a chat with her? No strings, nothing formal, just a chat.”
“And what good would that do?”
“I’m not sure, but it can’t do any harm, can it?”
“You assume the decision is mine to make.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
He turns to face me. “This may come as a shock, doll, but nobody has control over their ultimate destiny. Not you, and certainly not me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Join the club.”
Frustration begins to simmer. I don’t know why I should care — Clement has almost served his purpose. What does it matter to me where he ends up once I’ve got my hands on the cash?
Perhaps my frustration is partly due to the fact he has made himself matter, to me. One thing is clear though — he is not a man to be coaxed anywhere he doesn’t want to go. If I’m to convince him he needs help, I m
ight need to play the long game.
“Perhaps we’ll just see how things go.” I suggest.
“That’s all we can ever do.”
We’ve clearly reached the boundaries of Clement’s commitment. I don’t press him any further.
We pass Croydon and soon enough, we hit the M25.
“I’m starving,” Clement suddenly pronounces.
My stomach has been spinning like a washing machine since we left home but now he’s mentioned it, I’m pretty peckish myself.
“We’ll stop at the next services and grab something.”
Over the twelve miles we cover before the service station exit appears, a bizarre craving develops. I suppose it’s the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing pregnancy.
By the time we pull into the car park, I’m salivating over the imminent acquisition of scotch eggs and jam tarts.
“Would you mind going in on your own, Clement?”
“Why?”
“Well, firstly, I look like I’ve been pot holing, and secondly, I don’t like the idea of leaving the gold in the car.”
“Yeah, alright.”
I give him a twenty pound note together with my order.
“And Clement, try not to get into trouble.”
“Me? Never.”
He flashes me a grin and climbs out of the car. I watch him stride across the car park towards the main entrance before he disappears beyond the doors.
For the first time since we left home almost five hours ago, I can relax a little. I close my eyes and sit back in my seat. I can just about make out the distant thrum of traffic on the motorway, but it’s otherwise quiet.
Inevitably, my mind turns to the various ways I’ll be able to spend my impending windfall.
Maybe the first priority, after I’ve paid Sterling, is to take some time off. I haven’t had a proper holiday in years, and that can’t have helped my stress levels. Paying somebody to manage the shop for a week shouldn’t be a problem so all I have to worry about is the choice of destination. A spa break at a country retreat might be a relaxing way to spend a week. Or maybe a lodge on the lakes in Switzerland.
As long as it’s relaxing, and not too hot, I don’t really care. I just want to put all of this behind me and move on with my life. And if anyone deserves some pampering, and a daily massage from a hunky young masseur, it’s me.
That particular thought hangs around in my mind for a while. Possibly too long.
I’m deep into my daydream when the car door suddenly opens. The fantasy bubble I was occupying with Antonio, the masseur with busy hands, pops.
Who Sent Clement? Page 28