He’s soaked to the skin, his denim now a dark shade of blue. The only thing that doesn’t appear soaked is the waterproof rucksack over his shoulder. He removes it and lowers it to the floor. As it makes contact with the floorboards, I hear a dull thump.
I slam the door closed and slowly count to five in my head.
I get to three and can’t hold back. “Fucking hell, Clement,” I scream at him. “Where the hell have you been?”
He wipes his forehead with his sleeve, unfazed at my outburst.
“I asked you a question,” I growl.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I heard.”
“Well?”
“Fags.”
“What?”
“I ran out of fags. Went to get another pack.”
“Why didn’t you leave a note?”
“I dunno, didn’t think I’d be that long. What’s your problem?”
“I thought…”
“Ohh, I get it. You thought I’d done a runner with the gold.”
My head drops and anger gives way to shame.
“Bloody charming,” he adds.
I wish I could, but I can’t let it go, not least until I’ve covered every angle.
“But how were you going to get back in?”
He opens the breast pocket of his sodden waistcoat and plucks out a key.
“Back door.”
“Um, right, so why did you knock on the front door?”
“I saw your car in the street and didn’t want to scare you by coming round the back of the house.”
The scenario I pictured in my head is falling to pieces. I grasp the last straw.
“But you said you don’t have any money.”
“I don’t. You’ve got a pot of shrapnel in the kitchen so I borrowed a tenner from there. Didn’t think you’d mind, considering.”
Of course — the car parking pot. I’m always running out of change for parking so I throw all my loose change in there once or twice a week.
“Is that it then?” he barks. “You finished with the interrogation?”
What have I become? My trust has been eroded to such a degree I now automatically assume the worst of people.
“I’m sorry, Clement,” I murmur. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“No. I didn’t,” he snaps.
We stand in silence for a moment, the odd droplet of rainwater falling from Clement’s hair and splatting on the floorboards.
“Do you still want to go out for dinner?” I ask, sheepishly.
“Too bleedin’ right I do. And I think you owe me three courses, don’t you?”
“Yes, and several pints,” I reply. “And you know what I’m going to have for dessert?”
“Go on.”
“Humble pie. A double portion.”
35
To make amends for my neurotic outburst, I offer to wash and dry Clement’s clothes.
I had to dig through Karl’s clothes once more, but I managed to find a pair of bright red, elasticated jogging pants. The only top which looked like it might fit was a pale pink polo shirt. Admittedly, it’s not a great combination of colours.
“I’ll put these through a quick wash,” I say as he hands me a pile of damp clothes. “They should be ready in an hour.”
“Cheers,” he replies as he stares down at his new outfit. I don’t think he’s impressed.
“I look like a right mug.”
“I wouldn’t leave the house dressed like that, but it’s better than sitting around in your underpants.”
“Better for who?”
“Well, me.”
We retreat to the lounge while we wait for the washing machine to run through a cycle.
“So, Clement. Shall we talk about Frozen?”
“What about it?”
“Seemed an odd choice. Of all the films you could have watched, why that one?”
“Dunno really. I hit a few buttons and it was on a list of most-watched films.”
“Still, I wouldn’t have thought it was your cup of tea.”
“Never seen a film like that before. It was like a cartoon, but sorta real. I watched the first ten minutes and just got into it.”
“Right. We’ll have to watch Toy Story at some point. That’ll blow your mind.”
“Stick it on then.”
“What? I was joking, Clement. It’s a kids’ film.”
“I didn’t get to see many films as a nipper, so I kinda like watching kid’s films.”
There’s a hint of sadness in his statement. I can’t think of anything to say in response, so I attempt a kindly smile and search for Toy Story.
For the next hour, Clement watches intently, chuckling away at the antics of Woody and Buzz Lightyear. I spend more time watching him, rather than the film. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man who so violently dispatched Messrs Black & Blue. Then again, it’s so hard to believe much about the man.
The washing machine beeps away from the kitchen. Clement frowns at the interruption.
“You carry on watching. I’ll go and sort your clothes out.”
“You sure?”
“Yep, I know what happens.”
“Cheers, doll.”
I climb up from the sofa and head into the kitchen. My combination washer-dryer isn’t particularly efficient with the drying part of its job, but Clement’s denims feel dry enough. I fold them up, along with the navy sweater, and carry them back into the lounge.
“Here you go.”
“Ta.”
“I’m just going up to shower and change. l should be ready by the time Buzz reaches infinity.”
Clement stands and begins to peel himself out of the pink polo shirt. I make myself scarce and scoot upstairs to the bathroom.
By the time I clack back through the door, showered, and dressed in jeans and heels, the closing credits are rolling.
“Bloody good that was.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. Shall we get going then?”
He clambers to his feet as I switch the TV off.
“You don’t scrub up too badly, doll.” he remarks. “For a bird who never wears a dress.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“So, where we going?”
“There’s a pub called The Slug & Lettuce, about a mile up the road. I fancy a few drinks so we’ll walk — it’s stopped raining now.”
“Lead on.”
We leave the house and stroll through the dark streets towards the pub, Clement whistling the closing track to Toy Story: You’ve Got a Friend in Me.
“Alright, enough with the whistling please.”
He continues for a few seconds before deciding to keep his lips busy with a cigarette instead.
“So, doll, you worked out how you’re gonna spend the cash once Powell coughs up?”
“I’ve got some ideas. The house needs some work, and I really a holiday.”
“A holiday?”
“Yep. Somewhere relaxing.”
He takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly, seemingly deep in thought.
“I’ve never had a holiday.”
Was that a hint he’d like to join me? No, surely not. He’s not that subtle.
“Seriously? You’ve never had a holiday?”
“Nope. Although I did go to Llandudno in North Wales, for a while. Suppose that was a bit like a holiday.”
“Why did you go to Llandudno?”
“Didn’t have much choice in the matter. Most kids were evacuated from London when the Blitz started.”
Despite the dynamics of our relationship changing for the better over the last few days, I’m still struggling to comprehend Clement’s delusional tales. If I’m honest, I’d rather he just didn’t talk about his supposed past life, and that way, I can pretend everything is perfectly normal. It almost feels like having an affair with a married man — tip-toeing around the parts of his life you’d rather not think about. In Clement’s case, there is no two-timed wife I’d prefer to ignore, just his delusions.
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“It was nice there though,” he continues. “Stayed with an old Welsh couple, Ivor and Megan Davies. Good people.”
It takes some effort not to encourage Clement with any questions. Unfortunately, it doesn’t curtail his wistful reminiscence.
“I think I was six or seven, and I’d never seen the sea before, never seen a beach. It felt like the world was ten times the size up there.”
I can’t help myself. “What do you mean?”
“Can you imagine what it’s like when all you’ve ever known is a view of brick walls, to stand on a beach and look out to sea? The sky was so big, like it had no beginning and no end.”
“How long were you there for?”
“Can’t remember, but I do remember leaving, and that final day at the train station. All the other kids were so excited about going home, to see their parents. Don’t think I was quite so keen to leave.”
He flicks his cigarette butt into the gutter.
“That’s what a holiday is like though, ain’t it? You don’t want it to end?”
“No, I guess not.”
We turn a corner and, to some relief, the Slug & Lettuce is just across the road.
“You hungry?” I ask, firmly putting a lid on the previous conversation.
“Starving.”
We cross the road and enter through a set of double doors, into the small saloon bar.
I used to visit the Slug fairly frequently, when I first started dating Karl. Over time, and I guess like most couples, we lost the motivation to go out, preferring takeaways and cheap alcohol from the fridge.
It’s surprisingly busy for a Monday evening and the dozen tables in the saloon bar are all occupied. I peer through an archway towards the dining area, and I’m relieved to see there are plenty of empty tables.
“We’ll grab a drink and then go through.”
Clement nods and we saunter up to the bar.
“Lager?” I ask.
“Yeah, ta.”
We wait until a young barmaid, sporting too much blusher and too much cleavage, comes to serve us.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
“A pint of Fosters and a glass of dry white wine. Large please.”
I look across at Clement. “Fosters okay with you?”
He doesn’t look back, his gaze fixed on the barmaid’s chest as she pulls his pint.
I stand on tip-toes and whisper in his ear. “A woman’s cleavage is like the Sun, you know?”
He pulls his attention away long enough to throw me a quizzical look.
“It’s okay to take a quick glance, Clement, but don’t stare at it.”
He shuffles awkwardly and grabs his pint from the bar. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Course you don’t.”
The barmaid delivers my glass of wine and I open a tab with my credit card. Furnished with much-needed alcohol, we wander into the dining area and take a table near the window.
We spend ten minutes surveying the menu and decide not to bother with starters, in lieu of oversized mains. Clement opts for their largest mixed grill, aptly named ‘the meat wagon’. I play safe and go for something less likely to induce a coronary — Cumberland sausages with mustard mash.
I skip back to the bar and place our order. Having already downed half a glass of wine, I decide we also need more drinks.
By the time I return to the table, Clement’s glass is nearly empty.
“Thirsty were we?” I ask.
“You can talk,” he scoffs, nodding at my glass.
“Yes, well, we’re supposed to be celebrating, and it’s been a long time since I let my hair down.”
“I’m all for letting hair down, doll. “
He raises his glass towards mine and we clink them together.
“But before we get too pissed, did you think about what I mentioned on the phone earlier?” I ask.
“The money laundering?”
“Shh,” I hiss.
Clement turns his head and surveys the near-empty room.
“Yeah, I did.”
“So, what can I do to…erm…clean the money?”
“You use the shop.”
“Eh? How?”
“All your stock is second hand, right?”
“Correct.”
“So there’s no invoices for the stock coming in?”
“I produce receipts for each box, but not for individual items, no.”
“There you go then — the perfect cleaning set-up. If nobody knows how much stock you’ve got coming in, and there’s no paper trail, you slowly filter the dirty cash through the till as sales and it comes out clean.”
“Won’t it look odd if my turnover dramatically increases?”
“Not if you do it gradually. There’s no quick way of laundering large amounts of cash, unless you’re willing to physically take it to an overseas bank where they’re less concerned about where it came from.”
It’s not quite the ideal solution I’d hoped for. It could take a couple of years to filter ninety grand through the shop, and I’ll have to pay tax on it, but I suppose it’s my only option.
“And you can still make a few lump sum payments into your bank account,” he adds. “As long as you’re sensible about it. People sell shit all the time and pay money into the bank. You could say you’ve sold your car, or your TV, or anything of high value.”
“Thanks, Clement. That’s good advice.”
Just as I’m about to start drawing up a list of fictional assets to sell, a slim, dark-haired waitress arrives with our meals.
She places my bowl of sausage and mash down, and then Clement’s veritable farmyard of meat.
“Enjoy your meals,” she chirps.
“Don’t worry, love, I will,” Clement replies, a pork sausage already skewered onto his fork.
As she sashays away, I look across at Clement, half-expecting him to be ogling her polyester-clad backside. It seems, however, food takes priority, and he’s too busy gnawing away at his sausage to notice.
We try a half-hearted attempt at small talk as we devour our food and empty our glasses. It’s not exactly scintillating conversation and quickly peters out.
Only when Clement’s plate is empty does he offer anything more than a few syllables.
“That was top notch, doll. No room for pudding though, I’m stuffed.”
Swallowing my final mouthful of mash, I have to concur.
“I think dessert should be of the alcoholic liquid variety, don’t you?”
“Yeah, shall I get them in?”
I give him a thumbs up while trying to stifle a burp. He gets up and strides off to the bar, no doubt hoping Little Miss Cleavage is still serving.
He returns with our drinks five minutes later.
“You didn’t tell me they’ve got cabaret on tonight, doll.”
“Cabaret?”
“Yeah. I heard a woman singing.”
“It was probably the juke box in the public bar.”
“Nah. It was definitely live.”
“Ohh, right, of course. That’s not cabaret — it’s karaoke.”
“It’s what?”
“It might be easier for me to show you.”
We grab our drinks and wander back into the saloon bar.
“It’s through there.”
Clement follows me through a door in the corner, leading into a narrow corridor. We pass the ladies and gents toilets, and through another door into the much larger, public bar.
We’re greeted by the dulcet tones of a chunky, middle-aged woman in jeans and vest top, standing on a small stage in the corner. There are a few dozen tables, most of which are occupied by enthusiastic patrons. Clearly Monday-evening karaoke is popular.
I nudge Clement and point to an empty table in the corner. We work our way across the room and claim our seats.
“Whatever they’re paying her, doll, it’s too bleedin’ much.”
“They’re not paying her. Anyone can get up and sing.�
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“Anyone?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t matter if they can’t sing?”
“Nope.”
“Christ.”
“Don’t worry, Clement. The more we drink, the better they’ll sound.”
For the next few hours, we thoroughly test that theory. The drinks flow freely and we spend our time harshly critiquing every poor sod who takes to the small stage, like we’re the judges in a sweary version of X-Factor.
The only mild annoyance is Clement’s insistence he’s never heard many of the songs being murdered. Even when some deluded chap starts wailing his way through Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall, Clement insists he’s never heard it before.
I’m probably being churlish though, and I have to admit to enjoying myself more than I have in a long while. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the thought of the cash coming my way tomorrow, but I feel relaxed, happy even.
Clement offers to get the next round and heads off to the bar, returning a few minutes later.
“I have to admit, Clement,” I slur, as he places my glass on the table. “I’m feeling just a tiny bit pissed.”
“Lightweight. I’m only just warming up.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got about ten stone on me.”
“Granted.”
“And I need to pee.”
“What is it you say, doll? Too much information?”
“Ha! You do listen to me sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
I pat him on the shoulder as I stagger off to the toilets.
Once I’m sitting in the cubicle, I close my eyes for moment, hoping the walls don’t spin. The warbling from the bar ends with a cheer, and I’m able to enjoy a much-needed pee in relative peace. I feel so relaxed I have to make a conscious effort not to nod off.
I finish up, flush, and clack across the tiled floor to the sinks.
“Evening, Miss Baxter,” I giggle to myself, my reflection grinning back at me from the mirror.
The woman in the mirror looks very different from the sad cow who has stalked me for the last week. This woman looks like she knows where her future is heading. She appears content, confident, and happy in her own skin.
“Thank you, Clement,” I whisper.
She smiles in agreement.
I wash my hands and wait for the underpowered hand dryer to do its job. With a final check of my make up, I leave the toilets and head back to the public bar.
Who Sent Clement? Page 31