Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  I swing the door open and look across to the corner, expecting to see Clement sitting there, supping his pint.

  He’s not there. I assume he’s gone to the gents.

  The sound of a piano tinkles from the speakers by the stage. It seems the next karaoke victim is about to start so I make my way over to our table and collapse onto my chair. A large gulp of wine and I look back to the door, expecting to see Clement walk through at any moment.

  The piano notes continue, until they form the intro to a song I recognise. It happens to be a song from a film; one which came up in conversation just this afternoon.

  My head snaps towards the stage.

  “Ohh, shit.”

  Clement is not in the gents. Clement is standing on the stage with a microphone in his hand, staring at a monitor displaying the lyrics to a song I hope he’s not about to sing.

  I put my fingers in my ears and stare at the floor, wishing to God I was anywhere but here. Clement is yet to sing a note, but the embarrassment is already crippling. What the hell is he thinking? And of all the bloody songs he could have chosen, he decides to sing Let it Go from Frozen.

  So, so inappropriate.

  Yet, it begins.

  I await the chorus of laughter and jeers from the now-intoxicated crowd, and pray it will drown out his singing.

  I press my fingers deep into my ears and squeeze my eyes closed.

  Please, stop. Please, stop.

  I will never be able to set foot in the Slug ever again. I’ll probably have to move home.

  However, I don’t hear any jeers or booing. I hear what sounds a lot like cheering and clapping.

  I slowly open my eyes to see half the crowd on their feet. Incredibly, they appear to be lapping up Clement’s performance.

  They must be beyond drunk.

  I remove my fingers from my ears, cringing in anticipation.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I’m not sure what I expected to hear, but it certainly wasn’t this. Clement’s voice is…incredible, his rendition note perfect. Even though the song was written for a female voice, Clement is blasting through it as if it was written for him; the tone of his voice somewhere between Bruce Springsteen and Rod Stewart.

  I sit up and look across the room. Nobody is laughing and nobody is jeering. In fact, they’re either standing in admiration, or sitting transfixed at the giant man on the stage.

  He hits the final chorus and delivers it with such power, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, along with everyone in the room. The end note brings rapturous applause and an embarrassed smile from Clement as he steps down from the stage.

  As he makes his way back to our table, hands slap his back or clap in appreciation. I’ve probably been to a dozen karaoke nights here and I’ve never seen anything like it.

  He eventually reaches our table and grabs his pint, necking almost half of it in one gulp. As the crowd quietens down for the poor woman who has to follow Clement’s act, he leans over the table.

  “Fancy a smoke?”

  I nod, still speechless, and point to the door to the beer garden.

  I follow Clement as we edge our way across the room. People look up from their tables as we pass, throwing glances in Clement’s direction. Some of the men nod in begrudging admiration, and a few of the women flutter their eyelids. It’s funny to think that just a few days ago, when I first stepped out in public with Clement, I was embarrassed to be seen with him. Now, the opposite is true.

  We exit the bar to the quiet sanctuary of the beer garden.

  Clement plucks his Marlboro packet from his pocket. He flips it open and extracts two cigarettes, handing one to me.

  “I shouldn’t,” I half-heartedly object as I take it. “But go on then.”

  The Zippo is then ignited and Clement holds it towards the end of my cigarette as I draw deeply. I puff a plume of smoke into the air as Clement lights up.

  “So, Mr Clement,” I playfully venture. “Shall we talk about what just happened in there?”

  “Nah.”

  “Oh, come on. How can we not? That was amazing.”

  “I was just clearing the rust from my pipes. No big deal.”

  “Don’t be so modest. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  He shrugs his shoulders and stares up at the dark sky.

  Despite consuming numerous pints of lager, there is little in Clement’s demeanour to suggest the alcohol has had any effect on him. Much to my annoyance, there is no loosening of his tongue when the conversation veers in a direction he doesn’t want to go. I really thought he’d let his guard down after half-a-dozen pints, and maybe let something slip to undermine his delusional claims.

  I have clearly underestimated his tolerance for alcohol.

  However, my own alcohol levels provide the confidence to persist.

  “Have you always been able to sing like that?”

  “Sort of,” he mumbles.

  Progress, I suppose.

  “Have you had lessons?”

  “You’re a nosey mare, ain’t you?”

  “I’m not nosey, just interested, Clement. I thought we were friends, and friends share things, don’t they?”

  “Suppose so.”

  Just when I think he’s about to shut me out again, he nods towards a picnic bench on a patchy area of grass bordering the patio on which we’re standing.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  We take a seat on the bench, facing one another.

  He takes a long drag of his cigarette, and then clears his throat.

  “Annie taught me to sing.”

  “That’s the third time her name has come up. I’m guessing you were more than friends?”

  “You could say that.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I told you I used to do a bit of minding, for bands?”

  “Yep, I recall.”

  “Annie was a backing singer for some shitty band I worked with for a while. I used to help her with the sound checks, and we got friendly. The band were bleedin’ awful and the lead singer was tone deaf, but Annie could properly sing, and she carried them.”

  “And she gave you lessons?”

  “Yeah. I made up some bullshit about wanting to start a band and asked her to teach me. It was just a ruse to see her more.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t strike me as the sort of man who resorts to subterfuge to chat up women.”

  “I don’t usually, but Annie was different. She was a Yank, from Pennsylvania and, I dunno, there was just something about her.”

  “What happened?”

  “We started dating, and after about six months things got serious. We rented a little flat together, in Soho, and everything was just about perfect for a while. We talked about getting married and maybe moving to America to start afresh.”

  “That would have been tricky, without a passport.”

  “In my line of work, getting a fake passport wouldn’t have been a problem.”

  “Sounds like you had it all planned out?”

  He pulls a final drag on his cigarette and flicks the butt away. “Plans don’t always work out the way you want.”

  “How so?”

  “In February, she found a lump in her breast. She didn’t see Christmas.”

  His brutally frank revelation pierces my drunken bubble, sobriety returning in an instant.

  “I…don‘t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  He doesn’t answer, but lights another cigarette. He holds the Zippo for a second, turning it around in his big fingers. A chink of light from the bar catches the engraving.

  I make the connection and murmur the words again. “For the dark times.”

  Clement nods.

  “Annie gave you the lighter?”

  “Once she knew…the end was close, she had it engraved and insisted I took it. Her old man gave it to her as an eighteenth birthday present; it was the only thing of value she owned.”

  I lean across the
table and grab his hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “I wish there was something I could say.”

  “Nothing to say, doll,” he sighs. “Which is why I don’t see the point in talking about it. You asked though.”

  I know, from my own experience, there is nothing to be gained by pursuing this subject. I give his hand another squeeze and say the only thing I’d want to hear if the boot was on the other foot.

  “I know how hard it is to talk about losing a loved one, so I’ll consider the subject closed.”

  He replies with a slight nod of the head.

  “Fancy another drink?”

  “Nah. I’ve had enough, doll. And I think you probably have too.”

  “Shall we go home then?”

  “Yeah.”

  We leave through a gate in the beer garden and make our way home. I lock my arm into Clement’s so I don’t fall over, but mainly because I think we both need a little comfort in the darkness.

  36

  “Are you gonna eat that?” Clement asks, pointing to a slice of fried bread on the edge of my plate.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” I groan.

  It was Clement’s idea to visit a greasy spoon cafe for a full English breakfast. He assured me it would ease my hangover.

  It hasn’t. Quite the opposite in fact.

  Sitting beside a condensation-misted window, I can almost feel the grease in the air, and the lingering stench of sweaty men in damp overalls. What I wouldn’t give to be in the contemporary confines of a coffee shop, supping on a tall latte, my thumping headache eased by some soothing classical music.

  But, no. I have to endure a plate of greasy offal, and tea so strong I could paint my lounge walls with it. And as for music, a slightly out of tune radio is currently blasting some noise credited to The Sex Pistols, I think.

  “I don’t feel well. Can we go?”

  “What about your bacon?”

  I can barely look at my plate, let alone contemplate eating anything else on it. I shake my head and get up from the table.

  Clement pincers the rasher between his thumb and forefinger, tips his head back, and lowers it into his mouth.

  I slap my hand across my mouth while trying to control my gag reflex.

  “Waste not, want not,” he says, while noisily chomping away.

  It’s just gone nine thirty in the morning and I’m suffering the fallout from last night’s excessive wine consumption. Clement, on the other hand, is annoyingly chipper. I suppose I should be grateful one of us is fit enough to drive, although I felt anything but grateful on the short journey to the cafe.

  While Clement finishes my leftovers, I traipse over to the counter and ask a man in a stained apron if I can settle our bill.

  “Was there anything else, love?”

  “Do you sell bottled water?”

  “Still or sparkling?”

  I’m mildly surprised they stock either. “Still, please.”

  He turns around and plucks a bottle from the chiller, placing it on the counter.

  “£1.50 for the water, which makes…” He jabs the till with a fat finger. “£12.80 in total.”

  “Do you take credit cards?”

  He looks at me as if I’d asked for the vegan-friendly breakfast menu.

  “No. Cash only.”

  I scrabble around in my purse and just about scrape thirteen pounds together, mostly in coins.

  “Keep the change,” I mindlessly mumble as I hand over the cash.

  “Very kind of you,” he replies dryly. “I’ll let the kids know we can book a holiday now.”

  I return an embarrassed smile, grab the bottle of water and scurry towards the door where Clement is waiting.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  We exit the cafe into drizzly rain and dash along the hundred yards of shiny pavement to where we parked the car. Once Clement has squeezed himself into the driver’s seat, I set up the sat nav to direct him towards Powell & Partners.

  As the route is calculated, I offer another warning about his aggressive driving style.

  “Remember, we’re not in London now so please take it easy, unless you want a lapful of warm sick.”

  “That’s classy.”

  “I’m just warning you. My constitution couldn’t cope with another one of your getaway chases.”

  He smiles as he turns the ignition key. “Trust me, doll.”

  My memories of last night, after we left the pub, are hazy. I remember walking home, just. And somehow, I managed to get undressed and put my pyjamas on. I have a horrible feeling I might have asked Clement to sing for me, but my memories are patchy and I daren’t ask him.

  It’s not exactly a sedate drive but I manage to keep the content of my stomach in situ. We pull into the parking bay outside Powell & Partners with a few minutes to spare. Clement cuts the engine and looks across at me.

  “You up for this, doll? You can wait in the car if you like.”

  “I’ll be fine. After everything we’ve been through to get here, I’m not about to let a hangover ruin the moment.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We climb out of the car and I retreat to the pavement while Clement collects the rucksack from the boot.

  The drizzle has eased but the low black clouds suggest heavier rainfall is imminent. Maybe it’s my hangover, or maybe it’s the sombre skies, but the street vista appears almost dystopian against the bleak, monotone backdrop. It’s odd to think my financial dreams are about to be realised in such a joyless shit-hole.

  “You look like total crap,” Clement observes as he joins me on the pavement.

  “Gee, thanks for the ego boost.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Tact isn’t your strongest attribute is it?”

  “You’d prefer it if I lie?”

  “Well, no, but sometimes it’s better not to pass comment at all.”

  “And sometimes it’s better to be told the truth.”

  “Not when it comes to telling a woman she looks like crap.”

  “Ahh, so you want us blokes to be honest, but only when we’re saying what you want to hear?”

  “Um…no…that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying then, doll?”

  I am in no fit state to defend my position, even if I had a position worth defending. Probably best to adopt the fifth amendment on this one.

  “No? Nothing else to add?” he asks.

  “Can we just get on with this, please?”

  A smirk breaks on his face. “Sure. Come on then.”

  Clement strides towards Oswald Powell’s shop, the rucksack strap gripped firmly in his left hand. I follow behind, every step pounding a dull thud through my head.

  We step through the door almost on the dot of ten o’clock.

  Unlike our last visit, Mr Powell is standing behind the counter, presumably awaiting our arrival.

  “Very punctual,” he observes as we approach.

  “I’m a stickler for time, Mr Powell,” Clement replies. “And we don’t have much to spare this morning so let’s get on with this shall we?”

  I watch, sipping on my bottle of water, and slightly in awe of the way Clement cuts through the bullshit and gets straight down to business.

  “Yes, of course. Do you have the merchandise?” Mr Powell enquires.

  Clement holds up the rucksack.

  “Do you mind if I see it? I need to take another shaving.”

  “Why? You already tested it.”

  “Considering the amount of money at stake here, you can’t blame me for being cautious. With respect, the bar I assume is in your bag might not be the same bar you brought in yesterday.”

  Clement slips his hand into the rucksack and pulls the bar out. He steps towards the counter and carefully places it in the centre.

  “It’s the same bar, but do what you gotta do. Just make it quick.”

  Mr Powell nods, and ducks down below the counter.

  “Bear with me a se
cond,” he calls out. “Just looking for the knife.”

  Clement slings the rucksack over his shoulder and leans against the counter.

  Another minute passes and Clement’s irritation at the delay appears to be simmering nicely.

  “What you doing down there, old man?”

  “Just a second.”

  He finally emerges, holding the same scalpel-like knife he used yesterday.

  “Sorry about that. I’m a bit disorganised this morning.”

  Mr Powell then goes through the same routine of carefully scraping a tiny fragment of gold onto the knife blade. Once his sample is secured, he heads towards the door behind the counter.

  “If you can give me five minutes, I’ll put my mind at rest and we can conclude our business.”

  Clement answers with a scowl, ensuring Mr Powell is aware of his growing impatience. Judging by his nervous twitching, I assume Mr Powell received the message loud and clear, and he quickly scurries through the doorway into the back of the shop.

  Clement returns the bar to the rucksack and places it on the floor between his feet.

  “You want a sip of this?” I ask, offering him my bottle of water.

  “What is it?”

  “Water.”

  “Like water out of a tap?”

  “No, it’s spring water.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It’s…err…pure.”

  He grabs the bottle and takes a sip. “Tastes like water.”

  “Well, that’s because it is water.”

  “How much did you pay for that?”

  “£1.50.”

  “You paid £1.50 for something you can get out of a tap, for free?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Somebody is having a laugh at your expense, doll. Charging £1.50 for bleedin’ water.”

  He hands the bottle back, almost in disgust, and returns to his position, leaning against the counter.

  As the clock on the wall ticks the seconds away, I begin to share Clement’s impatience.

  “What’s taking him so long?”

  “Dunno, but he’s got one more minute before we sod off.”

  Clement’s answer is purposely delivered with enough volume for Mr Powell to hear.

  “Just coming,” a thin voice replies from the back room.

  Precisely at the moment Mr Powell returns, the front door swings opens, the bell chiming the arrival of another customer.