It’s not one customer that enters, but two, dressed in jeans and black hoodies.
The two men stand side-by-side just in front of the door. Their hoods are up, and the lower part of both their faces are covered with red bandannas.
Two pairs of beady eyes scan the shop.
Their attire suggests they’re either ridiculously early trick or treaters, or there’s a more sinister purpose to their visit. When the man on the left slowly raises a pistol, it becomes clear they’re not here for confectionery or loose change.
37
Every gun I’ve ever seen has been confined to the screen on TV or in films. To me, a gun is nothing more than a lump of forged metal, utilised by the hero to deal with the bad guys. I’ve never had reason to think of a gun in any other way — until now.
This gun is very real and currently being pointed at me by a real bad guy.
A slight contraction of a forefinger is all it would take to end my life. That fact is not lost on me as a cold sweat creeps across my skin.
“Move, move. Up against the counter. Now.” the man with the gun orders.
I expected a voice to match the physical menace, but it’s high-pitched, and quite nasal. His companion remains silent, his purpose unclear.
I shuffle backwards, my hands instinctively raised in surrender. My back comes into contact with the edge of the counter and I turn to Clement, about ten feet away. He looks across at me, the corners of his mouth turned upwards by just a fraction, possibly to offer reassurance.
I do not feel reassured.
The silent companion approaches the counter and pulls a carrier bag from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Fill this up,” he yells at Mr Powell, as the bag is thrown onto the counter. “Cash and jewellery.”
The companion’s voice is also distinctive, inasmuch it sounds like he’s got bronchitis. There’s a distinct rattle in his chest, his words raspy.
Mr Powell, standing with his hands above his head, is probably wishing he’d stayed in the back room, behind that sturdy door. He slowly lowers his hands and grasps the carrier bag.
“All the cash and stock is out back,” he whimpers.
“Get it, now,” bronchial man shouts.
Mr Powell edges backwards, slipping out of sight beyond the doorway.
“Anyone moves, and they’re dead. Geddit?” The squeaky gunman squeals as he traces the gun left and right, between us. Clement remains still, nonchalantly leaning against the counter, and the only part of me currently moving is my twitching sphincter.
The clock ticks away as we wait for Mr Powell to return with the carrier bag. Based upon our prior experience, I suspect our guests might be in for a bit of a wait.
As terrified as I am, there is some comfort in knowing this will be over pretty quickly. As soon as Mr Powell hands over the bag, these two will be gone. Whether he drops our ninety thousand pounds into the bag remains to be seen, but if he is stupid enough to do so, it’s his loss. There will be other pawnbrokers.
The ticking of the clock appears to get louder with every passing second, or it could be my heart thumping away. The wait is excruciating.
“What’s in the rucksack?” The gunman suddenly asks, turning his attention, and the gun, to Clement.
Shit. No, no, no.
“Nothing to interest you, mate,” Clement replies.
The gunman moves within four feet of Clement, keeping the gun aimed low.
“Fuck you freak,” he squeaks. “I said, what’s in the rucksack?”
Bronchial man sidles up to his companion, and for one moment, I fear he’s going to snatch the rucksack. However, the two men clearly realise Clement is a threat, but as long as they keep their distance, he can’t do anything with a gun pointing at his crotch.
Clement looks down at the rucksack, and then slowly raises his head to meet the gunman’s stare.
“This rucksack?”
“Yeah, you prick. That rucksack.”
“It’s just my lunch,” Clement replies.
“Bullshit. Let me see.”
“Help yourself.”
“Fuck you,” he scowls. “Pick it up, slowly, and hand it to my mate.”
This is game over, surely? Once they look in the rucksack, they’ll realise all their Christmases have come at once. We might come out of this unscathed, but there will be no gold, and no cash windfall.
If I didn’t feel sick earlier, I sure as hell do now.
Clement bends his knees and reaches down for the rucksack, all the time maintaining eye contact with the gunman. It’s painful to watch, and Clement is dragging it out with his ponderous movements.
Once his right hand is clasped around the strap, he slowly straightens his back, gingerly raising the rucksack as if it contained volatile explosives.
Inch by inch, he raises his arm until it’s parallel with the floor and the rucksack is held at arm’s length.
“Grab it,” The gunman squeaks to his companion.
Bronchial man takes a step forward while raising his hand to take the rucksack. That hand gets within inches of the target when Clement suddenly releases his grip on the strap.
Three heads, including mine, drop and follow the trajectory of the rucksack as it falls to the floor.
It’s a distraction which lasts a split second, but time enough for Clement to enact whatever plan he’s been plotting.
Neither man saw it coming, and neither has time to react.
Clement’s right arm, still held out horizontally, snaps downward, towards the gunman's wrist. He grabs it, and twists, so the gun is pointed towards the floor. Almost in the same movement, Clement takes a stride forward and thrusts his lowered forehead towards bronchial man’s face.
I don’t know if it’s possible for a nose to actually burst, but the second Clement’s forehead meets bronchial man’s face, that is what appears to happen. It’s greeted by a sound I’ll be hearing in my nightmares for weeks — a rasping squeal-come-scream as bronchial man falls backwards, his hands covering the remnants of his splattered nose and the bandanna tangled around his neck.
I can scarcely contain my horror as he thrashes around on the floor like a grounded fish on a river bank.
We are still in a shop with an armed man though, and my attention quickly turns to the greater threat.
With his gun hand contorted in what appears to be an extremely uncomfortable position, the squeaky assailant is currently rendered powerless. He’s a sitting duck for Clement’s gnarly fist as it hones in on its target. The gunman’s beady eyes widen once they realise what’s heading their way.
Clement’s fist makes contact and another nose bursts. Another face is showered in blood and splintered cartilage.
It’s sight enough to propel the contents of my stomach back towards my throat. I bend double, bile burning. Only a desperate gulp stops vomit exploding from my mouth.
By the time I lift my head, both men are on the floor, incapacitated, and both wailing through hands clamped to their faces.
Clement steps over the prone body of the gunman, moving towards me.
“You alright there, doll?”
I stare at him, then down at the gunman. Blind panic suddenly grips me.
“The…the…gun,” I pant. “It’s on the floor.”
“Won’t help him. It’s a starting pistol.”
“It’s what?”
“A starting pistol. Only shoots blanks.”
“Jesus bloody Christ, now you tell me.”
“I’ll send a telegram next time.”
I take a few deep breaths and try to find some composure. “That was horrific. Is Mr Powell okay?”
“Probably. But not for long.”
I don’t get a chance to question his reply before he leaps over the counter. I hear muffled voices from the back room — one growling, one pleading.
The voices continue for twenty, maybe thirty seconds, and I’m becoming increasingly concerned for the wellbeing of the two men on the floor. I think
bronchial man has passed out as he’s no longer whining, or moving.
Mr Powell emerges from the doorway, Clement behind him. It’s only when Mr Powell’s upper body is thrust towards the counter do I realise Clement has a handful of his shirt collar.
“Bloody hell!” I shriek. “Leave the poor man alone. Don’t you think he’s been through enough?”
“He set us up.”
“What?”
“This was no robbery. They only wanted the gold.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chide. “They told Mr Powell to fill a bag with cash, and jewellery.”
“Yeah, and then they sent him out the back, where he could have called the old bill, or done a runner, or at least shut the bleedin’ door. They’re a pair of fucking idiots, but I don’t think they’re that stupid.”
If I’d experienced our ordeal as a scene in a novel, Clement’s revelation might have occurred to me earlier. But living through it first hand, blinded by fear and panic, it’s an unexpected twist I never saw coming.
“What are you going to do with him?” I murmur.
“I’d quite like to ring his scrawny neck, but I’ll let you decide.”
I step towards the counter and bend down so my face is at the same level as Powell’s. He doesn’t look comfortable, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad.
“You nasty old man,” I spit.
“Yeah, don’t hold back, doll,” Clement interjects, somewhat sarcastically. “I’m sure that really stung.”
“What am I supposed to do, Clem…Cliff? Jab him in the face a few times?”
“That’d be a start.”
Tempting as it is, I shake my head and stand upright.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I huff. “We’ve got more important things to do than beat up old men.”
“You’re the boss.”
Clement drags Powell to his feet and spins him around. Instinctively, Powell backs up until he meets the wall behind. Clement takes a few steps forward and places his hand around Powell’s throat. For a second, I worry he is going to wring the old man’s neck, but I’m hoping I know Clement well enough now to spot a bluff.
“You listen to me, you scrawny bag of shit. If you call the police, I’ll come back and rip you a new arsehole. If either of those two idiots tells the police what happened, I’ll come back and rip all three of you a new arsehole. Got it?”
Powell tries to nod; not easy with an enormous hand around your throat.
“Got it,” he gasps.
Clement releases his grip, smiles, and playfully slaps the old man across the cheek. Not hard enough to cause any damage, but hard enough to make his point.
“Good man.”
Clement leaps back over the counter and picks up the gun, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.
“What do you want with that?” I ask.
“I’m gonna get rid of it. I’m sure as hell not gonna leave it with these two so they can terrorise some other poor bastard.”
“Fair point, although I suspect they might re-think their life choices after this morning’s events.”
I think their revised life choices might begin with a decision about cosmetic surgery. How they’re going to explain their injuries to a doctor is beyond me, but I don’t think they’ll be keen for Clement to pay another visit.
“Shall we get going?”
With a final glance at the grisly scene on the floor, I make a hasty exit with Clement bringing up the rear.
We step into dusk-like gloom and the promised rain. Deep puddles are already forming on the pavement, and only a frantic dash to the car prevents a proper soaking.
Once we’re in our seats, Clement hands me the rucksack. “Feel free to put it in the boot.”
With rain now hammering on the car roof, I’m not keen. “I’m sure it’ll be fine in here.”
I tuck it into the footwell as Clement starts the car.
With nothing more than a cursory glance, he reverses out of the parking bay and slams the gear lever into first. The tyres spin until they find traction on the slick road surface, and we lurch forward.
“Where are the wipers, doll?”
We’ve already covered a hundred yards before he chooses to address the fact we’re driving blind.
“Twist the right stalk.”
The wipers clear the screen and Clement works through the gears, putting a reassuring distance between our location, and what is now a crime scene.
“So, that went well,” I sigh.
“Could have been worse. Could have been a real shooter.”
“Would you have done anything differently, if it had been real?”
“Yeah. I’d have shot the little fuckers before we left.”
“Very funny.”
The fact he doesn’t respond suggests he probably isn’t joking.
“How could you tell it wasn’t a real gun?”
“Experience.”
“Specifically?”
“If you’re gonna threaten somebody with a shooter, you hold it level so they can see straight down the barrel. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s enough to get your point across. The dickhead back there kept the shooter low the whole time. Starter pistols have a bung in the barrel and I’d have seen it if he’d raised it to my line of sight.”
“Seems a pretty flimsy theory to me.”
“That, and the maker’s mark on the barrel sorta gave it away.”
“Oh.”
We continue onwards through rain-soaked streets with no direction in mind. I’m happy to let Clement drive aimlessly while I try to process what just happened.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You’re not gonna ask me to sing again, are you?”
“Um…no.”
Bugger. He remembered.
“Go on then.”
“Do you ever get scared?”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Well, those two men in the shop for starters.”
“Those two streaks of piss? Nah.”
“But they had a gun, and even if you thought it wasn’t real, they could have had knives.”
“So? What’s the worst that could have happened?
“You could have been shot, or stabbed. Christ, Clement, they could have killed you.”
He looks across at me, eyebrows raised. “You know that’s not really a concern.”
What is a concern, certainly for me, is that Clement’s delusions are now moving into dangerous territory, validating his reckless decisions. That worries me, but if I’ve learnt anything about him, it’s that nagging doesn’t work. I need to take another tack.
“I was scared. Petrified, if I’m honest.”
My declaration is met with silence; a slight crease across his forehead the only indication he heard me.
“Clement?”
“I heard you, doll. There’s no reason for you to be scared.”
“Why?”
“As long as I’m around, you’ve nothing to be scared of.”
“And when you’re gone, and I’m on my own again?”
The crease returns to his forehead, deeper this time. Seconds pass and he remains silent.
“Anyone ever told you, Clement, you’re hard work sometimes?”
“Possibly.”
“Well? Are you going to answer my question?”
We come to a stop at a red traffic light. Finally, he looks across at me.
“You’re not on your own, doll. Never have been, and never will be.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
The lights change and Clement pulls away, leaving my question unanswered at the lights.
38
Of the five men I’ve dated over the years, all of them have accused me, at one point or another, of being obstinate, testy, and standoffish — usually during an argument which I probably started.
I’ve never considered those accusations to be fair, perhaps because it’s hard to recognise your own flaws. I can see them in Clem
ent, though.
Since he dropped his cryptic statement, any attempt on my part to press him has been met with either silence, a dismissive grunt, or a shrug of the shoulders.
Ten minutes pass before I give up.
“Can we at least discuss what we’re going to do next?”
“Back to the first plan.”
“We try another pawnbroker?”
“Yeah. Let me know when you’ve worked out where we’re heading.”
I refer to my phone and locate the nearest target from my original list of possibilities. It’s only three miles away.
“Keep going along this road for another mile. I’ll direct you from there.”
He nods and we continue in silence.
As we navigate closer to Barlow Brown Pawnbrokers, I’m relieved to see the general area is several notches up the social scale from that of Powell & Partners. We pass a couple of antique shops, a coffee house, and a car dealer with a forecourt full of premium German motors.
“This feels a bit more affluent.”
“Definitely some money here, doll. Dunno if that’s such a good thing though.”
“Why?”
“Respectable businesses are less likely to break the rules.”
“And less likely to attempt an armed robbery.”
“I’ll give you that one.”
We turn into Churchill Road and I point to the premises of Barlow Brown, sited on the corner. Clement drops into second gear and we cruise slowly along the narrow street, looking for somewhere to park. We find a space sixty yards along, and Clement pulls in.
“Second time lucky,” I chirp as I grab the rucksack from the footwell.
As we step out of the car, Clement looks up and down the road. He then removes the starting pistol from his waistband and drops it into a drain. Even though it’s not a real gun, I’m glad to see the back of it.
After a quick dash through the light drizzle, we reach Barlow Brown Pawnbrokers and stand outside. The external facade certainly looks more upmarket than Powell & Partners. The brickwork has been painted a deep shade of blue, and the business name above the window is formed in foot-high gold letters in a Roman-style font.
The other difference is the locked door. A sign in the window tells us we have to press a button to gain access.
Who Sent Clement? Page 33