Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  “That can’t be right,” I intervene. “It was tested this morning, and the guy made us an offer of ninety grand. Why would he offer us that amount of money for something that isn’t pure gold?”

  “You said he tested it by taking a sample?”

  “Yes. Twice in fact.”

  “Okay. He would have then conducted an acid test on that sample, and I think I know why that test might have shown the bar to be pure gold.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I think what you have is what’s known as a salted bar.”

  “A what?” Clement barks.

  “There are basically two types of fake gold bar. The first type is plated, where a bar of base metal, usually tungsten, is coated with a few microns of gold. Those are easy to spot as you can literally scrape the gold away.”

  “But our bar isn’t plated?”

  “No, it’s definitely a salted bar, and quite an old one. Basically, it’s a lump of lead with a comparatively thick coating of gold. When you scrape a sample, you’re cutting into pure gold and that’s how it passes an acid test.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I grumble. “Why would anyone bother making a bar like that if any backstreet jeweller can tell it isn’t pure gold?”

  “Throughout the sixties and seventies, salted bars were used as currency amongst the criminal fraternity. Obviously they never had the technology to determine the true composition, and because they passed an acid test, they were incredibly difficult to spot as fakes. If you were offering a bar like this in exchange for guns or drugs, the last thing you wanted was the seller realising it was fake. It’s quite ingenious when you think about it.”

  I don’t share Gerrard’s admiration for the forger’s ingenuity. His revelation has just destroyed my hopes in one crushing instant.

  “So, it’s bloody worthless?” Clement asks.

  “Well, not quite. You’ve still got over twenty ounces of gold in there.”

  “Worth?”

  Gerrard waddles over to his desk and unearths a calculator. He jabs the keys with a fat finger.

  “I could offer you nine grand.”

  “Nine grand?” Clement spits. “Is that it?”

  “But, Gerrard,” I add. “I thought gold was worth a thousand pounds an ounce.”

  “It does trade about that level, you’re right, But we’re talking about scrap gold here. It needs to be smelted to remove the lead and that process takes time and money. Nine grand is a fair price.”

  Clement chips in. “Make it ten and you’ve got a deal.”

  Gerrard chews his lip for a few seconds, perhaps considering the pitfalls of haggling with a giant man on a short fuse.

  He finally relents. “Okay, ten grand, but that’s it.”

  I’m not sure it really matters if we walk away with nine or ten thousand — it’s still not enough to pay Sterling, let alone fund all the things I had planned. No repairs to the house, no remodelled lounge, no holiday, and my hundred thousand pound mortgage remains fully intact.

  But as much as I’d like to wallow in self-pity for the loss of soft furnishings and spa breaks, I have more pressing concerns. Where the hell am I going to get ten grand in two days?

  I return to Gerrard’s desk and slump down on a chair. Right on cue, heavy drops of rain begin to thump against the skylight above my head. I look up at the stormy grey clouds as they gather together. No view could be more fitting.

  Ten thousand pounds.

  Two days.

  Fuck my life.

  I press my fingers into my temples, trying to quell the headache which is now approaching migraine status. A glimmer of light is reflected from the diamond in my engagement ring.

  A thought occurs and I spin round in my chair.

  “Gerrard. You said you trade in jewellery?”

  “Yes, I do, amongst other things. Why?”

  I tug at the ring until it reluctantly pops from my finger. “How much would you offer for this?”

  He walks over to the desk and takes the ring. After a cursory glance, he returns to the workbench and examines it under a magnifying glass.

  Inspection complete, he makes his offer. “I’ll give you a grand for it.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Sorry, darling, but that’s my best offer. Rings like this, as nice as it is, are ten a penny.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll take a thousand.”

  “Okay, let me sort out some cash. Give me a few minutes.”

  Gerrard disappears and we’re left to dwell on what might have been.

  “You alright, doll,” Clement murmurs.

  I look up at him from the chair. Maybe it’s the muted light from the skylight, but his face is a stony shade of grey.

  “Not really.”

  It’s not just the money, as devastating as that is; it’s the sense of failure. We took on the most improbable of challenges, and against all the odds, we prevailed, only for our victory to be snatched away at the very last second.

  “It’s like that bleedin’ cup final all over again,” Clement mutters to himself, as if he’d read my thoughts.

  “At least we made it to the final, if it’s any consolation.”

  It’s a weak attempt to lift the sombre atmosphere, as much as it is a crass analogy.

  Ignoring my effort, Clement disappears inside his own thoughts as he strokes his moustache. The rain begins to fall harder as the clouds darken above us.

  Seconds pass and rain falls. Clement eventually turn and calls across to me.

  “We’re not done yet, doll.”

  I’m about to ask what he means when Gerrard returns, clutching a large brown envelope.

  “I hope it’s okay with you,” he chirps. “But I do need to complete some paperwork on the ring. I can’t resell it without proof of ownership.”

  “Fine.”

  As Gerrard flops back behind the desk and searches for a pen, Clement steps across from the workbench and joins us.

  He sits down and opens the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

  I tap him on the arm. “You can’t smoke in here.”

  “I’m not.”

  He pulls out his Zippo and places it, carefully, deliberately, on the desk.

  “You interested in buying that?” he asks Gerrard.

  My heart melts at the kindness of his gesture. He has literally nothing to his name, and yet he’s prepared to sell something of immeasurable sentimental valuable, just to help me. I don’t have the heart to point out the obvious — the value of a lighter is barely a drop in the ocean compared to the sum we need.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Bless you, Clement, but you keep it.”

  As I turn back to Gerrard, intent on telling him to ignore Clement’s proposition, he already has the Zippo in his hands, inspecting it with more intensity than he afforded my engagement ring.

  “You know what it is, right?” Clement says.

  “Indeed I do,” Gerrard replies with obvious enthusiasm. “Although I’ve never seen one in the flesh, so to speak.”

  For a moment, I wonder if I’ve stepped into some parallel universe where battered cigarette lighters are the most interesting thing in the world.

  “Am I missing something here?”

  Gerrard finally shifts his gaze from the Zippo and looks across at me, wide-eyed.

  “This, darling, is a 1933 Zippo,” he says, his voice low, reverent.

  “And that is interesting, why?”

  He turns to Clement. “You want to educate her, or shall I?”

  Clement shrugs. “Stage is yours, mate.”

  Gerrard delicately places the Zippo back on the desk and locks his hands together. He then clears his throat as if he’s about to deliver a sermon.

  Christ, man. Just get on with it.

  I roll my eyes, which is enough to prod Gerrard into action.

  “The Zippo Manufacturing Company was founded in 1932, in Pennsylvania. They only made 25,000 lighters in their first year of operation — 193
3 — so any lighter from that year is an extremely rare object. What your friend has here is an original 1933 model.”

  “Okay, it’s rare, but it’s just a lighter.”

  “Not to collectors it’s not. This is the holy grail of Zippo lighters, and they can change hands for significant sums of money.”

  My interest is suddenly piqued. “How much money?”

  “Well, in auction, and despite the fact it’s not exactly in pristine condition, I can see it going for as much as twenty thousand.”

  “Holy shit! Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Without question.”

  Clement, apparently bored with the lesson, breaks our conversation.

  “I’m more interested in what you’ll pay for it here and now, mate.”

  Gerrard sits back in his chair and puffs his already bulbous cheeks.

  “I honestly think you’d be better served putting it into auction. As much as I’d love to buy it from you, I doubt you’d be very happy with my offer. And, if you don’t mind me saying, I wouldn’t want to see you when you’re unhappy.”

  “Yeah, I know we’d get more money at auction, but we don’t have time. What’s your best price?”

  Gerrard fidgets nervously. “Eight thousand is my absolute best offer,” he ventures, his voice barely a squeak.

  Clement turns to me. “Your call, doll. It puts us just a grand short when you add it to the gold and the ring.”

  I could raise a thousand pounds if I sold my car, but that’s academic as far as I’m concerned.

  “Clement, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t. I know it has a lot of sentimental value but I didn’t realise it was worth so much money. I can’t ask you to sell it. I just can’t.”

  It appears my protest was in vain as he reaches across the desk, his hand extended.

  “Alright, mate. Eight grand. Deal.”

  “Clement. No,” I plead.

  “It’s not up for debate, doll. We need the cash more than I need a lighter.”

  “But…”

  “Drop it. You sold your ring so it’s only fair I sell something of mine.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell him the ring means nothing to me, least not sentimentally.

  Gerrard leans across the desk and shakes Clement’s hand. The deal is done, irrespective of my objection.

  Of the three people sitting in the room, one is delighted, one is swamped with a mixture of guilt and gratitude, and one is typically Clement.

  With our deals concluded, I just want to go home and curl up on the sofa. The reality is that I’ve got paperwork to go through with Gerrard, and then I need to get back to the shop. With my fortune gone before it even arrived, I have to earn a living the hard way.

  Gerrard counts out ten thousand pounds, payment for the gold, and stacks the pile of notes on the desk. I give him my bank details and he makes a payment of nine thousand pounds, for the ring and the Zippo, straight into my account. Neither were acquired through dubious means so it makes no odds if he has my name and address.

  With a final shake of hands, we leave Gerrard to savour his good fortune. He must be delighted we turned up today, even without an appointment.

  We trudge back to the car and I set the sat nav to direct us home.

  “Drive back to my place, but then I must get back to the shop. I need every penny I can lay my hands on now.”

  Clement nods and we pull away. As we crawl through heavy traffic my mind buzzes with what-ifs and unanswered questions.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Clement, because I’m more grateful than you’ll ever know, but if you knew your lighter was so valuable, then why didn’t you just offer to sell it the night you walked into the shop? We might have got a much better price if we had had time to find the right buyer.”

  “I didn’t know it was worth as much as twenty grand.”

  “Shame. We missed an opportunity there, don’t you think?”

  “Opportunities are like buses, doll — they come and they go. No point dwelling on the one you missed.”

  “Maybe, but doesn’t it bother you we could have avoided all that hassle of schlepping around London?”

  “No. Why would it?”

  “Because it was a waste of time, all of it.”

  He turns to me, a deep scowl plastered across his face. “Do you really think everything we’ve been through has been a waste of time?”

  “Well, it was, wasn’t it?” I snipe back, perhaps too defensively. “Harry’s gold turned out to be almost worthless, and Sterling’s money could have been raised with something you had in your pocket the moment we first met. Of course it was a waste of time.”

  He shakes his head and turns back to the road. “Jesus wept, doll. Have a word with yourself.”

  40

  I leave Clement sitting in front of the TV with a cup of tea.

  It would be fair to say our conversation was muted after our testy exchange. That’s not to say Clement’s words didn’t strike a nerve, and I spent the remainder of our journey home in a state of quiet introspection.

  And even now, driving towards the shop, that introspection continues.

  Four days since Clement appeared in the shop, and what we’ve been through in that time beggars belief.

  Plenty of miles driven, plenty walked. I met good people, and some particularly bad people. There was the thrill of adventure, and the bruising disappointments. I laughed hard, I cringed, and I cried. Tantrums were thrown, and fortitude found. My shame became pride. I looked beyond delusions, and discovered wisdom in the least likely of places.

  Two strangers. One unlikely team.

  Was it really all a waste of time?

  Absolutely not.

  It’s taken almost an hour, but I now understand the point Clement was trying to make. We’ve as good as secured Sterling’s cash, but, more importantly, I have regained something beyond monetary value — belief.

  It’s funny, but as I open the shop, I’m not bothered I’ve missed half the lunchtime trade. I’m no longer bothered about the small fortune that slipped through my fingers. I don’t think I’m even bothered about Karl, or David Sterling.

  But amid all my positivity, there is one thing still bothering me.

  Clement has done more for me in the last four days than any of my partners ever did — period. He protected me, guided me, and encouraged me. He forced me to address my shortcomings, and tested my resolve. Above all, though, he was there for me when I really needed him, and that is something I can’t say has ever been true of any other man in my adult life.

  The thought that he might disappear just as abruptly as he arrived pains me more than I care to admit.

  And I think I know why.

  In lieu of a father, or any male siblings, I’ve tried to fill a hole with the wrong kind of love, and the wrong kind of man. My staunchly independent principles would never have allowed me to accept it, but I guess all I ever wanted was somebody to look after me.

  Is that so wrong? Doesn’t everyone want to feel protected, feel safe?

  Clement has made me realise what’s missing in my life. I owe him, and now it’s my turn to fight on his behalf.

  Once I’ve got settled behind the counter with a strong cup of coffee, I scroll through the contacts in my phone. I find the name I’m looking for and tap the dial icon.

  It rings five times before Juliet answers.

  “Hi, Juliet. It’s Beth. Beth Baxter.”

  “Hiya, Beth. How’s the wonderful world of books?”

  Juliet has been one of my best customers for years. She pops in two or three times a month and always leaves with a handful of books. Over the years, we’ve got to know each other well, and chatted over countless cups of tea while we critique books and put the world to rights.

  But it’s not her opinion of the latest Jodi Picoult novel I’m interested in today. It’s her professional advice as a mental wellbeing counsellor that I need.
r />   We spend a few minutes chatting idly before I steer the conversation towards the reason for my call.

  While Juliet patiently listens, I try my best to explain Clement’s delusions. There are certain parts of his psyche I skirt past, mainly because I don’t know how to properly explain Clement’s complex personality. Within a few minutes of unloading to Juliet, it becomes apparent how much I needed to share my concerns with somebody — something I’ve been unable to do until now.

  “So, what do you reckon, Juliet?”

  “Honestly? From what you’ve told me, I think you’re right to intervene. This is not my area of expertise but if I was to offer a prognosis based purely on what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s likely your friend is suffering from a deep-rooted delusional disorder. In acute cases, which this might be, the patient’s delusions become their reality — they are just as real as your memories of what you had for dinner last night. In your friend’s case, it’s highly likely he genuinely believes he died in 1975.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. I was starting to question my own sanity. The way he acts, the things he says — it’s so credible it almost unnerving.”

  “If it’s any consolation, your feelings are not uncommon, and many a medical professional has felt exactly the same. Unless the patient is claiming they were abducted by aliens, or in your case, claiming they returned from beyond the grave, some delusions can be extremely difficult to diagnose and treat.“

  “So, what can I do?”

  “No doubt about it. He needs to see a doctor for a preliminary assessment, and urgently.”

  “Ahh, that’s my problem. I might have suggested to him that perhaps he should see a doctor.”

  “He didn’t respond well?”

  “No, he did not. He flatly refused because as far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “That’s not uncommon.”

  “So, and I’d understand if you said no, would you be willing to meet him? I think I can persuade him to speak to you as long as it’s at my place, and he doesn’t feel like he’s being press-ganged. He’s not the sort of man who can be forced to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

  “I’m not sure, Beth. It goes against our protocols.”