“Please, Juliet. I’m worried he’s just going to wander off and I’ll never see him again. He won’t seek help on his own so I need to subtly bring the help to him.”
The line goes quiet. I can imagine Juliet at the other end, working through number of ways this could come back to bite her.
“Listen, Beth. Your problem raises several ethical issues for me, but I do understand your dilemma. I need to stress that your friend urgently needs to seek help, but if he’s reluctant, maybe you could invite me over for coffee on Friday at one o’clock. If, by pure chance your friend was there, I could have an informal chat with him.”
“Oh, Juliet, thank you. You have no idea what a relief that is.”
“It’s okay, but in the interim, I want you to promise you’ll keep trying to persuade him to see his doctor. I’m not qualified to be anything other than a second opinion, and maybe help him to make contact with a professional. He really needs to see a doctor, Beth. Understood?”
“Totally.”
“Okay then. I’ll be at the shop at one on Friday.”
She rings off and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a small step, but one in the right direction.
Now all I need to do is decide when to tell my delusional friend. Perhaps it would be better to leave it until Friday morning, once I’ve got Sterling out of my life and I can focus fully on helping Clement.
With that problem in hand, if not solved, I can turn my attention to raising the final thousand pounds I need to hit my twenty thousand pound target. And that means selling my beloved Fiat.
I revert to Google and check the value — just over two thousand pounds. At least I’ll be able to buy a cheap runaround with the excess cash.
I spend the next hour ringing round a dozen local car dealers until I find one who isn’t either a patronising git, or a piss-taking chancer. He has a Nissan Micra he’s prepared to swap for the Fiat, plus an additional thousand in cash. The only slight issue is the car won’t be ready until Thursday afternoon, but I agree to pop over a few hours before Sterling is due. Nothing like cutting it fine.
With both Clement and the car sorted, I only have my ailing hangover to address. Alas, I don’t think anything other than a good night’s sleep will remedy that. I shouldn’t be pleased about it, but the incessant rain has ensured a quiet afternoon in the shop.
By the time five thirty comes around, I’ve barely made thirty pounds. This can’t go on. I refuse to accept the rest of my life will be spent standing at this counter, peddling second hand books and praying my life will miraculously change.
Clement isn’t the only one suffering from delusions.
It’s time to accept a few truths of my own.
41
Good morning Wednesday.
Ten minutes since my alarm sounded and I’m still lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. In part, I’m revelling in the fact my hangover is no more — eleven hours of sleep saw to that. However, the main reason I’ve not ventured beyond my duvet is because my head is buzzing with ideas, with plans. So much to do, but I can honestly say I’m relishing the challenge.
I skip to the bathroom, take a quick shower and get dressed. There’s no sign of life from the spare bedroom so I rap on the door.
“Wakey, wakey, Clement.”
He replies with a guttural groan and a few profanities. I chuckle to myself and barrel down the stairs.
By the time Clement joins me in the kitchen, I’m already halfway through a bowl of granola.
“Morning.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Sleep well?”
“Need a brew,” he grumbles.
And they say I’m not a morning person.
Clement makes himself a cup of tea and declines everything on my breakfast menu.
“Have you got any plans for the day?” I ask.
“Nah. What are you doing?”
“I’m heading to the shop so I’ll be there all day. I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Guess I’m stuck here then.”
“No, not necessarily. Is there anything in particular you wanted to do?”
He sits down at the table and takes a sip of tea.
“Don’t suppose there’s a zoo nearby?”
“A zoo? Um, yes, I think there’s one about half-hour away. Why?”
“Never been to a zoo before.”
“Seriously?”
“Planned to, once, with Annie. Never happened.”
My initial inclination is to suggest it’s a bad idea. I’d rather know precisely where he is, at least until we’ve dealt with Sterling and he’s spoken to Juliet. But the mention of Annie, and a new found resolve to kerb my controlling ways, softens my stance.
“Right, well, if that’s what you want to do, I can drop you at the train station.”
“You gonna give me some cash?”
“Of course. Do you want me to print off the journey details, and a map?”
“I’m not twelve, doll,” he scoffs. “I think I can find my own way. Just tell me where it is and drop me at the station.”
“Right, yes. Sorry.”
With our respective plans in place, we leave the house and head for the train station. Despite my best efforts, the conversation is strained, and Clement appears reluctant to talk; more so than usual.
Once we pull into the station forecourt, I hand him fifty pounds and my mobile number. “Give me a call when you get back and I’ll pick you up.”
He nods, mumbles a goodbye and gets out of the car.
I sit and watch him as he strides towards the station entrance. He reaches the ticket machines and pulls out the pack of Marlboros. He then taps both his breast pockets before his head drops. No Zippo.
I wish I’d just driven away the moment he got out of the car.
A man in a suit walks past Clement, smoking a cigarette. I can’t hear what’s being said but the man suddenly stops and digs a hand into his jacket pocket. He offers Clement a lighter. Once his cigarette is lit, Clement hands the lighter back and nods at the man in the suit.
I pull away from the kerb and head to the shop with a weighty sack of guilt sitting next to me.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing behind the counter in an empty shop, cup of tea in hand. My plans have taken a temporary backseat as I ponder Clement’s behaviour this morning. Assuming she was a real person and not another figment of his imagination, this Annie obviously meant a lot to him.
That begs an interesting question. Actually, it begs many questions.
If Clement is so convinced he really did die, and he’s been sent here to make amends for his past life, surely that would mean he’s also convinced there is an afterlife. And if there is an afterlife, wouldn’t that be where Annie now resides? If that’s the case, he’ll get to see her when he’s done here, won’t he?
That doesn’t tally with his mood this morning. I would have thought he’d be positively chipper considering he’s on the cusp of a celestial reunion with his partner.
Maybe I’ve just unearthed a chink in Clement’s claims.
The next question is: do I confront him with it?
It takes about half a cup of tea for me to decide it’s not a good idea.
As well as the fact it could mess with his already fragile mind, there are too many ways he could rationalise my concerns. I mean, he could say anything, and I couldn’t disprove any of it. As far as I’m aware, there is no set agenda for what happens to us once we shuffle off this mortal coil. Do we end up in either heaven, or hell? Do we get reincarnated as plankton? Or do we simply cease to exist — an eternity of nothingness?
That final possibility sends a cold shiver down my spine.
Whichever way you cut it, I can’t argue what I can’t substantiate, so any conversation on the subject is probably ill-advised. I’d also prefer not to dwell on such dark subject matter any longer.
Hopefully my questions will become moot after he’s had a chat with Juliet.
Happy to move on from Clem
ent’s delusions, I start thinking about my plans for the future, here on planet sanity.
I grab a pad and start compiling a list of tasks.
The first task prompts me into immediate action, and I call the bank to arrange a nine thousand pound cash withdrawal. I’m told it will be ready tomorrow morning. First task completed.
The next task couldn’t be less routine than the first.
I google commercial estate agents and find three candidates within five miles. I call the first one listed in the search results.
“Good morning. I’d like to speak to somebody about selling my business.”
I spend twenty minutes on the phone to Howard; an extremely knowledgeable and helpful chap. He happens to know my landlord, and actually handled the lease for the previous tenants of my shop. We talk through my income, which puts a slight dampener on his enthusiasm, and probably his valuation of the business. However, Howard does seem more enthusiastic when I tell him the very attractive terms of my lease, and the stock which the buyer will inherit. I don’t mention the small mountain of mummy smut.
Once he has all the relevant numbers, he promises to call me back later with a ballpark valuation.
I’m tempted to call the next agent listed in the search results, but I have a good feeling about Howard so I’ll see what he comes up with first. Besides, I want to take a moment to reflect.
As decisions go, this one falls into the monumental category.
My shop, founded to create a legacy from my father’s inheritance money, has sadly become a millstone. Thirteen years of my life and what do I have to show for it? It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had, and like most relationships there have been some truly great times, and some particularly hard times — too many of late. It’s now time for a clean break and an amicable parting of the ways.
I guess, in part, I have Clement to thank for helping me reach this decision. Despite the fact it didn’t quite pan out the way I hoped, our journey over the last five days has taught me the value of being decisive, of taking a chance, of daring to dream.
Lesson learnt.
Armed with a fresh perspective, I return to my pad and while away an entire hour in a frenetic brain dump. The fact I don’t see a single customer in that hour, or the next, only validates my decision.
It’s late morning before the door finally opens. That customer browses the shelves for twenty minutes and leaves empty handed.
Lunchtime comes and goes. The till is opened seven times. Any lingering doubts about my decision to sell the shop are quashed when a dumpy, sour faced woman enters, and demands a refund for a paperback novel she purchased last week.
I point to a sign on the wall behind me.
“Sorry, madam, but as the sign clearly states, we don’t offer refunds.”
“I want to speak to the manager.”
“You are.”
“This is preposterous,” she whines. “This book is not fit for purpose.”
“It’s a novel. What purpose were you hoping it would serve?”
“It’s supposed to entertain. I hated it.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, but no book shop offers refunds just because the book wasn’t to the customer’s liking. It’s subjective.”
“You obviously don’t care about your customers then.”
Thirteen years of smiling politely while sucking up all the whinging and whining. Something inside me snaps.
“Madam. May I make a suggestion?”
“What?” she snaps.
“Take your book and get the fuck out of my shop.”
Clearly shocked, her face reddens but she appears unable to find a reply. The book is snatched from the counter and she storms out of the shop, presumably never to return.
I know it was wrong, but boy, it felt good. Clement would have been proud of me.
With no further customers to serve, or offend, I return to my note pad. In between my note taking, I make calls to the various leaders of the book clubs who use the shop for their gatherings. I tell them I won’t be able to host their meetings for a few weeks because I’m going through some personal issues. There are a few grumbles but on the whole they’re fairly understanding.
At three o’clock I decide to treat myself to tea and biscuits. Just as I put the kettle on, my mobile rings. It’s Howard, the commercial estate agent.
For ten long minutes he explains the process of putting the business on the market, in intricate detail. Several times I’m tempted to scream down the phone that I just want to know the bloody valuation figure, but I manage to find some self-control this time.
He eventually gets down to business.
“The retail sector isn’t particularly buoyant at the moment and there are plenty of empty units in the town centre.”
“Right.”
“But the fact you’re selling a going concern does set you apart, and coupled with your favourable lease, I do believe you have a good chance of finding a buyer.”
“Great. And what price do you think I might achieve?”
“Always tricky to say for sure, but I’d estimate you could achieve a figure somewhere between thirty and forty thousand.”
Not much to show for thirteen years of hard slog, but it’s enough to enable my grand plan.
“That’s fine, Howard. How long do you think it will take to find a buyer?”
“Oh, shouldn’t be too long. Maybe four to six months.”
My jaw drops. “That long? Really?”
“I wish I could be more precise. The right buyer could walk through my door tomorrow, but we do need to be realistic. It’s a small market we’re working with.”
Now I’ve made the decision, I just want to get on with my life. Waiting in limbo for months on end wasn’t part of my plan.
“Okay, if that’s the case, I’d like to get things moving as soon as possible.”
We arrange for him to pop by tomorrow morning to measure up and go through his contract. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to see another Christmas in the shop, but that now sounds like it might be optimistic.
Not much I can do about it, I guess.
I continue making my tea and sit down in the staff room to drink it, accompanied by a packet of chocolate digestives. Not a wise move.
Five biscuits later, I have an acute bout of binge remorse, and a growing reluctance to move from the chair. Sods law – the front door opens.
I clamber to my feet and wander back into the shop.
“Alright, doll.”
“Oh, it’s you. I thought you were going to call me for a lift?”
“Fancied a stroll.”
“How was the zoo?”
“Okay.”
“Gosh, you’re chatty. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you fancy a cup of tea?”
“Yeah. Ta.”
He follows me back out to the staffroom and sits on the edge of the table. I put the kettle on and grab a cup from the cupboard.
“Here we are again,” I say over my shoulder. “Just like Friday evening.”
“What?”
“You know? When you, um…appeared in the shop. I made you a cup of tea, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t answer.
I finish his tea and hand it to him. No thanks are offered.
“What is it, Clement? You’ve been in a strange mood all day.”
“Nothing.”
I gently place my hand on his arm. “You can talk to me, you know?”
“I’m not big on chatting, doll.”
“I gathered, but if there is something bothering you, maybe I can help.”
“I doubt it.”
“Try me.”
He takes a sip of his tea and places the cup on the table.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs.
“What about it?”
“It’ll be all over.”
“Right, but that’s good, isn’t it?”
“For you, yeah.”
“But I thou
ght the whole point of you being here was to help me? You’ve done that, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem is…”
His voice trails off without an answer.
“Clement?”
“What happens to me, doll?”
“I’m not with you.”
“I don’t know how I got here, who sent me, or what happens next. That’s the bleedin’ problem.”
His frank confession does nothing to ease my concern for his mental state. With nothing to keep his mind occupied all day, I fear his delusions have been allowed to fester unchecked. I should have insisted he stayed with me today. I could have kept him busy, kept his mind elsewhere.
“It’ll be okay, Clement. I promise.”
“You reckon?”
Should I tell him about Juliet? It might provide some assurance, but it could just as easily scare him away.
I am so out of my depth here.
“Let’s just take things one day at a time. We’ll deal with Sterling and then, on Friday, we can focus on you.”
He looks me straight in the eye, and perhaps for the first time since we met, I see something approaching vulnerability.
“If I’m still here on Friday, doll.”
42
I can’t face breakfast.
Despite yesterday’s confession, Clement appears back to his usual self this morning, chewing on a piece of toast at the kitchen table. I’m far from my usual self though. I’m a total bag of nerves.
I take a few deep breaths and focus on how I’ll feel at six o’clock tonight. By then, everything will be sorted. The shop will be up for sale, the car will be sold, and most importantly, Sterling will have his cash and I can finally be rid of him.
Nearly there, Beth. Nearly there.
I gulp down my tea and prepare to face what could be the longest ten hours of my life.
We agreed that Clement should spend the whole day with me today. I say agreed, but it was never really up for debate.
After we got back to my place yesterday evening, I did everything I could to keep his mind distracted. I conscripted him to help prepare dinner, and after we ate, we washed up and put everything away. By eight o’clock we were sitting in the lounge watching, or in my case enduring, two films back-to-back — over three hours of Shrek. Not my idea of a fun night in, but Clement seemed to enjoy both films and I suspect he found a kindred spirit in the grumpy green ogre.
Who Sent Clement? Page 36