Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  He nods, and follows me out to the car. I lock the back door and we clamber into the Micra.

  As we travel the congested roads back home, my mind turns to the carrier bag of cash, stuffed below my seat. While it has provided a more than generous kitty for the pub later, it strikes me that I’ve been incredibly presumptuous regarding what should happen with the rest of it. Why do I have any more right to it than Clement? If anything, he has the greater claim.

  “I was thinking, Clement, about the money.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, at least half of it is yours. How are you going to spend it?”

  “It’s no use to me, doll. You keep it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, that’s not fair. If it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t be any cash.”

  “I don’t want it, doll. Any of it.”

  “But, what about your Zippo? We could speak to Gerrard in the morning and buy it back.”

  “I doubt he’ll sell it unless we offer him stupid money.”

  “I’m sure you could convince him to sell it back to us with a small profit.”

  “Forget it. It don’t matter now.”

  There is no sense arguing with him. While I appreciate his generosity, I’m puzzled why he wouldn’t at least want his Zippo back.

  I decide to change the subject.

  “Have you got any plans for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, right,” he huffs. “As it is, I can’t see much point in planning anything beyond the next ten minutes.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Come on, Clement. You worry me when you say things like that.”

  Three strokes of the moustache while I wait for an answer.

  “Look, doll,” he sighs. “Whether you believe how I ended up here, or not, you’re sorted now. My job is done and I don’t have the first bleedin’ clue what happens next.”

  I don’t believe him but that’s not my immediate concern.

  “Okay, but tomorrow?”

  “What about it?”

  “Will you promise me you won’t disappear before tomorrow afternoon?”

  “What’s so special about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Just trust me. Please?”

  “Alright.”

  “You promise?”

  “I’ve told you, doll. I don’t…”

  “I know, I know. You don’t do promises. But just this once can’t you make an exception, for me?”

  He draws a deep breath as his gaze falls to the footwell.

  “I promise I’ll be around tomorrow afternoon…if it’s my decision to make.”

  “Thank you.”

  Unless some omnipotent deity comes calling for him, which I highly doubt, I think I can count on him meeting Juliet tomorrow. What happens from there is out of my hands, but I can at least say I tried to help him.

  There is no further talk, small or otherwise, for the rest of our journey home. I eventually turn into Elmore Road and my good fortune continues as I secure a parking space right outside my house.

  I grab the carrier bag of cash from beneath the seat and we exit the car. As soon as I’m standing on the pavement, I draw a lungful of semi-fresh air and make a mental note to purchase an air freshener for the car.

  “I assume you’re hungry, so shall we go back to the Slug?” I ask as I unlock the front door.

  “The Slug?”

  “The pub we ate at the other night.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no karaoke tonight. Still, a few of your adoring fans might be in.”

  “Ha bloody ha.”

  Clement follows me into the hall and I hang my coat and handbag up. I take the carrier bag of cash and stash it in the small cupboard housing the electric meter. There’s no reason to hide it other than my own paranoia that I’ll inadvertently throw it out with Karl’s junk, which is still piled up in the hall.

  “I think there might still be a few cans of lager in the fridge if you fancy some pre-loading?”

  “Pre-loading?”

  “It’s what the youngsters do these days. They fill up on booze at home before going out.”

  “Why?”

  “You haven’t been paying attention have you? Didn’t you notice a pint of lager can cost as much as a fiver these days?”

  “A fiver? For a pint? Shittin’ hell.”

  “Not that it’s an issue for us, but no harm in having a few cheeky drinks before we leave, is there?”

  “None at all, doll.”

  We wander through to the kitchen and Clement sits down at the table. I open the fridge and extract a bottle of white wine and a can of lager.

  “Here you go.”

  “Cheers.”

  I open the wine and pour myself an overly generous glass. Just as I turn to join Clement at the table, I catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye. I turn towards the utility room door.

  It takes a second for my brain to piece together what I’m looking at.

  As the picture completes, my heart stops beating when I realise it’s not a what. It’s a who.

  The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor.

  “Clumsy bitch,” a nasally voice rumbles.

  I recognise the voice immediately. It’s not one I’m ever likely to forget.

  Mr Black moves from beyond the door.

  My eyes dart between two prominent features. The first is the dressing, strapped across his nose. The second is the gun which he’s holding level, pointing squarely at my face.

  I look straight down the barrel and recall Clement’s words. It doesn’t take long to conclude it’s not a starting pistol aimed at me on this occasion.

  As Mr Black takes a step forward, I glance towards Clement, positioned in the worst possible place, at the table. Whether it was planning or good fortune, I now form a handy barrier between the two men. By the time Clement gets out of his chair, a bullet could already be sailing towards my head.

  This is not good.

  “What…what do you want?” I splutter.

  “What do you reckon?” he growls back.

  “Look, we’ve already come to an arrangement with Sterling. It’s over.”

  “Like I care.”

  “Just call him. He’ll tell you this isn’t necessary.”

  He takes another two steps towards me, shrinking the distance to barely six feet. I don’t suppose a few feet matter one way or another — a bullet shot at such close range isn’t going to miss its target.

  “I ain’t here cos’ of Sterling. I’m here cos’ of what that fucker did to my brother.”

  He nods towards Clement, just in case we were in any doubt which fucker he was referring to.

  “Sorry. Your brother?” I query.

  “Mr Blue.”

  “Oh, I didn’t…”

  “Shut it, bitch.”

  I shut it.

  As if this situation isn’t bad enough, the reason for Mr Black’s visit is now graver than I had initially imagined. A thug with obvious anger issues, brandishing a loaded gun, and bearing a significant grudge. In some way, I wish he was here to do Sterling’s bidding.

  But he’s not here to enact another man’s instructions. He’s here seeking revenge.

  This is not good at all.

  I revert to my first question.

  “What do you want?”

  “Eye for an eye. I’m gonna blow your fucking kneecaps off — both of you.”

  In any other circumstance, I might have admired his candour.

  I glance at Clement again, and I’m horrified to see he’s casually sipping from his can of lager.

  “Look, Mr…err, Black. Can we not sort this out without violence?”

  “Like your man did?”

  “Well, no, but surely there’s a way we can come to an agreement?”

  “You gonna fix my brother’s leg?”

  “Um, n
o, but…”

  “No, course you ain’t,” he bellows. “You can stick your agreement up your arse, bitch. I ain’t interested.”

  Negotiations over.

  Mr Black takes another three or four steps towards me. I instinctively edge backwards until my shoulder blades meet the fridge door.

  He lowers the gun until the barrel is pointing at my knees. He then turns to Clement.

  “I’m gonna do her first, so you can hear her scream.”

  Finally, Clement has something to say.

  “Get on with it then, shit-head. I’m knackered.”

  Clement then leans back in his chair and lets out a yawn. He slowly stretches his arms out wide, the lager can still in his left hand.

  All I can do is stare at him, open mouthed.

  You fucking arsehole, Clement.

  His yawn peters out and he swings both arms upwards. Then, as his left arm approaches a vertical position, he suddenly releases the lager can from his grip.

  The momentum of his swinging arm is enough to propel the can across the kitchen in a lazy arc. It travels through the air almost as slowly as a ball pitched by a parent to a toddler.

  Quite what Clement hoped to achieve is anyone’s guess. Its trajectory is so laboured, Mr Black has ample time to step out of its path, and probably read a paper while he waits for it to land.

  As I watch the can loop towards Mr Black, spilling its frothy contents as it turns, Clement’s true intentions become abruptly clear — distraction.

  The first thing I hear is the scrape of a chair leg. Then, a dark shadow looms in my peripheral vision.

  An arm suddenly encircles my waist, and I’m hauled backwards, while another arm flashes past my face towards the fridge door.

  I blink once, and in that millisecond, Clement’s hand is on the fridge door. He tugs at the handle with enough force to rip it clean away, and the door swings open towards Mr Black’s face.

  The door must have made contact with something because the frenetic action is followed by an immediate succession of sounds.

  First, a muffled yowl, and then the dull thump of a large object falling against the larder door.

  The third sound is unmistakable.

  The gun is fired.

  I knew it was the gun firing because the bullet is already embedded in the wall somewhere behind me, having passed through my leg on its journey.

  The pain is grotesque, like a searing, white-hot poker thrust into my calf, just below the knee. It spreads through my leg, as if my veins are coursing with battery acid. A pain so fierce it takes my breath away, and with it, any chance of screaming.

  Unsurprisingly, my right leg gives way and I slip from Clement’s grasp.

  I go down, nothing to stop me.

  I hadn’t given it much thought until now, but I’m suddenly struck by the way a brain can process so much information in an almost imperceptibly short period of time.

  I know I’m falling, and I know I need to raise my arms to cushion my landing. However, that message took just a fraction too long to be sent and my arms won’t arrive in time. My eyes are more nimble though, and they flick from the soles of Mr Black’s shoes to Clement’s boot sailing through the air. I suspect Mr Black is currently sitting on his arse with his back against the larder door. Whether he meant the gun to go off is an irrelevance now. Clement’s boot will reach some part of his anatomy before my fall is complete.

  As my eyes continue their journey from left to right, they have just enough time to capture another image — the thick edge of the kitchen table.

  That image rapidly fills my vision until I can clearly see the grain in the wood.

  Three inches.

  Two.

  One.

  A brilliant light explodes behind my eyes.

  Goodnight.

  45

  The computer in the shop is way past its sell-by date. It takes forever to boot up, and clunks through tasks with all the urgency of a sloth on holiday.

  I am that computer.

  One by one, my senses slowly come back online.

  The first sense to drag me away from the darkness is my hearing. There’s nothing distinct; just a low, intermittent rumbling sound.

  My hearing is joined by taste. I tentatively probe my tongue around an arid mouth. It returns a vile, bitter tang.

  Next up, smell comes into play. Disinfectant, I think. And lilies? Maybe orange blossom? There’s a familiarity to the latter scent. Perfume?

  My eyelids flicker as vision joins the party.

  I’m suddenly aware of a warm hand squeezing mine.

  I understand the human body is approximately sixty percent water. As I try to peel open dry lips and crusty eyelids, I can only conclude my body must be some way below that level. I have never felt so thirsty.

  I blink hard, six or seven times, in an attempt to clear the opaque mist clouding my vision.

  Blink by blink, the mist clears and an oval shape comes into focus.

  A face. My mother.

  She’s smiling but her expression is anything but happy. A single tear rolls down her cheek.

  “Oh, thank God,” she whispers. “It’s okay now, my darling. I’m here.”

  What’s okay? Where is here?

  I try to speak but my first syllable is nothing more than a wheeze.

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  She disappears for a moment, leaving behind a bare magnolia wall. As I move my eyes to the left, the mist returns. I squeeze a few more blinks and my precise location becomes apparent — a hospital bed. I’m not in a ward though, that much is clear. No other beds, but trolleys, laden with an assortment of unfamiliar devices; their function lost on me.

  My first time in a hospital bed. My worst nightmare.

  Sudden panic brings a flush of adrenalin, and with it, a dozen questions. I scour my mind for answers but the same mist which clouded my vision seems to have permeated my memory.

  In lieu of answers, the two most pertinent questions taunt me: why I’m in a hospital bed, and what’s wrong with me?

  “Here you are, darling. Take a few sips.”

  A paper cup is held to my lips and I instinctively raise my hand to hold it. Something doesn’t feel right. I bring my hand closer to my face and stare in horror at the sight of a transparent tube, disappearing beneath a plaster, into my wrist.

  “It’s alright, darling,” Mum says softly. “It’s just a drip.”

  Keep it together, Beth. Deep breaths.

  I pull back from the edge and sip at the water. It’s tepid, and overly chlorinated, but water has never tasted so sweet. I take the cup in my hand and the sips become thirsty gulps until the cup is empty.

  I smack my lips a few times and finally manage a few words. “What happened, Mum?”

  “You had a bang on the head, darling. You’re going to be fine though, so there’s no need to worry.”

  Isn’t there?

  “I should get a doctor to check you over. I’ll just be a second.”

  Mum takes the empty cup from my hand and gently brushes her hand across my cheek. A reassuring smile and she slips from view.

  I close my eyes and dredge my memories, searching for the moment I apparently banged my head. Nothing comes, other than a dull headache.

  Minutes pass and my frustration mounts. Something is in there — I know it is, but I can’t quite reach it.

  A door creaks open, as do my still dry eyes.

  An impossibly young doctor approaches the bed, my mother hovering at his shoulder.

  “How are you feeling, Beth?” he asks.

  Despite the fact he looks more like the lead singer of a boy band, his white coat, ID badge, and clipboard affirm his medical credentials.

  “Confused,” I wheeze.

  “Don’t worry, that’s to be expected. I’m Dr Potter, by the way, but just call me Robbie.”

  Even his name sounds boy bandish.

  I reply with a faint nod. He beams a bedside smile and consults his
clipboard.

  “Okay, let’s bring you up to speed,” he chirps. “You took quite a nasty bang to the head which resulted in some minor swelling to your brain.”

  “Uh?”

  “We had to put you into an enforced coma while we waited for the swelling to subside.”

  Brain swelling? Coma? Truly alarming words delivered with casual abandon.

  “Don’t worry though. The latest scan results look good and the swelling is gone. I think it’s safe to say you should make a full recovery.”

  He returns to his clipboard.

  “Oh, and your leg injury is clearing up nicely. Thankfully, it was a remarkably clean intrusion.”

  I instinctively shuffle my legs and feel the dressing wrapped around my right calf.

  “You were very lucky, considering how much blood you lost.”

  “Blood? Lucky?”

  “Yes, really. I’ve only ever treated a handful of gunshot wounds, but they can be catastrophic. Beyond the threat to life, the damage can leave permanent disabilities.”

  A gunshot goes off in my head.

  Then another, and another — each one accompanied by a vivid image. A salvo of memories burst through the mist.

  “You okay, Beth?”

  I can’t answer him. Not because I don’t know if I’m okay, but because I don’t want anything to shift my concentration. With more and more memories landing, I try to organise them into a coherent timeline. Slowly, the picture builds: the shop, Sterling, the cash, my kitchen, Mr Black, the fridge.

  “Beth, darling?”

  “Clement,” I whisper.

  My mother and the doctor stare at me blankly.

  “What’s that, Beth?” the doctor asks.

  “What…what happened to Clement?”

  “One second, Beth,” Dr Potter says. “Let me check your pupils quickly.

  Without waiting for permission, my eyelid is held open while the doctor shines a piercing light in my right eye. He then checks the left and turns to my mother.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mrs Goodyear.”

  My mother leans in. “Who is Clement, darling?”

  Jesus. That’s a question even I can’t really answer.

  “Um…sorry. I’m…not sure.”

  The doctor takes my mother by the elbow and guides her a few steps away from the bed.

  “She’s probably still suffering the effects of the medication. I’ll pop back in half an hour, and hopefully she’ll be a little more lucid by then.”