I flick through the first dozen pages and it becomes apparent finding anyone for Clement to interview might not be so easy.
“One minor problem with our plan,” I note.
“What’s that?”
“The pages only list surnames — no first names. Unless anyone in here has a highly unusual surname it’s useless.”
“Shit.”
Clement flops back in his chair as I flick through more pages of all-too-common surnames: Grant, Williams, O’Connor, Evans, Patterson, and Harris. More pages, more surnames: Middleton, Turner, Hawkins, Lang, Watts, Saunders … and Nithercott.
“Oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
“This name,” I blurt, jabbing the page. “Nithercott.”
“That’s a possibility, doll. Can’t be too many people with that name.”
“It gets better. I interviewed a young woman earlier this week, and her name was Stacey Nithercott.”
Clement returns a blank look.
“You might know her as Stacey Stanwell, from that TV programme, Chelsea Lives.”
Still blank.
“Actually, forget that. I hadn’t heard of her either.”
“That’s not what I’m confused about. You said she was young, and obviously a bird, but they don’t allow women to join Clawthorn; least they didn’t.”
“I guess we can add blatant sexual discrimination to their list of crimes but I wasn’t suggesting Stacey is a member.”
“Who then?”
“Her father, Lance Nithercott. He was a prominent theatre director and well-known for forging the careers of some heavyweight acting talents. A role in one of his plays could literally make an actor’s career.”
“Why would another Clawthorn member want to do a bit of theatre?”
“They wouldn’t, but imagine if they wanted to secure a plumb acting role for one of their kids, or their wife, or mistress even. Money can’t buy that kind of opportunity but if you were asking a fellow member of the Clawthorn Club for a favour …”
“Ahh, gotcha. Sounds like this Nithercott fella is worth having a chat with.”
“He might have been if he hadn’t committed suicide a while back.”
Clement rolls his eyes. “As a general rule, doll, dead men don’t talk much.”
“No, but Stacey might have picked up on something in the months before he died. It’s got to be worth talking to her, don’t you think?”
“Might not even be the same bloke but no harm I guess.”
“It’s the only name we’ve got,” I reply, returning to the notebook. “But there’s still a few dozen pages to check.”
As it transpires, those few dozen pages fail to provide any further candidates.
I close the notebook and toss it back into my handbag. “I guess one name is better than nothing.”
“It’s a start.”
“Well, this is it, Clement. I think we’ve established our first potential member of the Clawthorn Club.”
“And you know what that means?”
I do — the point of no return. For an alcoholic it’s that first tantalising sip of the day. For me, the buzz is my weakness, and as intoxicating as any liquor. I can’t fight it.
“I have to do this, Clement. I know it’s risky as hell, but I need …”
“You need answers. I get it.”
“Do you?”
He sits forward so I can’t escape his gaze. “Not knowing is a curse. Trust me — I get it.”
Eric’s first rule of journalism springs to mind: trust no one, believe nothing. I’m not ready to place my complete trust in Clement, nor believe everything he tells me, but his eyes have an entrancing quality which would test anyone’s resolve.
“As you said: Tamthy isn’t going to let this go. I might as well give him a run for his money.”
“I’d drink to that, doll, but my glass is empty.”
He holds it out to prove his point.
“This is the twenty-first century, Clement. If you think I’m going to play the dutiful housewife role, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Different times, eh,” he replies with a half-smile.
“Yes, very.”
“But who’s to say the old days weren’t better?”
I get up and stack the dinner plates; completely undermining my previous point.
“Well, unless you’ve got a time machine, we’ll never know. Personally speaking, though, I think we’re better off without three-day working weeks, power cuts, and casual racism.”
“No argument there, but if things are so great these days, why is everyone depressed? According to the papers it’s a bleedin’ epidemic.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Exactly my point. Life wasn’t so complicated back then, therefore, it was better.”
“And you’re an expert on modern history, are you?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Not much surprises me these days. Anyway, come with me and I’ll show you the spare room, and how to pour your own whisky.”
He clambers out of the armchair and stretches. Without the extra inches of my heels, I get a sense of how a Chihuahua must feel when stood next to a Rottweiler.
Clement follows me through to the spare bedroom, which also serves as a home office and an overflow for my wardrobe.
“It’s more comfortable than it looks,” I lie, pulling out the sofa bed.
“It’ll do me.”
“Don’t you need anything? Toothbrush? Change of clothes?”
“Nah.”
“Right. Well, I think we’ll have that drink and then maybe an early night is in order. I’ve got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
I show him back to the kitchen to pour another whisky before I visit the bathroom.
My backside has barely touched the seat when the question arrives: have you taken leave of your senses, woman?
I leave the bathroom without an answer.
15.
One of us slept well and it wasn’t me.
Both my mind and body endured a night of tossing and turning; haunted by the voice of David Attenborough in my head as he described the sounds emanating from the spare bedroom.
And as night falls, the thunderous roar of rutting wildebeest can be heard across the savanna.
The question I asked myself on the loo last night is more salient than ever as I wander, bleary-eyed, into the lounge.
“Fuck me. You look like shit, doll.”
My guest has made himself at home, sprawled on the sofa in just a t-shirt, socks, and pants.
“So sweet of you to point that out, Clement. Perhaps it’s because I only managed about two bloody hours sleep last night.”
“You having second thoughts about this whole Clawthorn thing?”
“Only the part where I agreed to share my home with a man who’s snoring registers on the Richter Scale.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. Where are your jeans?”
“In the bedroom. They’ll do for a few more days before they need a wash.”
I glare down at him. “That wasn’t why I asked. Can you put that away, please?”
“That?”
I nod towards the offending item.
“Shit,” he snorts, tucking the errant bollock back into his Y-fronts. “I think the elastic has gone.”
“So has my will to live. You want coffee?”
“Tea, please. Milk and three sugars.”
“I’ll make tea if you go put your jeans back on.”
“Yeah, alright,” he grins. “Don’t want you getting too excited before breakfast.”
“Fat chance.”
Shaking my head, I plod through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. As I wait for it to boil, I pull my dressing gown tight to stave off a chill and attempt to bring some clarity to yesterday’s chaos. A minute into that analysis and I can see how the term, in the cold light of day, was coined.
I try to dismiss the
negativity; putting it down to a lack of sleep, and caffeine. As Eric always told me: ignore the doubts and keep your eye on the prize. In this instance the prize is a story with the potential to propel my career into the stratosphere. All I need to do is look beyond my doubts: Tamthy’s threats, and living with Clement.
The second of my doubts wanders into the kitchen — with his jeans on, thankfully. I hand him a mug of tea.
“What’s the plan, then?” he asks.
“The phone shop opens at eight-thirty so I’m going to drink my coffee, take a shower, and then we’ll head straight there.”
“And breakfast?”
“Help yourself to toast, or whatever else you can find.”
“Think I’ll wait.”
“Fine. I’ll call Stacey when I’m in the office and arrange to pop over there after work. Are you still insisting on being my escort?”
“That’s the deal.”
“I can’t imagine Tamthy will try anything in broad daylight, but if you insist.”
“I do. I’m gonna go watch TV while you’re getting your shit together.”
He disappears back out the door. I finish my coffee and head to the bathroom where a glance in the mirror confirms Clement’s observation wasn’t far from the depressing truth.
After I’ve showered, I wipe the mist from the mirror and attempt to fix the problem. There was a time I could leave home with nothing more than a touch of lip gloss. Nowadays, I have a regime which involves more restoration work than the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Getting old is shit, but I suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.
I emerge fifteen minutes later and scour my wardrobe for one of my favourite work outfits; a dark red midi-length dress which accentuates the parts of my anatomy Mother Nature hasn’t yet ravaged.
A glance in the mirror. Not exactly sassy, but I’m happier than I was half-an-hour ago. I head into the lounge.
Clement turns his head from the TV. “You scrub up well, doll.”
“Gee, thanks,” I reply with mock gratitude. “Go easy on the compliments, eh — you’ll make a girl blush.”
“I’m guessing it takes more than a compliment to make you blush.”
“You would be right. Shall we get going?”
He clambers to his feet and switches the TV off. “That was irritating the fuck out of me anyway.”
“What were you watching?”
“The news.”
“Anything exciting happening?”
“It’s all political shit, doll. I don’t understand half of it.”
“That’s more than most of us. Come on.”
I slip my coat on and we head downstairs to the kind of bright and breezy morning which would be glorious if we weren’t in Kilburn.
“Don’t you own a jacket?” I ask Clement, as we walk along the street. “You must be freezing.”
“Nah, don’t feel the cold.”
Considering he has the physique of a Grizzly Bear, I’m not altogether surprised.
We reach the phone shop and, upon entering, find the one sales assistant is already dealing with a customer. Conscious of time, I scour the displays looking for a suitable phone, unaided.
“Why are there so many?” Clement asks.
“Consumers like choice, I suppose.”
He turns his attention to a display of the latest iPhones.
“Fuck me gently,” he booms. “Thirteen hundred quid. You can buy a half-decent motor for that kind of money.”
“Yeah, fortunately I don’t think an iPhone is necessarily what you’re looking for.”
I leave Clement to stare bewildered at the overpriced Apple products and locate the section where drug dealers likely acquire their burner phones. The cheapest handset is only twenty quid and appears as basic as it gets, with rubberised keys in lieu of a touch screen.
“Clement, here,” I beckon.
He ambles over and I show him the phone. “Will this do you?”
“Does it make calls?”
“Err, yes.”
“Will it send food, like yours?”
“Probably not.”
“Suppose it’ll do.”
Another young sales assistant appears and I confirm our order. Irritatingly, he makes repeated attempts to sell me a more expensive handset, but fails. As punishment for his chippy attitude, I insist the irksome young man shows Clement how to operate his new phone. I’ve seen bomb disposal engineers execute their duty with less trepidation.
With Clement embracing at least one facet of twenty-first century life, we leave the phone shop and head to the Underground station. Despite no further communication from Tamthy, Clement remains on high alert.
“Were you ever in the army?” I ask.
“I went to Aldershot, once, to watch a football match. Decent boozers but the ground was a right shithole.”
“That’s not quite what I asked.”
“Do I look like I was ever in the army?”
“No, you look like the lead singer of Motörhead, but again, that wasn’t what I asked.”
“I weren’t in the army.”
“So where did you learn to do whatever it is you do?”
“School of Hard Knocks.”
“That’s reassuring. Can you be more specific?”
“All you need to know is I have a job to do, and I intend to finish it.”
“About that — we never did get to the bottom of your motivation.”
We reach the entrance to the Underground station and Clement stops.
“Ever heard that old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t.”
“Alright. I’ve got an inquisitive mind, that’s all.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he huffs. “Come on.”
He holds his arm out to shepherd me along. It’s probably just the novelty factor but it is nice to feel someone has your back.
After an uneventful journey on the Tube, and an equally uneventful walk from the Hyde Park Corner station, we arrive at the steps of The Daily Standard office.
“Swanky,” Clement comments, looking up at the four-storey, nineteenth-century building.
“It’s not exactly Fleet Street, but I’ve worked in worse places.”
“What time do you finish?”
“It varies. I’ll call you when I know.”
“Alright. Is there a cafe round here? I could murder a full English.”
I’m about to remind him we’re in Belgravia when one of my millennial colleagues bursts through the office doors.
“Good morning, Emma.”
A recent graduate in feminist studies, Bridget is a junior reporter and self-appointed taker of offence.
“Morning, Bridget.”
Despite willing her to walk straight past us, Bridget loiters next to me. Even by her standards, her attire today is particularly dour, not helped by her cropped hair and stern features.
“Anyway,“ I smile through gritted teeth. “I’ll ring you later, Clement.”
“Yeah, you said,” he replies, missing my hint to leave.
“Clement,” Bridget comments, looking up at him. “That’s an unusual name. Where’s it from?”
“Dunno, doll.”
She frowns. “I beg your pardon?”
“Said, I dunno.”
“You called me doll,” she snaps. “Do I look like a doll to you?”
“You ain’t no Barbie, that’s for sure.”
Bridget turns to me, clearly offended. I cover my mouth and feign a cough to hide a snort of laughter.
“Did you hear what he just said?” she huffs. “Tell your friend to apologise.”
“Sorry, Bridget,” I splutter. “He’s a work in progress.”
She returns her attention back to Clement. “Men like you disgust me.”
“No offence, doll,” he shrugs. “But you ain’t exactly doing much for me either.”
Bridget’s face reddens but she seems unable to find the
words to convey her rage.
Clement turns to me. “See ya later.”
He then flashes a smile at Bridget. “You should try wearing a nice dress — might bag yourself a fella.”
Fashion advice delivered, he strides away.
“I’d better get going, Bridget. I’ll see you later.”
I leave her stood on the steps, and chuckle all the way to my desk. Unfortunately, my merriment is cut short when Gini saunters over.
“Hey, Emma,” she says with less enthusiasm than usual.
“Morning, Gini. You okay?”
I fear she’s about to share details of a petty argument with her fiancé so I switch my attention to the computer screen.
“I’m fine, but I need to warn you — Damon is on the warpath.”
“Is it because I missed the morning briefing?”
“I honestly don’t know, but he was really annoyed you weren’t here first thing.”
“How annoyed?”
“You know I order-in cakes on a Friday, and Damon usually has a cream horn?”
“Erm, yeah.”
“This morning he chose a custard tart. He only ever orders a custard tart if he’s in a bad mood.”
“Hmmm … serious. Thanks for the heads-up.”
I send Gini on her way with a reassuring smile and get on with checking my emails; specifically for anything from Allen Tamthy. Before I get a chance to start, my phone trills a tone to denote an incoming internal call.
I snatch the receiver up. “Emma Hogan.”
“Get to my office. Now.”
Damon ends the call before I can catch a breath. Gini was right — he does seem pissed off.
I get up and prepare what I’m going to say. My late father has been of absolutely no use to me throughout my life but his recent demise does make a handy excuse. There’s nothing like news of a dead relative to take the sting out of a bollocking.
I head over to Damon’s office and breeze straight in.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask.
“Shut the door and sit down,” he orders.
This is new. I’ve never been offered a seat before.
I comply, and make myself comfortable while Damon taps away at his keyboard. Ignoring me, he stares intently at the screen, pausing a couple of times to run a hand through his hair. My patience stretches until it finally snaps.
“I thought this was urgent.”
“It is,” he replies flatly, finally turning to face me.
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