His words are an irrelevance. Those eyes of his tell me everything I need to know — the soul-snatching intensity pulling me places I know I shouldn’t go.
I’m tipsy. I need to compose myself.
“It means a lot, Clement. Not least because I don’t feel such a twat now.”
He laughs, and the moment passes.
We return to the much-busier bar area and I’m relieved to see Alex has left. Clement buys another round of drinks and we find a corner away from the masses to continue our journey towards oblivion.
The evening then evolves into a messy routine of drinks, cigarettes, and constant complaining about both the volume and modernity of the music. On Saturday nights the pub employs a DJ who occupies a booth near the dining area. At ten o’clock they clear a space for those drunk enough to dance and, as is often the way, it’s not the modern noise that attracts revellers to the dance floor, but the classics.
“I fucking love this tune,” I slur, referring to the eighties classic, Livin’ on a Prayer by Bon Jovi.
I start wailing the chorus into an imaginary microphone.
“Let’s go and dance,” I yell.
“To this? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“It’s a classic.”
“No, doll, it ain’t.”
“Alright. Let’s go ask the DJ for something else. What do you fancy?”
He thinks for a moment. “You like reggae?”
“Err, yeah. Didn’t think it would be your cup of tea though.”
“I had a mate who played it all the time. Kinda gets under your skin.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t your Irish mate?”
“Nah. Black Brian.”
“Why did you call him … ohh. He was black, right? And his name was Brian?”
“Funnily enough, yeah.”
“Right, gotcha. So you want some reggae then?”
“Yeah, I reckon Double Barrel by Dave & Ansil Collins — you know it?”
“Err, I think so. It’s an insta … instro … intro …”
“Instrumental.”
“That’s it.”
“You’re pissed.”
“Um, maybe a teeny bit.”
“You sure you’re up to dancing?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Come on,” he chuckles, grabbing my hand. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
We head to the booth and Clement shouts his request at the DJ. A thumbs-up is returned, and we stand on the edge of the crowded dancefloor as Bon Jovi wind down.
The track ends and the DJ introduces Clement’s request. Clearly a popular choice, the dancefloor remains crowded as we edge closer to the already-swaying masses.
I learn two life lessons within the first twenty seconds. Firstly, it’s bloody hard dancing to reggae. I attempt some kind of hip-swaying move but it looks more like I’m trying to reposition a sanitary towel without using my hands. Secondly, I learn whisky and red wine don’t mix well.
With my head spinning I resort to slow side-to-side steps. Clement, on the other hand, is going for it.
I take a few steps back and watch on as he appears to lose himself in the music.
“Bloody hell,” I whisper under my breath.
Now, I don’t know if Dave & Ansil Collins created a dance routine to go with their tune but, if they did, I’d say Clement has nailed it. How a man of his size can move with such ease and fluidity is beyond me, and Clement defies my preconceptions with swagger and style. Such is his captivating interpretation of the music, I’m not the only one to be stood in awe, and the crowd splits to gain a better view of the big man in double denim.
A feeling reaches a part of me I know spells trouble.
The song lasts barely two minutes. As it ends, a cheer goes up and Clement is snagged by several bystanders keen to take a selfie with him. Judging by the length of discussion and Clement’s apparent confusion, I’d wager he has no idea what a selfie is. Still, he obliges.
Photos complete and the next song underway, he finally ambles over to me.
“You alright, doll? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m … good.”
“Want another drink?”
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Yeah, I reckon you have,” he grins. “Wanna go home?”
“Yes, please.”
He offers me his arm which is just as well as the floor appears to be undulating beneath my feet. Clinging to Clement like a drowning man to a lifebuoy we make our way out to the street.
The cool night air does nothing to aid my intoxication.
“Alright, I think … I’m a little pissed.”
“Don’t worry. I got you.”
I manage to put one foot in front of the other and we move slowly down the street. The walk home usually takes no more than five minutes but, as I have to concentrate on every step, it does take a tad longer. Nevertheless, we reach the end of the street and as we’re about to turn the corner onto my road, I misjudge where the pavement ends and the road begins. My balance already compromised I lose grip on Clement’s arm and gravity takes over. I’m destined to fall flat on my face until my guardian angel steps in and grabs me around the waist.
“Easy, doll,” he cautions, scooping me towards him.
My heart flutters — I put it down to delayed shock. What I can’t put down to shock is clinging to the lapels of Clement’s waistcoat and gazing up at him.
Beneath the soft glow of the streetlights, I become transfixed by his face, and a scar on his temple I hadn’t noticed until now. I raise my hand and gently run my fingertips across his skin.
“How did you get this scar?” I ask softy.
“Playing cricket.”
“Really?”
“Nah.”
“Did someone do it to you?”
He closes his eyes for a moment and offers a slight nod. When he opens them again they’re not the same eyes. I can see it — his vulnerability.
“What happened, Clement? You can tell me.”
“Don’t matter,” he replies, in barely a whisper.
I run my fingertips south and place my open palm on his cheek.
“It was something bad, wasn’t it? I can see it in your eyes.”
Another nod: slight.
I raise my left hand and mirror the right, cupping his face.
“I think you need someone to look after you. Someone to make everything better.”
If I were mindful of the consequences, I wouldn’t do it. If I were sober, I wouldn’t do it. As it is, I’m neither mindful nor sober, and slowly guide his face towards mine — he doesn’t resist.
Our lips near; so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. My head fills with his scent — nothing artificial; the musk of a real man. It is every bit as intoxicating as the Merlot.
I want to savour the moment: the expectancy, the anticipation, the electricity as our lips come together.
Clement places his hand on the back of my head. I melt.
“Excuse me,” a gruff voice suddenly barks from behind me. “Sir, madam.”
I turn my head; ready to unleash a volley of drunken profanities in the direction of whoever interrupted our moment. The sight of a police uniform immediately stops me in my tracks.
“Sorry to bother you,” the officer continues. “Can I have a word?”
Clement lets his hand slip from the back of my head as sobriety and reality crash together.
“Err, sure.”
The officer steps towards us and opens his notebook.
“There’s been an incident at a premises on the High Road. We’re wondering if you’d seen anyone in the area acting suspiciously?”
That word: incident. I have to remind myself my journalism career is currently on life support with a terminal prognosis. Even if it wasn’t I have more pressing matters to attend to with Clement.
“I’m afraid not. We’ve been at The Three Horseshoes all evening.”
“You haven’t seen a man o
n your way back: late teens to early twenties, tall, thin, goatee beard, and wearing a dark-coloured Adidas hoodie?”
“No.”
The officer closes his notebook. Try as I might, I can’t help myself.
“What kind of incident?”
“A fire. Possible arson.”
“On the High Road?”
“Yes. The fire crews are currently damping down the building but it’s gutted.”
“That’s awful.”
“Tell me about it,” the officer scoffs. “They did a lovely caramel mocha.”
“They?”
“The coffee shop.”
“What coffee shop?”
“The Jolly Barista. I’m afraid they won’t be serving lattes any time soon.”
Bile burns the back of my throat.
“My … my flat …”
I gasp hard, repeatedly, grabbing a handful of Clement’s waistcoat to steady myself.
“It’s … was … above that coffee shop.”
25.
Clement wouldn’t let me see the charred remains of my home; keeping me behind the police cordon some eighty yards away. I screamed, I cried, I pummelled his chest with my clenched fists. In the end, a police officer called over the paramedics and I was hauled into the back of an ambulance. Unsurprisingly they confirmed I was suffering from shock.
“I’m not going to the hospital.”
Young, perhaps pretty; the paramedic sits on the stretcher next to me.
“Emma, it’s for your own good.”
“Forget it. I’ve got … things to sort out … insurance, my …”
“I’ll look after her,” a gravelly voice interjects.
I turn my head where the rear doors of the ambulance are wide open, and Clement is stood on guard.
“She needs to be monitored,” the paramedic argues. “I really do …”
“I said I’ll look after her.”
“Fine. She’ll need to sign a disclaimer, though.”
I’m handed a clipboard and without reading the form, scrawl my signature at the bottom. On jelly legs, I get up and stagger out of the ambulance.
“You sure you’re okay?” Clement asks, taking my arm.
“I’m the absolute opposite of okay, but I’m not going to the hospital.”
He leads me to the pavement and the relative sanctuary of a bus shelter, closed in at one end with an illuminated poster advertising home insurance — the irony wasted on me. If nothing else, it provides something stable for me to lean against while the dizziness eases.
Clement remains silent as I try to piece my thoughts together.
“Arson,” I eventually mumble. “Why?”
“Nine times out of ten, doll, it’s usually an insurance job. A business finds itself in financial trouble and the only way out is to burn the place down.”
“But the coffee shop was always busy.”
“Could have been another reason — cash businesses are perfect for laundering money. Maybe the owners were washing drug money or something. Could have been a rival dealer putting a stop to their operation.”
I shake my head. “I know the owner, Dave, and he isn’t the kind to get involved in anything shady.”
“Dunno then, but it don’t matter at the minute. We need to get you sorted out.”
Sorting myself out would usually mean a long soak in the bath with a glass of wine, and then settling down on the sofa to binge-watch a trashy TV show. The reality of my situation suddenly comes crashing down — there is no longer a bath, no longer a sofa, no longer a home.
I’ve lost everything.
As little as I want it to, my mind begins compiling an inventory of every item I no longer own. There’s the practical: all my clothes, my laptop, the kitchen appliances, the TV, all my personal paperwork including my passport and birth certificate. Then the sentimental: photos of my mum, all my jewellery, a signed copy of Harry Potter Eric gave me for my fortieth birthday.
Another realisation kicks hard — the sixteen hundred pounds in cash I stuffed in the kitchen drawer. That, and another item related to my father.
“Fucking hell,” I groan.
“What?”
“The notebook. I left it on the coffee table in the lounge.”
“Shit. But didn’t you copy everything to …”
“Yeah, my laptop. The laptop which is now a pile of smouldering molten plastic.”
He shakes his head.
“But saying that, the spreadsheet containing all the Clawthorn members might have saved to my cloud account.”
“Your what?”
“Cloud account. It’s a data server in the cloud.”
“You lost me at cloud.”
“Never mind. Basically, it means there might be a copy of the spreadsheet.”
“Where?”
“That’s the point of a cloud account — I can access my files anywhere on any device.”
With Clement still looking bewildered, I delve into my handbag and retrieve my phone. I swipe the screen and I’m greeted with a notification — a text message. In the chaos since we met the police officer I must have missed its arrival.
I tap the icon to open the message.
I warned you. Back off, or you stand to lose far more than your home.
I have to consciously draw air into my lungs, and even then, it comes in shallow, raggedy breaths.
“Doll, what is it?”
If I wasn’t suffering shock before, I sure as hell am now. I show the message to Clement.
“It’s … it’s from the Tallyman.”
He stares at it for a second; deep lines creasing his forehead.
“Don’t understand,” he says with a frown. “Why’d he wanna torch your drum before he’d given you a chance to send the bleedin’ notebook back?”
“I don’t know.”
The blue lights on the ambulance cut out and it pulls away. In hindsight, maybe I would be better off inside.
A cold shudder arrives; I should have worn a warmer coat than the thin jacket I chose. It is now the only coat I own, and the dress I’m wearing represents the full extent of my wardrobe.
“Let’s go, doll.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Back to mine.”
“But, I need to speak to the police.”
“Fuck ’em — do it tomorrow. You need to get in the warm and we need to work out what we’re gonna do.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Come on.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me away from the bus shelter. We cover a hundred yards of pavement; the stench of acrid smoke easing as we head away from the scene. A cab approaches on the opposite side of the road and Clement waves it down.
I’ve never felt so relieved to sit down in the back of a cab but, despite the relative warmth, I can’t stop shaking. Clement puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I wish I could forget the last hour and just wallow in blissful ignorance. For the ten minute journey, I try, but the reality that I’ve lost everything, taunts every thought. By the time we reach our destination, that taunting has sparked a fire — a raging blaze of anger.
Clement pays the driver and coaxes me from the back of the cab. I scan the area which, I suspect, is all the better for being shrouded in near darkness. First impressions of the pub itself are that it’s a typical, run-down, backstreet establishment, sited on the end of a row of tatty terraced houses. Its name — The Royal Oak — could not be more inappropriate. There’s no trees of any kind in sight, and there’s certainly nothing regal about the dilapidated building.
Clement leads me through to a wooden gate at the rear of the pub and into a small courtyard stacked high with aluminium beer barrels. We pass through another gate to a scrubby patch of overgrown lawn with an outbuilding at the rear. No bigger than a modest caravan, I fear the outbuilding is our final destination.
Fifteen feet along a broken pathway and Clement pulls a key from his pocket.
“Th
is is it.”
He puts the key in the lock and opens the door. A light is switched on and I’m beckoned in.
If you were to replace words in a dictionary with images, the scene before me would be the perfect depiction of ‘depressing’. Whichever way I look, the view is beyond drab. Above me, the ceiling is dotted with patches of mould and a vast spider web of hairline cracks emanate from each corner. Beneath my feet, a stained, threadbare carpet. To my left and right, the walls are lined with faded wallpaper; just about clinging to the damp plaster. Straight ahead, a ramshackle kitchenette has been installed along the back wall; not one of the fitted cupboard doors hang level. The furniture comprises a sofa with exposed foam on the armrests, a coffee table, and the kind of veneered sideboard I haven’t seen in any home since the early eighties.
Clement bends down and ignites a gas heater.
“It’ll warm up in no time.”
He then shows me the rest of his abode: a bedroom just about large enough to house a double bed and a wardrobe, and a shower room with more mould than tiling. We return to the lounge which is now a degree or two warmer than freezing.
“Sorry it ain’t much, doll.”
It isn’t much — on a scale of accommodation it would sit just above a squat. However, it is Clement’s home, and with that comes a sense of safety: of sanctuary. I don’t think I’d rather be anywhere else right now.
“It’s fine, and thank you for looking after me.”
Perhaps not used to guests he scratches his head for a few seconds before offering me a seat on the sofa.
“I reckon you need a cup of sweet tea, you know, for the shock.”
He steps over to the kitchenette, switches the kettle on, and removes two mugs from an otherwise empty cupboard. A pint of milk is then extracted from an equally empty fridge. The lid is removed and Clement sniffs the contents before deeming it fresh enough for tea.
To my side, the gas heater clicks and hisses as it does its best to warm the dank air — I don’t rate its chances. You could frack every square inch of Lancashire and I doubt there would be enough gas for that job.
Clement returns to the sofa with two mugs of steaming tea and sits down next to me.
“Drink up,” he orders, handing me one of the mugs. “You’ll feel better.”
Dubious but grateful, I take the mug and sip from it. Warming, strong, and surprisingly sweet; the tea as much as my host.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 21