“How you feeling now?” he asks.
“I honestly don’t know. Scared, angry, bewildered … but mostly numb.”
“It ain’t the evening I had planned.”
“No, me neither.”
We make eye contact long enough to confirm now is not the time to reflect on what might have been. Maybe the ship will remain in port beyond this evening — we’ll see.
“Anyway,” Clement coughs. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Glad one of us has because my head is a mess.”
“Yeah, but mine ain’t, and I keep asking myself the same two questions.”
“Go on.”
“Right, first: how did the Tallyman know you weren’t at home this evening?”
“Who said he did?”
“He sent you a message. If you’re gonna torch a place when someone’s at home, you ain’t gonna get in touch with ’em afterwards, on account they’re most likely dead.”
“I suppose not.”
“So, he must have known you weren’t at home. How?”
“No idea,” I shrug. “Unless he had someone watching the flat.”
“That’d be too tricky in your road. What makes more sense is if someone knew you weren’t gonna be at home and told him.”
“But who would know that, apart from Alex? For all his faults, I can’t imagine for one moment he’d have anything to do with the Clawthorn Club — he’s too squeaky clean.”
“You know the bloke, and I ain’t saying it’s him. You told someone else.”
“Did I?”
“The bloke on the phone this morning.”
“Terry Brown? No, that’s ridiculous,” I scoff. “He was Eric’s friend, and Eric was an impeccable judge of character.”
“The name ‘Brown’ was on both lists weren’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
“And he knew you weren’t home?”
“Again, yes.”
“So, why is it ridiculous?”
“Because … I don’t know … gut instinct, I guess.”
“There’s something else,” he continues. “We assumed someone on your paper’s payroll was leaking information to the Tallyman. Ain’t it possible there was no grass, and the Tallyman himself is on the paper’s payroll?”
I almost choke on my tea.
“That’s one hell of a leap, Clement. You’re saying Terry Brown, the respected journalist, is Allen Tamthy … the Tallyman?”
“Maybe. How old is he?”
“Not sure exactly. Late sixties, maybe.”
“What does he look like?”
I refer to my phone and google Terry Brown’s name. A few taps and I find his photo on the Reuters’ website.
“This is him.”
I hold the phone up so Clement can see the photo. He stares at the screen for a good few seconds before stroking his moustache.
“You said there were two questions,” I remind him.
“Yeah, there are.”
I sit up. “Let’s hear the second then.”
“The description that copper gave us, of the bloke seen leggin’ it from the scene: did it sound familiar?”
I cast my mind back but much of what the officer said is lost in a haze.
“You’ll have to remind me, Clement.”
“Late teens to early twenties, tall, thin, goatee beard.”
I return a blank stare.
“The dipshit kid who tried to mug you in Paddington. Remember?”
“That description could cover half the teenagers in London.”
“Yeah, but half the teenagers in London didn’t meet with a bloke who paid them to mug you. And while we’re on the subject of descriptions, remember the kid met with a bloke who paid him beforehand?”
“Right.”
“And he said the bloke was old, fat, and had a crooked nose.”
“Yes.”
“Look at that photo again.”
He nods towards my phone.
I look at the photo of Terry Brown. It would be true to say he hasn’t aged well and is certainly overweight. Tellingly though, his nose has been broken on at least two occasions judging by the odd angle it slopes.
“I see what you’re getting at, but it’s a bit tenuous. Neither description is specific.”
“On their own, maybe not. But this Terry Brown bloke was one of only two people who knew you weren’t home tonight, and he has a fucked-up nose like the bloke who paid dipshit to mug you. Lot of coincidences there, doll, don’t you reckon?”
“Okay, let’s for one minute consider the possibility Terry Brown is the Tallyman. It doesn’t explain why he torched my flat.”
“Don’t it? Think back to what you said to him.”
I replay as much of the conversation as I can remember and not a great deal feels relevant, until I recall the part where William Huxley’s name came up.
“He asked if it was worth it, contacting Huxley, and I told him it had inadvertently led onto something else.”
“Something else?”
“Well, yes — meeting you. If it hadn’t been for Huxley, I’d never have met you and I wouldn’t have known what that notebook really was, or anything about the Clawthorn Club.”
“Putting it like that, doll, this all kinda feels like my fault.”
“Don’t be silly. I chose not to leave the notebook on the table in that pub. I was warned, but chose to ignore it.”
“’Spose so.”
“Anyway,” I continue. “I’m sure I mentioned a piece of evidence crucial to the story I was investigating.”
“And you weren’t giving up.”
“Precisely. What better way to get rid of the notebook once and for all — whilst also sending me a warning — than burning my fucking flat to the ground.”
Perhaps we’re forcing the facts to fit the narrative but when you’ve nothing else, any straw will often do.
“Okay, Clement, I’ll concede it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.”
“Good.”
“But.”
“But?”
I take a long sip of tea and use the time to collate my thoughts. A number of questions come to mind which I share with Clement.
“Let’s assume for one moment that Terry Brown is the Tallyman. How on earth do we prove it? Because we’re talking about a man with a stellar reputation. A man with a distinguished career. A man with decades of experience in investigative journalism. He’s virtually untouchable, and I can’t imagine he won’t have meticulously covered his tracks.”
“Weak link, doll.”
“Sorry?”
“Twice now he’s used that kid to do his dirty work. He’s the weak link.”
“Are you saying we go after Jaydon?”
“Yeah. We find him and have a proper chat.”
“I can see two problems with that. Firstly, how on earth do we find him, and secondly, he didn’t know anything about the man who paid him.”
“He said he met the bloke on the way out of a bookies on Napier Street. Punters tend to stick to the same bookies so we find him that way.”
“And then what? Is he likely to know any more than he did last time?”
“Only one way to find out — we find the little fucker and encourage him to get chatty.”
It’s not much of a plan, and I’m still not convinced Terry Brown is our man. For all the coincidences, he was the one who helped me get the job at The Daily Standard and, over the years, had my back when that job was at risk. He also had history with Eric, and I can’t believe for one moment Eric would have knowingly associated himself with any member of a corrupt club, let alone its chief architect.
Thing is: anger is a potent antidote to common sense. Even if there’s just a one percent chance Terry Brown is our man, I need to channel my anger somewhere.
“Guess I’ve got nothing to lose now.”
“First thing tomorrow?”
“Are bookies even open on a Sunday?”
“Dunno.”
A quick google confirms there is only one bookmaker on Napier Street called Trenchards.
“It seems there really is no rest for the wicked. They open at ten.”
“Then we’ll be there.”
Our plan settled Clement tries to stifle a yawn.
“Tired?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Exhausted.”
“I’ll take the sofa, doll. You have the bed.”
I wish I was still drunk — it would be so much easier to say what I want to say.
“I, um … I don’t want to be alone, Clement. Not tonight.”
He stands up and offers me his hand. “Come on.”
We don’t get undressed. We don’t say another word. I lay down with my head on Clement’s chest; his arm wrapped tightly around me.
As I lie listening to his heartbeat I sense I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be alone.
26.
I awake in an empty bed unsure where I am. I sit up and, one by one, memories of last night slap at my face. A nausea then arrives; partly due to the hangover but mainly due to the realisation everything precious in my life is now gone.
Almost everything.
“Morning, doll.”
Clement takes three strides across the bedroom and hands me a mug.
“Sorry. Ain’t got any coffee.”
I find a smile. “Thank you.”
“How you feeling?”
“Shocking.”
He slips a hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a packet of painkillers.
“Here. These might help.”
The slogan on the packet promises to stop pain fast. A bold promise, and my pain runs much deeper than a thick head.
I neck two pills and take a slurp of tea.
“What time is it?”
“Just gone eight.”
It occurs to me I have little chance of feeling human without a toothbrush or any means to shower.
“I need to get some things, Clement: toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant.”
“Write a list. I’ll go get them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Can’t have you going out looking like that, doll,” he smirks. “You’ll scare the neighbours.”
I slap him playfully on the leg. “Arsehole.”
Still smirking, Clement disappears and returns a minute later with a notepad and pen. I write down a list of basic essentials but I don’t think the local convenience store will stock underwear. I’ll have to grin and bear it until I get the chance to shop later. I’ve also got to call the insurance company and speak to the police. This day is going to be a long one — I can feel it already.
Declining my offer to pay Clement takes the list and promises to be back within twenty minutes.
He departs, leaving me sat up in bed with only a hangover, a cup of tea, and a head full of negative thoughts for company.
I need the loo but the bed is warm and the flat isn’t. Crossing my legs I continue to sip tea and dwell on the only positive aspect of last night — Clement.
I know so little about him but, having lived in one another’s pockets over the last five days, I can’t deny certain feelings aren’t bubbling beneath the surface. Quite what those feelings are, I’m not sure, but I haven’t felt so connected to anyone in a long time. For all his faults, of which there are many, I know there’s so much more to him than just inappropriate language, poor diet, and the looming threat of violence. Beneath all of that I’ve seen glimpses of a kind, if not troubled, soul. I’ve seen his vulnerable side, his compassionate, caring side, and I honestly think he needs someone like me just as much as I need someone like him.
Maybe, just maybe, something good might come out of all of this.
My bladder screams to be emptied. I put my mug down on the floor and tentatively remove the duvet.
“Shitting hell.”
The bathroom, if anything, is even colder. I sit on the loo willing the pee to end before a stalactite forms. I know Clement said he doesn’t feel the cold but this is ridiculous. With merciful relief, it ends, and I turn on the hot tap over the sink in the hope of bringing some feeling back to my fingers. As the water runs I look up at a cracked mirror. The view is truly shocking. My hair is pressed to my scalp on one side and a frizzy nest the other, and my face looks like that of a horror movie clown; plastered with day-old, tear-stained makeup.
Clement had a point about scaring the neighbours.
I rearrange my hair but there’s little I can do about my face without the items on my shopping list. Until Clement returns I might as well hide beneath the duvet.
I do that until I hear the front door open and heavy boots stomp towards the bedroom. My saviour is back.
“Don’t look at me,” I yell, as he enters. “I look like shit and need a shower.”
“I was only kiddin’. You’re …”
The pause does nothing to boost my self-esteem.
“I’m what, Clement?”
He hands me a carrier bag. “You’re the best thing I’ve woken up to in a long, long time, doll.”
There’s no hint of a smirk. It appears, unbelievably, he’s being entirely sincere.
“I doubt that,” I reply in a low voice, taking the carrier bag. “But thank you.”
He nods, and steps over to the wardrobe. “Sure I had a clean towel somewhere.”
After a bit of rummaging, he produces a dark-blue towel and hands it to me.
“Go sort yourself out and I’ll make you a coffee.”
“I thought you didn’t have any coffee.”
“I didn’t. I do now.”
He disappears again. With a deep breath, I leave the warm bed and scuttle through to the bathroom.
As depressing as the bathroom is, there is at least enough hot water to have a decent shower. Perhaps a tiny, wicked part of me hoped my host might join me but I get the impression he’s a bit old-fashioned in that respect.
Feeling vaguely human again I exit the bathroom and wander through to the lounge. It looks no better in daylight.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask Clement, as he hands me a mug of coffee.
“Not sure. Three or four months maybe.”
“And before?”
“I’ve moved around a fair bit. Few months here, few months there.”
“When was the last time you lived anywhere approaching a proper home?”
He looks into his cup.
“Clement?”
“Can we just say it was a long time ago and leave it there?”
“Okay, but don’t you want to, one day?”
“What I want and what the Gods have in store for me ain’t necessarily the same thing, doll.”
I move close and place my hand on his arm.
“That’s not an answer,” I say softly. “Tell me: what do you want?”
He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek. “Redemption,” he sighs.
“Redemption from what?”
“I wish I knew.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Welcome to my world.”
With that he empties his mug and steps away. I mentally add exasperating and perplexing to the list of traits I’m not so keen on.
“I’m just gonna have a quick piss,” he says flatly. “And then we can get going.”
More a statement of fact than a suggestion. He leaves me alone in the middle of the dreary lounge.
“Talk about cold shoulder,” I mutter to myself.
Bathroom duties performed, he returns and we step through the front door of his hovel; the spring sun pleasantly warm on my skin compared to the cold, damp environment I’ve inhabited for the last ten hours.
“You know where the nearest Tube station is?” I ask.
“Yeah, and the nearest cafe. Let’s have some breakfast first.”
I don’t argue, and we walk in silence to a grotty cafe a few streets away. Despite the dismal surroundings the food is surprisingly good. There is no better cure
for a hangover than a full-English, and I ravenously tuck into mine, leaving a clean plate.
Although the conversation is stilted, I decide against posing further questions about Clement’s past. Besides, as we leave the cafe he appears invigorated by either his full belly or a new-found sense of purpose — possibly both. Whilst his motivations might not be clear, mine are, and I remind myself what I’ve lost, and who might be responsible, as we stroll to the Tube station.
The journey from Kensal Green to Paddington takes only eleven minutes and, being a Sunday morning, it’s far less manic than during the week.
We arrive just before ten and I check the location of Trenchards Bookmakers on my phone.
“It’s not far. Less than a mile.”
Clement nods, and we set off towards Napier Street.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“Plan?”
“Yes. If we’re able to find out where Jaydon lives, what do you propose we do?”
“Pay him a visit. Get some answers.”
“To what questions?”
“Firstly, who ordered him to torch your drum.”
“We don’t actually know for sure it was him.”
“We will, don’t worry about that, doll. And when we do, we need to know if he’s been paid yet.”
“Do we? Why?”
“Cos I’m guessing he did this job for cash, and to get his grubby mitts on that cash he’ll have to meet up with our man.”
“So, what? We follow him?”
“Don’t worry about the details yet. We’ll work those out as we go.”
I’m not keen on such a sketchy plan but Clement seems happy to improvise so I guess I’ll go with it, for now.
We arrive on Napier Street, which happens to skirt the perimeter of a sprawling estate. Three concrete tower blocks dominate the bleak vista.
“How much you wanna bet our friend lives there?” Clement asks, nodding towards the estate.
“I’d say it’s a given. Quite the shithole isn’t it?”
“You should have seen what was here before.”
“Before what?”
“Before they built the estate. Rows and rows of Victorian houses … slums really. The houses were cramped and falling apart, outside loo, no hot water or heating.”
“I’m not sure tower blocks were much of an improvement. Good intentions, badly executed.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 22