My eyes snap open and strain to identify the source of the voice. Beyond Eric’s shoulder, the slightest smudge of movement in the gloom. The dark shape staggers left, and then right, and then it stops, stoops, and repeats … getting closer, larger.
Eric, realising my focus is not where he’d like it, glances back up the garden to see what I can now see — a big man in double denim approaching. Forty feet away, he moves like a drunk; stumbling and faltering every few steps.
Eric swings his arm a full one-eighty degrees and takes aim. The first bullet explodes from the barrel but Clement remains upright — just. Thirty feet, and I can see a tortured face like that of a heavyweight boxer in the twelfth round of an epic fight; every movement a gargantuan effort, but somehow he finds enough strength to stay on his feet.
Clement staggers on — every step closer reducing his chances of dodging another bullet.
Twenty feet and Eric takes aim at a target he surely can’t miss. How many shots has he taken? Two in the house? Two out here?
He waits for the right moment and another shot rips through the air. Clement’s left leg struggles to take his weight and he stumbles. There is no cry of pain to suggest he’s been hit but now he is so close the final bullet cannot fail to miss. I need to do something … anything.
I shift my own leaden legs. Three steps, and Eric suddenly twists around — it’s my turn to look down the pistol barrel again. One bullet remaining, and barely seconds for Eric to decide who is the biggest threat — the woman who could reveal all about the Clawthorn Club, or the jelly-legged man approaching from behind.
His arm straightens as he makes a decision. At the exact same moment, I make a decision of my own — I will die as I lived; making life difficult for those who deserve it. With no time to consider the consequences, I throw myself to the sodden turf. Eric has already shown himself to be a poor shot so, at the very least, there’s a slim chance his last-remaining bullet will hit a limb rather than a vital organ if I make the target as small as possible.
I slide along the grass like a footballer celebrating a goal. As the momentum dissipates, I roll into the foetal position and look up to assess Eric’s reaction. He takes two steps to his left in an attempt to improve the angle of his shot; his rotund face pursed with fury, or perhaps panic. No more time, no more options.
I brace for the bullet. The urge to close my eyes is overwhelming but I want him to see my fear, and for that fear to haunt him for the rest of his days.
A blur of blue enters stage left; momentarily pulling my attention away from the pistol. Clement staggers forth and makes a final, desperate lunge towards Eric. There is no finesse, no plan; he simply propels his body forward like a battering ram. The two men collide and the pistol goes off.
As the echo reverberates I await pain which never comes. I’m able to savour a split second of blessed relief before the chaos unfolds in front of me.
Eric stumbles backwards; his arms flailing as he tries to counter the momentum of Clement’s shunt. The big man himself is faring no better as he wobbles on legs which still haven’t fully recovered from the effects of the Taser. I catch the look of abject horror on Eric’s face as his foot slips on the wet grass. On any other patch of grass he’d land flat on his backside but there’s no more than a slither of lawn between his right foot and the cliff edge — any fall will take him beyond that edge.
In desperation he grabs at Clement in the hope of finding an anchor. Clawing fingernails find purchase on the waistcoat lapel as he snatches a handful of denim. For a heartbeat, it appears enough to halt the fall but his still-significant bulk is already pulling him beyond the point of no return. Rather than providing an anchor Clement is dragged on the same trajectory.
The two men, as one, tumble backwards as Eric plants a foot into ground which isn’t there. It proves his final effort to stop the inevitable — gravity takes over and drags Eric beyond the cliff edge. As he falls his hand never leaves Clement’s waistcoat. The combination of Eric’s bulk and desperation condemn Clement to the same fate. They fall from view, and Eric departs with a scream as harrowing as it is brief.
I roll onto my hands and knees, and scramble to the cliff edge. Peering over, the turquoise water is now almost indistinguishable from the dark rocks — a monotone scene of white-tipped waves erupting from a black void. I scan left and right but the scene barely changes. Desperately, I crawl closer to the edge and repeat the scan; every square foot of black sea confirmation of what I already know — they are gone … they are gone.
TWO WEEKS LATER…
38.
An estate agent who isn’t Miles DuPont hands me a set of keys.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he smiles, with all the sincerity of a Tinder date.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I reply.
It’s a lie. I’m a long way from fine and I don’t see when, or how, that will change. I now have a semi-permanent roof over my head but the pokey flat is but a mere shell for an empty soul. Suffering bereavement once is awful enough, but I’ve had a fortnight to suffer the loss of two men; one who never got the chance to be my father, and one who never got to be … well, I guess I’ll never know.
However, bereavement isn’t all I’m struggling to contend with — there’s the hatred. It burns with such intensity I struggle to contain it at times. Eric’s bloated corpse washed ashore the day after he fell from the cliff and he’s being laid to rest next week. His family now have to go through all that grief for a second time, with the added pain and ignominy of knowing the first time was a cruel hoax, orchestrated by the very man they were mourning.
At least they’ll be able to pay their final respects, if there’s any shred of respect left to pay. I will have no such closure as Clement’s body still hasn’t been found, and it probably never will be according to the Coastguard.
There’s also too much guilt for both the men I’ve lost.
For as long as I can remember I’ve been consumed by my hatred of Dennis Hogan. Now there is no reason for that hatred to be there guilt is all that remains. I keep telling myself I had every reason to hate my father — Eric saw to that — but it doesn’t change how I feel. He never had the chance to be the father he might have been, nor I the chance to be a daughter to a good man. It is the worst kind of inheritance. And knowing the true reason he filled his home with framed photos and my press cuttings summons far more sadness than pride.
Then there is Clement.
The final hour we spent together was tainted by my own negative thoughts, and I now realise all he wanted to do was protect me. I finally found a man willing to die for me, but the reality is as far away from the romantic notion as you can get. Losing him cuts deep, particularly as I didn’t realise what I had, and I’ll never know what might have been. I miss him more than I have any right to.
They say you should never have regrets but, in my case, it was only regret, and a savage anger, that prevented me from stepping over the edge of that cliff in Dorset. God knows how long I stood there, sobbing uncontrollably, but eventually I managed to harness my rage and do what I had to do. Despite the sobbing and the shock, I transferred every one of the Clawthorn folders from the house to the boot of the hire car. I then called the police.
As it transpired my shock proved a welcome excuse for the lack of clarity when the first two police officers arrived. I told them about Eric, and how he’d stabbed Alex in a fit of rage, and then tried to force me at gunpoint to jump from the cliff, before Clement intervened. With no other witnesses, and both the gun and the knife at the bottom of the English Channel, all they have to go on is my confused version of events. However, as Eric faked his own death, his desire to keep that a secret is a clear motive so I suspect my statement will be enough.
With everything I’ve had to cope with, the only way I’ve retained some semblance of sanity, is by sitting in a hotel room with my new laptop and that pile of folders. One by one, I’m slowly identifying the Clawthorn Club member
ship and, so far, I have a list of nineteen men whose corrupt behaviour is beyond refute. Their punishment will come; when I’m ready. When I decide to publish my findings, it will be to the highest bidder, and I’m confident it’ll prove a blockbuster exposé, considering some of the names involved. Whatever I’m paid, it’ll still feel a hollow victory, but I hope some people, particularly Stacey, find the closure they deserve.
Damon decided to postpone my disciplinary hearing until next week but I saved him the bother and tendered my resignation yesterday. Even if they were to decide my conduct isn’t worthy of dismissal, there is no way I’m willing to write the Clawthorn story as a staff reporter, and receive nothing more than a pat on the back for my troubles. I’m not sure Gini would welcome my return anyway. Although I’ve convinced her the Tallyman is dead, and there is nothing more to investigate, I think she still holds me responsible for what happened to her fiancé. Yet another relationship destroyed by Eric Birtles.
I leave the estate agent’s office and return to my rented car that contains everything I own in one suitcase which I’ll transfer to my rented home. I have nothing and I have no one — life has never felt so empty.
The pity party continues for the entirety of my journey. I don’t like it and I wish I could find some strand of positivity to grasp but I’m sure even the most optimistic of people would struggle to find a silver lining on the dark cloud blotting my horizon.
I park up and get out of the car. I’m about to open the boot when my phone rings. If this is more bad news, I’m likely to get back in the car and return to that fucking cliff in Dorset.
I answer with a curt hello.
“Hi, Emma,” a female voice chirps. “It’s Mandy Burke.”
My silence prods Miss Burke into confirming who the hell she is.
“You know, Mandy, from the NLH Foundation?”
“Oh, right. Yes.”
“I’m calling about your father’s office.”
“Okay. What about it?”
“You may recall I mentioned the damp issue. Well, the contractors made a start on the work this morning, and they removed all the floorboard as the joists need to be replaced.”
I have a horrible feeling she’s going to tell me the damp is far worse than they expected, and they don’t have sufficient funds to remedy it. If she’s looking for a donation, she’s looking in the wrong place.
“Pardon my bluntness, Mandy, but what has this got to do with me?”
“The workmen found a metal box hidden beneath the floorboards.”
“Right. And?”
“There’s a large envelope inside with your name written across the front.”
I almost drop the phone.
“Really? Have you opened it?”
“No, because written across the flap, it clearly states it is only to be opened by Emma Aisling Hogan.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m almost certain it’s your father’s handwriting.”
I waste precious seconds trying to guess what might be inside before it dawns on me to go and find out.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
I hang up and get back behind the wheel.
Sod’s law, the traffic is abysmal but the constant stopping affords me the opportunity to consider why my father stowed away his mystery envelope. It seems he spent a large chunk of his life hiding from those he’d been blackmailing, and perhaps the office at the NLH Foundation was the one place he felt safe. Now I know how he funded the charity, it does explain why he shied away from the spotlight and kept his philanthropy out of the public domain.
Of course this all assumes I can believe what Eric told me. Experience suggests I should be wary.
I arrive on the same street I walked with Clement a few short weeks ago, and park up. What I wouldn’t give for him to be with me now.
Putting my heartache to one side, I approach the door and ring the bell. As before, there’s a brief wait before Mandy appears. She ushers me in and I follow her through the building to her pokey office.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“It’s been a … nightmare, if I’m honest.”
Judging by her awkward smile, I suspect she was hoping I’d reply with a standard platitude. Serves her right for asking.
Mandy reaches down and picks up a large brown envelope, carefully placing it on the desk in front of me.
“I’ll give you some space,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’ll be next door when you’re done.”
True to her word, Mandy then bustles back through the door, closing it on her way.
I turn my attention to the envelope. Perhaps strange, but the first thing I notice is how neatly my name is penned on the front, in uppercase letters. From what little I know about Dennis Hogan he probably used a good-quality fountain pen. I turn the envelope over and, as Mandy stated, the same precise handwriting confirms it is only to be opened by Emma Aisling Hogan.
“I guess that’s me, then,” I sigh.
I carefully peel away the flap and tip the contents onto the desk. A wad of cash would have been useful rather than the two nondescript envelopes I find.
The first is letter sized, with my first name penned on the front, and the second much thicker. Perhaps it is stuffed with cash. I open it first.
Rather than used bank notes, an elastic band holds together a thin pile of photographs — the top one a black and white shot of a young man in a suit. I sit back in my chair and instinctively turn the photo over. Mum used to write dates and little notes on the back of the photos in our sorry excuse for a family album, and it seems my father did the same. Scrawled on the back in blue pen, it says, ‘Dennis 1966’.
It’s now clear I’m looking at a picture of my father. There’s no denying he was a handsome young man and, even then, he had an eye for a well-tailored suit. The fresh face and broad smile are those of a man yet to truly experience the stresses and strains of life — certainly Dennis Hogan’s life.
I switch it to the bottom of the pile and turn my attention to the next photo — the same young man leant up against a car with his arm around a pretty girl who looks equally untroubled by life. She also happens to look uncannily like a twenty-something version of me. I flip it over and it reads: ‘Dennis and Susie 1967’.
The next dozen photos are also of my parents; taken over the latter part of the sixties and apparently charting their courtship. In each and every one of them my father’s attention appears to be focused on my mother rather than the camera — the kind of dreamy look only someone truly in love would bestow.
I turn my attention to a picture of my mum stood beside a Christmas tree with a glass of something in hand. On the back it reads: ‘Susie 1971’ and her party dress does little to hide the bump in her tummy.
As I slip the photo to the back of the pile the lump in my throat stubbornly stays put.
The next image doesn’t help. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth at the sight of a beaming couple with their new-born baby. I flip it over: ‘Our little family 1972’. As tears well, I turn it over again. Unlike all the other photos, my father isn’t gazing at my mother, but the tiny bundle she’s cradling in her arms. Perhaps it’s just my interpretation but that gaze appears to teem with pride and happiness.
In the silence of Mandy’s office I can almost hear my heart breaking.
There are three more photos: two of a deliriously happy Susie Hogan holding baby Emma, and the final image which tips me over the edge. My father is seated in an armchair, cradling me in one arm, and gently stroking my cheek. On the back, it confirms my age as four months, and I know the smile on my little face is not a reflex, but prompted by my father’s touch. Soon after — possibly within days of this photo being taken — he was stolen away from his little girl on the back of a wicked lie.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I carefully lay the pile of photos on the desk. Despite the urge to curl up into a ball and sob myself dry, I reach for the final envelope. Trepidatiously, I
peel it open and extract two sheets of folded paper. Taking a deep breath, I unfold them and cast my eyes across a handwritten letter. I fear the content will not so much break my heart, but tear it into tiny ribbons. Another deep breath and I begin reading …
My dearest Emma
If you are reading this, my final hope — that one day we might salvage our relationship — has already passed. All I can now ask is you give me a few minutes of your time. You deserve to know the truth about your father.
I will start by saying whatever you have heard or read about me, it is not who I am. I could write a hundred pages explaining how I got to this point but it would be of no benefit to either of us. All you need to know is that I underestimated someone I considered a friend, and for that one error of judgement, I lost my liberty, the woman I loved, and my precious daughter. That so-called friend was Eric Birtles.
The reasons are long and complicated, and I wouldn’t wish to burden you with the details. However, I beg of you — do not trust Eric for he is not what he seems. There is no reason for you to believe me, but you should know Eric and I were friends for over a decade before you were born — if he has never mentioned that fact, you must ask yourself why.
It was, I am afraid to say, Eric who orchestrated my conviction for a crime I did not commit.
If that were not sadistic enough, the evidence was so compelling I lost your mother as a result. I spent eighteen years in prison but, even on my release, the punishment continued as I tried to prove my innocence. I knew the only way I could regain your mother’s trust, and indeed yours, would be to overturn my conviction.
Sadly, God took your poor mother before I had the chance. When she left, so too did my resolve.
I cannot put into words how much I wanted to be there for you in the days and weeks afterwards. You would not have known, but I watched her funeral service in the same way I’ve lived much of my life — hiding in the shadows.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 34