Who Sent Clement by Keith Pearson

Author:Keith Pearson [Pearson, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781548911058
Google: I0xjtAEACAAJ
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2017-07-07T23:00:00+00:00

25

After two glasses of wine, I’m currently standing on that narrow patch of ground located somewhere between sober and tipsy.

As we wait for our overdue food, Clement necks the dregs of his first drink while I consider the acquisition of a third. It’s not a good idea, but it would be in good company with the other bad ideas I’ve embraced in the last twenty four hours.

Sod it.

“Another pint, Clement?”

“Yeah, please,” he mumbles.

“Great. And when I get back, you can tell me all about the Flamingo Club.”

I skip off to the bar and return a few minutes later with our drinks, and possibly too much alcohol-fuelled bravado.

“So, the Flamingo Club. Did you ever go there?”

“Now and again.”

“And you went with the old man, whose son paid for these drinks?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you used to be friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you ignore him then?”

Clement takes a slow swig of his lager. He then places the glass on the table and continues to stare at it.

“Well?”

“Why do you think, doll? His head is messed up enough without me confirming I’ve returned from beyond the friggin’ grave.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol impairing my judgement, but I can’t untangle the truth in all of this. Did the old man simply mistake Clement for an old friend he used to hang out with? Or did his dementia convince him he was back in the 1960s; chatting to Clement like it’s just another Saturday afternoon?

“If he hadn’t been suffering from dementia, how do you think he’d have reacted?”

“Stupid question. How would I know?”

“Don’t you think he’d have been a bit freaked out, seeing you sitting there looking exactly the same as you did over forty years ago?”

“Suppose so. Or more likely, he’d have just assumed it wasn’t me.”

“You’re quite, err…distinctive though.”

“Yeah, well, so what? I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“Just chatting, Clement.”

“Can we chat about something else? Like, where’s our bleedin’ food?”

“What was his name, the old man?”

Another slow swig of lager and another long pause before he answers.

“Freddy Markham.”

“Were you close?”

“Honestly, doll. I really don’t wanna talk about Freddy.”

I know I’m pushing my luck with all these questions, and I was kind of expecting him to close me down. But rather than agitation in his response, there’s more than a hint of sadness. It sounds familiar, like when people ask me about my father. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about him, it’s just that it rekindles feelings I’ve spent my life trying to suppress.

“Okay. Sorry. We’ll talk about something else.”

“Good.”

Before we get a chance to move onto another subject, our food finally arrives.

We eat in silence. Clement devours his steak and kidney pudding in minutes, while I pick at my chicken salad. Drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea as it kills my appetite.

With an empty plate and an empty glass, Clement appears keen to leave.

“Let’s get out of here, doll.”

I’m not fussed about finishing my salad, but neck the remainder of my wine.

“I’m just going to pop to the loo. Give me five minutes.

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