Chapter 4: Wilder Clarke
January 29th 2023
The afternoon started with a fresh cold shower. Rain came all of a sudden and all at once from dark gloomy clouds. It was an unexpected change of weather for most people in the streets of London, as no one came out prepared with an umbrella.
Wilder, on the other hand was quite lucky as he timely entered a family run café called "Ebony" outside of Kenzington. Barely any water had landed on his nice black suit and white tie as it started to pour behind him.
Straightening said tie with a proud and accomplished smile, the black African American stood at the entrance way and took note of the few patrons inside.
"Four" he counted before walking confidently like a rich man towards the counter, planting his briefcase by his side as he waited patiently to be served.
Ringing a tiny bell that sat next to a near empty tip jar; save for a few pennies and pounds. Wilder turned his back to the counter and leaned against it casually, his arms resting on the surface, hands dangling over.
Taking in his surroundings, Wilder saw that the café was rather small in size and cheap in scope. A few tables and booths lined the wall to the right, and the counter sat on the opposite side. And a lone table and pair of chairs took room by the window next to the entrance.
Weak imitation of paintings hung all over the each of the four walls, there was even a few small ones hanging above the large window at the front.
There was nothing that screamed money or lavish business no matter how much he looked. The cash register seemed like it was a very old model as well, quite easy to break into if he wanted. A single screwdriver or flat object like a knife and he could have it open in seconds and he'd be out the door in less than thirty.
No one here would stop him either. The man reading at the far back looked old and frail, like the rings of a tree this man displayed many years. A younger male, possibly in his twenties sat alone not too far from the old man. Wilder made an observation of the man's poor posture and noticeable dark circles under his eyes. Evidence of a third cup, not including the one he was holding, would suggest lack of sleep or troubles at home. The man wouldn't be able to put up a fight in his condition, too weak, depressed and suffering from high levels of caffeine.
And from where he was standing, sitting before him in a booth to themselves was what appeared to be a loving couple, middle aged by the looks of it. They were the only two people talking in the café and their conversation wasn't exactly private. If Wilder were to stand at the furthest wall away from the two, he would still hear the entirety of the story. Not that it would interest him.
They might pose a threat if he were to rob the place. The man might act defiant, trying to act the hero in front of his lady. Or on the other hand, the woman might pull out a hidden weapon in her purse. The worst item she could possibly have in there might be a taser or perhaps mace. Common items for any woman to protect herself.
Noticing that Wilder was looking in their direction, the woman stopped mid-sentence and glanced awkwardly at the tall black man leaning against the counter.
There was a funny look in her eyes like she couldn't understand the man standing before her was a dark-skinned man in a rich black suit. To her perhaps black men are on the poor spectrum of society, the lowest of the low as often seen on the tv news. When in reality, they have as much opportunities in life as the white folk do.
Uncomfortable tension welled from the two as the couple started talking in hushed tones, constantly shifting their eyes towards the man, while Wilder continued to observe.
Amused and admittedly a bit annoyed, Wilder took little offense when white people looked at him with distaste. He wasn't much fond of their kind either.
But the idea of annoying them drew a tiny smirk on his face.
"What? You haven't seen a black man in a suit before?" he asked sarcastically when the pair gave him a disgusted look.
The two rude patrons were definitely not too fond of the colour of Wilder's skin, or perhaps his manners. Quickly gathering their belongings, a crumpled plastic twenty-pound note was tossed onto the table before the pair left in a huff without meeting Wilder's judging eyes.
"Hmph! White people" Wilder cracked a smile while thinking that there are two people left in the café.
Calling out from the adjoining kitchen, A chirpy young voice emerged out from the beaded door way "Sorry I'm late, father needed assistance in the kitchen" she said happily.
Stepping into the cafe was a young waitress with fare pale skin and long black hair. She seemed young enough to be in college and was happily working her weekends at the café with her dad.
"Can I help you sir?" the lass asked politely.
Wilder turned with playful attitude and faced the young and beautiful woman with a light chuckle and a smile "Why aren't you a fine glass of milk"
She seemed taken aback by the comment as she tried to hide a sudden unwanted smile with her hand.
"Sir! Can I help you?" she tried to start again to Wilder's amusement.
Glancing down to her name badge on her left breast, Wilder put on a charming grin that complimented the dark stubble under his chin as he leaned in closer on the counter.
"Miss… Emily" he began with his deep soothing voice.
"What a lovely name you have my dear. Just as lovely as those sea blue eyes"
Emily faced away from Wilder quickly, out of embarrassment or interest he could not tell. But those lovely cheeks had started to turn a rosy red.
"My dear. How can you serve me if you are facing the wrong way. It would be a crime to hide a face so beautiful" he laughed lightly as the young woman conceded defeat and gradually met his eyes once more.
Clearing her throat and breathing in deeply, Emily straightened out her apron and smiled a bit more confidently this time.
"Coffee sir?" she asked as if she wanted the conversation to end quickly.
Wilder grinned a white teethy smile as he removed himself from the counter and picked up his briefcase.
"Black, two sugars"
Taking a seat by the front door, Wilder sat his briefcase on the sticky table and close to his body. Glancing out the window, the weather appeared to be continuing strong as the rain made it very hard to see across the street.
Within six minutes of sitting down, Emily came to Wilder's table with a ceramic pot of coffee and a few packets of sugars.
"Anything else I can do for you today sir?" the lass seemed charmed by Wilder's antics as she revealed a small note with hand drawn numbers sat underneath his cup.
Taking the note in hand and slipping it in behind his lapel, Wilder looked Emily up and down and cooly said "I'll call you if I need anything".
Seeming pleased as she bit her lip playfully, Emily left Wilder with a bounce in her step as she met the tired young man ready to pay at the counter.
The very moment she left, the charming smile on Wilder's face dropped quickly and vanished as a straight emotionless face emerged.
Reaching for his lapel again, the man removed two pieces of paper from the pocket. One held Emily's number and her full name "Emily Taylor". The other note possessed nothing but empty blue lines.
Taking a metal pen from inside his suit, Wilder started writing on the blank piece. In fine detail, he wrote a form of action but no name before slipping it into his left trouser pocket.
"Taylor…" he muttered as he watched the tired man leave the café.
One more…
Pouring the black hot water into his cup and ripping open two packets of white sugar. Wilder drank deeply as though the scalding coffee didn't burn his lips or tongue.
He watched and he waited for another ten minutes before the last patron was finished with his newspaper.
Tucking the news article underneath his arm the man paid at the counter with his credit card and soon headed for the door.
Getting out of his seat in a quick manner, Wilder opened the door like a gentleman for the man as the chap was old and frail.
"You'd better tuck that paper into your jacket good sir. You'd don't want it to get wet" Wilder suggested with a gentlemanly smile.
"Thank you, kind young man," thanked the old chap as he did what Wilder suggested.
Closing the door behind the old bloke, the man turned and surveyed the café once more.
"Zero" he muttered. Emily was nowhere to be seen either, but her sweet voice could be slightly heard from the kitchen talking to her father.
He was alone, only the sounds of the rain slowing down outside accompanied him. It was time to begin.
Removing the lapel from his breast pocket, Wilder took the cloth into his fingers and reached for the latch on the door. Swiftly locking it with a serious look on his face before turning the open sign to close. He made certain that his bare fingers never touched the surface.
Stepping up to his table in a quick stride, Wilder drew the window blinds shut, removing most natural light from entering the café and a lot of sight to the outside world.
"What are you doing?"
Not startled, but unexpected. Wilder shifted slowly to the sound of the voice, meeting the concerned gaze of the waitress. She stood there by the entrance of the counter with a deep worrying expression as she noticed the locked door and closed blinds.
Wilder did not answer her concerns, but simply in his own time, tucked the lapel into his breast pocket, removed his briefcase from the table and held his pen in his free hand. Calmly walking without emotion towards the frightened lass.
Knocking over the tip jar as she backed away, Emily fled into the kitchen crying out for her dad as Wilder moved behind the counter.
"DAD! DADDY!"
Wielding the black metal pen, pointing firmly towards the floor, he held it like it was a weapon or knife. Wilder swept the bead curtain to one side and dodged a greeting frying pan that whizzed past his face.
"Get out of my fucking kitchen!" an older fat man defiantly yelled as he stood his ground with Emily shaking behind his back.
It was the chef, standing in his once white dirty apron and equally stained undershirt.
Planting the briefcase next to a chopping board and sliced cucumbers, Wilder laid down his pen and entered the combination to his case, popping it open with smooth precise movement.
He didn't show any feeling of emotion as he removed a pair of white leather gloves from within, next to a hammer.
Putting on the gloves cleanly, Wilder Set the blunted instrument to one side in plain view of the father and daughter, Wilder spoke solely to the older man in a serious but commanding tone.
"Mark Taylor. That is your name isn't it. Your daughter has all but confirmed that to me."
Dodging again with little movement, Mark threw a kitchen knife at Wilder's body but missed with a bad throw.
"You stay away from my daughter you sick black bastard!"
An annoyed sigh left Wilder's partially parted lips as he realises the man doesn't know who he is.
"As I was saying. You, are Mark Taylor. Owner of this café, correct?"
Grasping the hammer in his left hand and the pen in his right, Wilder took a step forward and waited briefly for a response from Mark.
The man moved away with his daughter in tow.
Wilder took two more steps, then three. Mark moved further back and towards the fridges, frantically trying to find and fling nearby objects.
He was a terrible thrower, as all but one object hit Wilder's perfect black suit; it was a soft orange that bounced a few centimetres as it hit the floor.
"What do you want? The money's in the register. Take it! That's all you black bastards want anyway!"
Bumping into the stainless-steel metal fridges, Mark looked desperate to protect his daughter as the lass cried hot tears that burned her lovely red cheeks.
Wilder gently placed the hammer down onto a table next to a few dirty pots and pans, the handle purposely pointing towards Mark and Emily.
Rummaging in his left pocket, Wilder spoke again in his deep steady voice as he pulled out his written note paper and held it firmly between two fingers.
"Twenty-three times. In the last two months, I have I told your boys not to enter "my" territory. And twenty-three times have "I" been ignored… I am a forgiving man, Mark Taylor. I sent your boys home, alive and well. The least you could do was appreciate my kindness and leave us alone"
Readying his pen, Wilder had the note in the palm of his left hand as he eyed Mark with a glare.
"Drugs and prostitution are not welcome in Peckham. Mr. Mark. Taylor"
"Daddy?" Emily nervously said confused as she disappeared behind Mark's large body. Her innocent eyes seemed oblivious to the behind the scene dealings her father has been doing.
"Ignore him!" he yelled at her. "This fucker doesn't know what he is talking about"
Unflinching from his spot, Wilder glanced around the bare kitchen and noted a lack of personnel. He had expected one or two extra bystanders, he was prepared for it. But to see only the father alone with his daughter, well, it confirmed a few things.
"You seemed to be understaffed, Mark Taylor. One man working in the kitchen alone with his daughter must be hard work. Even for a family run business like yours, no?"
Mark started to move slowly towards the fire exit with Emily shuffling behind, their movements were sloppy and noticeable but Wilder didn't try to stop them.
"Understaffed? Heh. I don't need anybody else. There is no one else here! Now fuck off!" he bellowed.
Eyes staring like daggers; Wilder displayed a more serious look as he stated in a cold tone "Henry Price".
"He was one of yours. A kitchen worker by day. Dealer, by night"
The exit was a few more steps away when Mark replied confidently "There is no Henry here, only me and my daughter. You've got the wrong place, now leave before I call the cops!"
A squeak of a voice stammered from behind Mark as Emily voiced her opinion "Henry's not here. He called in sick yesterday" Wilder heard her cry.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID GIRL!"
A smile cracked from Wilders lips, it was short and brief but it was there.
"Do you watch the news, Mark Taylor? I keep up from time to time. Yesterday morning, a one Henry Price held up a bus in Peckham. A bus filled with my residents, both the young and old. You gave the order Mark Taylor. My people say it was you who provided Henry Price the gun and bullets to pull it off. A far cry from your usual activities, taking hostages. But I know "who" your real target was. Yes, I know all too well"
Abruptly taking three steps forwards, Mark flinched and stopped moving to the exit as Wilder moved in very close with his tall imposing dark figure.
Wilder's composure had begun to fade as a scowl started to form on his brow.
"Who gave "you" the order to highjack that bus Mr. Mark. Taylor?"
…..
"….no one…" Mark replied quietly, visibly shaking.
Taking a step back, Wilder drew in a deep breath and recomposed himself.
"No one?" he repeated coldly.
Stepping back further until he reached the table with the hammer. Wilder wrote a name while glancing at the pair before taking the thin note paper into his fingers. He raised it chest high and narrowed his eyes towards Mark.
"Do you know what this is Mark Taylor? I suppose you don't. An illiterate man like yourself couldn't understand the power behind words. This here is a piece of paper that has the power to compel a person's death. A small fragment of the greater thing I can assure you but still just as powerful. It killed Henry Price. A gunshot to the temple"
Mark grinned uncontrollably at the baffling statement "Bullshit" he blurted as Emily stopped crying.
"I gave you one last chance Mark Taylor. My mercy is at an end"
Rolling his eyes back towards the note in his hand, Wilder began to clearly read it out loud for all to hear.
"Emily Taylor picks up a hammer set on a table by a tall black man. With it she beats her father until he speaks a name questioned by the black man. If or not successful with her task, she will drop dead on the floor suddenly and peacefully"
Tucking the note into his breast pocket, Wilder stood perfectly still, hands clasped restfully as Emilly moved away from her father with red lines down her sorrowful cheeks.
"Emilly? What are you doing? Get back here now!" mark demanded as he tried to pull his daughter back to no avail.
Stepping within a foot of Wilder, Emilly picked up the hammer into her right hand. He couldn't help but look down at her frail young face. Wilder peeked into her sea blue eyes, she looked alive but vacant as the lass turned her back to him and walked away with purpose.
"Emilly?... What are you doing sweety? Put the hammer down. NOW!"
She did not comply but only moved forward with the weapon held up high.
"Last chance Mark Taylor. Tell me who ordered the high jacking and I will let Emilly go" Wilder said as Emily began her first blows.
"ARRRGH. UUGGHH" the man yelled as repeating strikes pommelled Marks arms as he tried to defend his face.
Red, black and blue quickly formed as Mark bled and cried down his cheeks. Bones cracked, blood splattered against the fridge and floor. It took three long minutes of Emily bringing down the hammer before Mark could utter coherent words from his bloody and swollen lips.
"Jackson… his name… Jackson" he spluttered.
Losing consciousness as his damaged bludgeoned eye lids closed, Mark wasn't able to witness his daughter stop abruptly and collapse onto the floor dead like a discarded doll. She died immediately and without pain as the note read.
A soft wheeze was the only sound Wilder could hear now, Mark was still alive, but barely.
With his gloved hands, he pulled out a phone from inside his suit and dialled a number.
"It is done. You can come round back now" his voice still cold and distant as he put the phone away.
Taking careful steps towards Emily's body, Wilder checked her for a phone. After a few failed attempts, he found it within the apron's pocket she wore.
Grasping the device in hand, he waited shortly until he heard a knock at the exit door.
"Come in" he called in a raised tone.
From the door arrived two other African Americans. Calvin, a tall skinny bean sprout of a man entered first shortly followed by his smaller lightly chubby brother Damian. They both stopped short of the scene of the crime, neither seemed bothered by the young body on the floor.
"Calvin. Damian. Take Miss Emily here and leave the weapon. Her body must not be found by the police. They must suspect she had fled after beating her father with the hammer. Understood"
"Yes Mr Clarke" they replied courteously in union.
As the brothers took great care in moving Emily and un-disturbing the weapon, Wilder gained access to her phone. It had a join the dots entering system, which was an easy task to crack open once Wilder breathed hot air onto the phones screen. The condensation left a noticeable series of lines on the surface.
Dialling 999, Wilder did not answer the caller on the other end when asked for the nature of emergency. He instead kneeled down towards the floor and placed the phone down gently with the operator still on the other side.
Before rising, Wilder took one last look at the shambled barely alive body of Mark Taylor and the red coated hammer that lay near-by.
"I'm sorry for your daughter" Wilder uttered under his breath.
Author's Corner;
Well, that was dark.
The one thing that I really enjoyed about Death Note as a whole, was the ethical questions of using it. Light Yagami wanted to use it to kill criminals but didn't hesitate to kill innocent people; like the FBI agents that came over from America. He even considered killing his own family if they ever discovered the Death Note.
But I don't think the manga series ever took it too far in the Death Note's use. Not that murdering thousands in creative or repetitive ways was weak or anything.
By having Wilder use Emily as the weapon to beat an answer out her own father. That felt too much to me, which was perfect, that's what I was going for. A bit of shock value to make you hate/ like or love to hate Wilder as a character and really bring out his personality while he was at it.
As to why Wilder didn't just use the Death Note on Mark and have him forcibly say the name… well that gets explained in a later chapter.
That's it for now.
May Kira be with you.
