Masters And Lovers 1-4

Chapter 23

I find him outside, glass in hand.

“Ben?”

He turns, and all the camaraderie and any pretense of good humor has vanished. “What?”

Close up, the smell of whiskey on his breath is strong.

“Are you alright?”

He takes a mouthful of the whiskey, rolls it around his mouth. “Alright? No, as a matter of fact, I’m not

alright. You think there’s a reason I should be?”

“What’s the matter?”

In the darkness, the whites of his eyes reflect. “The matter is… You just announced to everyone, to all

our family, as though it’s good news, that your wife is about to have a baby.”

“The rest of them seem very pleased about it.”

“Mike, you don’t even know it’s yours. It could be his.”

The words tumble from my mouth. “It is his…”

Crap…

Shouldn’t have said that…

Or should I?

Ben’s hands are fisting, knuckles whitening…

Here we go again…

“How…” He splutters the words, stops, then starts again. “How can you say that and be so calm? It’s

his? You know that? You mean your wife has been fucking with him and you’ve not…?” His voice

vanishes to a strangled gurgle.

“No. For what business it is of yours, that’s not what it means. We arranged it between us. Charlotte

and I.”

“Arranged? What do you mean, arranged?”

“We arranged that… Jeez, Ben, there’s more than one way of getting your rocks off. We just made sure

that only James was able to…”

Ah, Christ….

“To what? Impregnate her?” White-faced, Ben looms close. “How the fuck did he convince you to do

that?”

“He didn’t. It’s not James’ doing. He didn’t know about it. It was Charlotte who wanted to give him

something to make up for losing his daughter.”

“What d’you mean? Lose his daughter?”

“It’s a long story, Ben. Listen, what happened to you agreeing you’d think before you damned anyone

to hell for not seeing things your way? If you didn’t condemn everything you hear that doesn’t fit your

idea of how to do things, then I’d tell you more. As it is you make it impossi….”

“And what about her?”

“Her? Charlotte?”

“No, her mother. The woman you’ve got living in with you.”

“Mitch? What about her?”

“I figured it out. You wouldn’t tell me, but I figured it. She’s a hooker, isn’t she? You said she left home

at fifteen. How else would she have managed? She went on the streets, and that’s why her brother

wouldn’t have her back.” He squares up.

Fuck…

I don’t want to speak, don’t want to lie to my brother.

But if I admit the truth…

He repeats. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I inhale, then exhale. “Yes, you’re right. Mitch was very young; very sheltered and inexperienced. And

yes, she had to feed herself, pay rent and all the other things that the rest of us have to do.”

Ben snorts. “So, Charlotte’s mother was a prostitute too.”

“What d’you mean… too? Are you trying to imply Charlotte is a prostitute?”

He shrugs. “What would you call it? The way she chooses to live… Runs in the family doesn't it. Be

honest with yourself, Mike, she’s doesn't have the morals of an alley cat. This at least explains why.”

My face turning warm, “That's my wife you're talking about. Fucking well take that back.”

“My apologies, Bro. She does have the morals of an alley cat.” He slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Look,

it’s not her fault…”

Condescending bastard…

“… She was being trained to be a sex worker. Her mother was already at it. What else could you

expect?”

Fury wells up inside me. I want to shout him down, but the words won’t come out…

No, I want to punch him in the face…

I slap Ben’s hand away from my shoulder. All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

He keeps blundering on, keeps talking… “…What happened? The mother got herself pregnant on the

job I suppose and didn't want the kid? Just passed her brat over for adoption?”

“No. She didn’t leave Charlotte there. Charlotte was… stolen… from her mother. She…”

A door opens and a long finger of golden light casts over the dark courtyard. “Michael, are you okay out

there?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Charlotte. Go back into the warm.”

The door closes again and I whirl on my brother. “Get the hell out of here, Ben. I don’t want you back in

the party and I don’t want to talk to you again for a few days. And when we do talk, if you don’t fix your

attitude, we’re going to have serious words.”

His jaw drops. “You’re throwing me out?”

“Yes, I’m throwing you out. You promised to behave but you just can’t control the urge to mouth off, can

you? Good night.” And with that, I spin, march back indoors and close the door behind me.

*****

Klempner - The Present

Hands and ankles cuffed, I wait in the yard. A grey sky spits rain on the grey tarmac, grey stonework

and the dark grey uniforms of my guards.

The van arrives, equally grey, pulling up close by. Paired metal doors swing open at the back, revealing

the inside, stark and gloomy, a slatted bench flush to either side. Hoops and bars project from the

framework for the restraint of high-risk transportees.

“In you go, Larry...” Hartwell pokes me in the ribs with his baton, playfully…

Think it’s funny, do you…

“… I don’t know what idiot thinks you belong in a low-security prison but I’ll not be sorry you’re not my

responsibility anymore.”

I say nothing, all obedience, stepping up to the van. My movement is awkward in my cuffs as I grab the

handle to pull myself up. Sutcliffe raises a hand, supporting me at the elbow as I rise.

“Leave him alone, Sutcliffe,” snaps Hartwell. “Larry’s a big boy now. He can get himself inside.”

“Yes, sir.” Sutcliffe follows me up, indicating a seat then, his back turned to Hartwell, he grimaces in

apology as I sit. Producing keys, he releases one hand, cuffs the other to the restraint bar then sits

beside me.

Hartwell climbs in, the remaining warder slamming the doors closed behind him. Tugging the sharply

ironed crease of his trousers up at the knee, he takes a seat opposite, then bangs the flat of his hand

on the wall by the grill; once, twice. The metal walls over the cabin vibrate as the engine rumbles into

life,

Hartwell pulls out a handset which crackles as he speaks into it. “Setting off now.” He tucks it away

again into the holster on his belt. On his other hip…

Taser?

The fabric of his shirt folds over the holster, partially concealing the contents. I lean, shifting on my seat

as though uncomfortable, trying to get a better look…

No…

Glock?

HK45?

“Something wrong, Larry?” Hartwell’s voice grates and echoes.

“Cuff’s tight. It’s digging in.” I offer up my restrained wrist as far as it will move.

He snorts. “As I said, you’re a big boy now. You’ll live.”

The interior looks clean but with the doors closed, smells sour. Sweat and stale cigarette smoke

compete with urine and vomit. Hartwell grimaces. “What is it about these things? Doesn’t matter how

often they’re cleaned out, they never smell any better.”

I grunt and he raises brows. “Something we agree on, eh? Like it nice and tidy do we? Too used to

Mommy cleaning up after you?”

Heat blooms up my chest and my eyes rise to his. Hartwell’s chin rises. “Yes, I’ll be glad to see the

back of you, Larry.”

How long?

I hold his gaze. “Be careful what you wish for, Mr Hartwell.”

He blows out his cheeks and looks away.

*****

Brakes whine and the rumbling of the engine changes key. The van jolts and halts. We jolt with it.

Hartwell pulls out his handset. “What’s happening?”

A voice crackles back. “Flock of fucking sheep in the middle of the road.”

“Drive round them.”

“Can’t. It’s fenced.”

Hartwell, one hand with the handset, reaches for his sidearm with the other. “Move away from him,

Sutcliffe.”

Sutcliffe looks to me. I shrug.

Hartwell stands, stooping from the roof. “What the fuck’s going on here? Sutcliffe?” But he’s looking

down the muzzle of Sutcliffe’s Glock. Sutcliffe gestures with the gun, down to Hartwell’s sidearm.

Slowly, reluctantly, he takes it from the holster, passing it to Sutcliffe.

There’s a banging on the doors. “Open up!”

“Sir?” Sutcliffe speaks sidelong, eyes and weapon fixed on Hartwell.

“Do as the man says. Open the door. And give me your keys and Hartwell’s Glock.”

Hartwell, white-faced, lets out air.

Et Tu Brute?

Sutcliffe fumbles for keys, passing them to me one-handed, keeping his gun locked on Hartwell. It’s a

little fiddly unlocking the cuff with one hand, but I’m cheerful about it. Rubbing blood back into my wrist,

I unlock the doors. From the outside, the handle turns and the doors swing wide, letting in a rush of

clean air.

“Good to see you, sir.” Baxter stands almost to attention.

“You too, Baxter. Efficient as ever I see.”

Hartwell’s voice comes from behind me, hollow-sounding in the van. “You never had me fooled, Larry.”

“That’s Mr Klempner to you.” To Baxter, “Knife.”

He grins as he passes it across. “As you requested, sir.”

Stepping up and back into the van, I make sure he sees it coming. Hartwell screams as the blade goes

in. I plunge, twist and tear upwards. Shrieking, he drops, convulsing and clutching at his gut. Wiping the

blade on his pants, I shove it into my belt.

“The driver? One of ours?”

“No, sir.” Baxter jerks his head to the doors. “Outside.”

The driver is on the ground, some sidekick of Baxter’s keeping him covered. Baxter advances, muzzle

zeroing in.

The driver weeps and pleads. “Please, you promised. My wife. My little boy… You promised.”

“Baxter, what’s he talking about?”

“We’ve got the wife and kid. Just making sure he behaved himself. Did as he was told.”

The driver screams, looking up to me, streaming tears. “They promised. Please. My wife…”

I hunker down next to him. “And you love your wife…”

His breath comes in jerks. “Please,” he says. “I’m dead. I know I’m dead. But don’t hurt them. Let them

go. Please let them go.”

I stand, turn to Baxter. “Tie him up and shut him up.“

Baxter blinks. “Sir?”

“You heard me. Gag him. Where’s the wife and kid?”

Baxter lowers his voice. “We have them under guard in the basement of one of the old warehouses by

the docks.”

“Fine. Same for them. Gag them. Make sure they can’t get out by themselves but tell him…” I jab a

finger at the driver, “… where he can find them.”

Baxter curls a lip. “As you say, sir.”

“And keep your opinions to yourself, Baxter.”

“I didn’t speak, sir.”

“You spoke very loudly. Now, do as I say…” I turn to face him… “… unless you want to argue about it?”

He lowers his eyes, then his face. “No, sir.”

“Pleased to hear it. Sutcliffe…”

“Sir?” He holds a carryall in one hand.

“As you would imagine, I’m leaving. What are your plans?”

“I’m leaving too, sir.” He waves towards a car parked on the verge. “I… er… wasn’t expecting to be so

involved in this…” He turns to where blood trickles from the back of the van, pooling in the dirt below.

From inside comes a rattle and a groan. Sutcliffe pales. “I didn’t know I’d be on transport duty until the

last minute. I’ve had to change my plans. I’m heading for, um, foreign shores.”

“You okay for money?”

“You have been very generous, sir, but I’ll admit I could use some more to, er, oil the wheels.”

“Is fifty thousand enough oil for you?”

“That would be very helpful, sir.”

“Good. Make sure Baxter has your bank details. I’ll have it forwarded.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

Sutcliffe, bag in hand heads for his car. Baxter sidles close, voice very low. “Sir, you can’t let him go.”

“Who? Sutcliffe? What’s your problem with him?”

“He knows too much.”

“Sutcliffe’s been nothing but loyal. He’s performed perfectly.”

“Sir, he’s been privy to everything that’s gone between us. He knows names, times, places. If he’s

caught…”

“He’s leaving the country.”

Baxter’s voice turns to a hiss. “Have you seen his passport? It’s a fake and a bad one. Sir, he’s an

amateur. You cannot let him go.”

“He’s done nothing to deserve it, Baxter. He’s done exactly what he was asked when he was asked.”

Baxter stands rigid. “Sir, I believe you employ me because you trust my judgment. I ask that you trust

my judgment in this. Sutcliffe cannot be permitted to roam free.”

He speaks slowly, intensely. His words filter through.

“I don’t like this. Alright, but make it quick. Ideally…” I jab a finger at him… “… make sure he doesn’t

see it coming.”

Baxter jerks a nod and turns to where Sutcliffe is rummaging in the back of his car. “Here, let me help

you with that.” Baxter comes up from behind, slaps him on the shoulder with one hand, raises the other

to his temple. As the gun fires, Sutcliffe jolts and falls.

Baxter returns, slotting the gun into its shoulder holster. He glares down at the wild-eyed van driver.

Behind the tape over his mouth, the driver whimpers…

“Does Sutcliffe have a family?”

“Girlfriend and a kid I believe.”

“See she gets the money.”

Baxter stares at me. “Sir?”

“He was going to be paid. See that the money goes to the girlfriend.”

“And how do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Use your fucking imagination. She can win the lottery. Get an unexpected bequest from a

dead uncle…”

Bech, where are you when I need you…?

Baxter nods but narrows his eyes…

… And I know rebellion when I see it.

Baxter checks his watch. “Six minutes.”

Time to leave.

*****