The Lover's Children

Chapter 132 – Autumn’s Fury – Part 24

JAMES

Klempner watches, arms folded, legs akimbo as the medics lay Mitch on a stretcher, drawing over

blankets. As they take her away, Charlotte with them, he turns his back, head bowed, a palm clamped

over his mouth, a shiver running over his shoulders.

Stanton strides forward. “Mr Waterman, thank you for your assistance. We need to…” … but he falters

as Klempner pivots, fixing on him.

Behind his eyes, the Monster rages, burning like black fire.

Stanton steps back again, palms raised. “Mr Waterman… Lars… Larry… It’s me. Will Stanton. I’m on

your side. Remember? And Mitch’s.”

I move between them, laying my hand across Will’s chest. “Don't,” I murmur… “Let him get it back

under control.”

Klempner, pallid, shiny-faced, hurls a wild look at me.

“Larry, it’s me. James...” I step forward, but cautiously…“… Larry, do you know me?”

For long moments, the Monster raves and snarls…

… then Klempner inhales…

… his face clears…

And the Monster retreats, fading away into the shadows.

His breathing slows. He blows air.

Then, straightening up, rolling his shoulders as though nothing had happened, “Commissioner,” he

drawls. “I would like to speak with your prisoner. Just for a moment.”

*****

MICHAEL

“Commissioner,” drawls Klempner, suddenly all casual self-assurance. “I would like to speak with your

prisoner. Just for a moment.”

Stanton raises brows, cocks his chin to Harkness. “Go on, then.”

“A private word.”

Stanton eyes him sceptically. “You expect me to leave you alone with him?”

“No, of course not.” Klempner smiles, quite charmingly… “…But I give you my word, I’ll not lay a finger

on him.” As though to make a point, he shoves his hands into pockets.

Stanton hesitates. Klempner continues, “I’m sure you recall, Commissioner, that a number of people

you know well, have assured you that my word is good.”

Stanton havers, then raises a hand in a brief get-on-with-it gesture.

The smile flickers out. His expression etched in glass, Klempner strolls across. Harkness, hunched,

head drooping, flickers his gaze at the approaching man. Klempner halts, leaning forward, stooping a

little to murmur something to the cringing prisoner…

He keeps talking, a low rumble of words that can be just heard, but not discerned…

… and the seconds stretch out…

Harkness screams, his wrist yanking against the clutch of the cuffs and the police officer holding him.

“Get him away from me! Get him away. I got rights!”

Klempner clicks his tongue, unperturbed. “Goodbye, Ricky. I doubt we’ll meet again…” He widens his

eyes, giving Harkness a jack-o'-lantern grin. “…But I’ll follow your progress with interest.”

“Progress?” barks Stanton. “What progress? Kle… Waterman, if you…”

Klempner makes a show of removing his hands from the pockets, moving slowly and deliberately. “As I

promised, Commissioner. I never laid a finger on him. I never will.”

Stanton eyeballs him. “That is my prisoner!”

Klempner sniffs, moves to lounge against a tree, legs crossed at the ankle, “As you say, Commissioner.

All yours. Why don’t you take him away and put him… wherever it is you plan to put him…”

Stanton scowls, then, “Get him out of here.”

They haul Harkness away, screaming. “I want protection. I know my rights.”

Stanton drips irony. “I’m sure he does.” Casting a brief toxic glance at Klempner, he turns to follow.

“Erm… s’cuse me…” If a hamster made an apology, it would sound much the same. We all turn.

It’s Walter, some kind of container clutched in his hand.

“Ah,” says Klempner, stepping forward, hand outstretched. “I owe you my thanks. I…”

But the little man’s not listening. “I’ve got them,” he blurts. “I found them.” He casts fearful eyes at

Stanton… “I know it’s interfering with evidence but…” He displays the container: a plastic seal-top,

several hard somethings swilling around inside.

… “I put them in milk,” he says. “I saw it on the internet. If you put them in milk, sometimes they can fix

them right back.”

“The teeth?” I say. “You’ve got Mitch’s teeth in there?”

“That’s right.” Face anxious, he looks between us. “I hope I did the right thing?”

Stanton swings an arm to the nearest uniform. “You. Get in your car and follow the ambulance. Put

your foot down. Get those to the hospital and tell them they belong to Mrs Waterman. You… Mr…?”

“Walter Bracegirdle.”

“Mr Bracegirdle… We’re going to need a statement from you…” Awarding Klempner a final glare,

tapping into his mobile, he strides after the running officer. “Harkness is under arrest. Get the sweepers

out here…”

I sidle across to Klempner. “What the hell did you say to Harkness?”

He slants me a glance. “Just hinted at what he can expect once he’s inside.”

James shoots an alarmed glance. “For Christ’s sake, Klempner, it's still murder, even if someone else

is…”

He snorts. “He’s not going to die. Not by my hand at least. If I have my way, that bastard’s going to live

a long, long time.”

“So… what did you say?”

His nonchalance is surely faked. “I explained he’d better practice his yoga technique. He’s going to

spend a lot of time gripping his ankles.” Klempner’s insouciance fades.

He presses fingers to his forehead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the hospital.”

I jingle keys. “I’ll drive.”

*****

JAMES

A cool autumn evening, and the family gather around the fire.

Mitch has reverted to ‘knitting mode’. The worst of previously brutal bruising and swelling has faded

and she’s all but lost the slurring in her speech. But still, it will be some while yet before she can look in

a mirror and see her own true face.

Occasionally, I see her staring into the distance, But we’ve all learned that the best cure for that is

Cara. She’s old enough to understand that Gammy Mitch is sad.

So now, Mitch works on her latest project, her needles click-clicking over something in primrose yellow.

By her armchair, the Bag-of-Holding-All-Things bulges, spilling yarn in bird-blue, cotton-candy-pink and

apple-green.

The beneficiary of said project shares the couch with Charlotte and Michael, the pair watching some

old black-and-white flick, he with one arm slung around her shoulders and the other hand on her

swelling stomach.

Richard has half an eye cocked on his newspaper, and the other on Beth. In theory, she’s reading the

glossy that came with the paper. In practice, at ground level, she’s doing battle with Adam, who wants

to use Daddy’s trouser leg as a climbing frame.

I gave up the fight some while ago. Cara occupies the spot on my knee intended for my laptop, so I

read from my tablet instead; Jack Reacher once more takes on the Bad Guys.

As ever, Klempner sits to the rear of the room, watching Mitch, appearing quite contented as, silently,

he nurses a brandy.

A brandy…

Hmmm…

The front door Bing-Bongs.

Michael arches brows, casting around the room as he untangles from Charlotte and makes for the hall.

“We expecting anyone?”

Blank looks and shrugs all around.

He returns half a minute later with a familiar figure. “Visitor for you, Richard.” Will Stanton follows him

into the room, his bulky figure dominating the space.

Richard blinks and makes to stand… “Good evening, Will… “…but Stanton waves him down.

“Don’t disturb yourself, Richard. In fact, it was Mr Waterman I came to see.” Some undercurrent runs

through his voice.

I wrestle Cara off my lap and set her down by Adam. “I was about to pour myself a drink, Will. Can I get

you something? Or are you on duty?”

“Thank you, James. A scotch if you have some. And no, I’m not on duty. I’m here in an unofficial

capacity…” His gaze once more sharpens onto Klempner. “…More or less.”

Klempner sips at his glass, swishing it around his mouth. “Is there something I can do for you,

Commissioner?”

Stanton moves to the hearth, rubbing his palms together, then turns to stand with his back to the fire,

hands clasped behind. “I thought you would be interested in an update on the progress of Harkness…”

Mitch hisses in a breath, putting her knitting down. Klempner flicks eyes to her, his face impassive. “Do

go on, Commissioner.”

“Not just you of course,” he continues. “Given events, I imagine all of you will be interested.” He

pauses. “Mrs Waterman… Mitch… If you prefer that I don’t…”

Her words are crisp. “No. Thank you, Will. I think I’d like to hear what you have to tell us.”

I push a tumbler of scotch into his hand. He inhales, then drinks. “My information is that Harkness, now

in maximum-security confinement, is not doing well under incarceration.”

“Did you expect him to?” A stone would wear more expression than Klempner. “I imagine he’s having

trouble adapting. A coward like him would go under very quickly.”

“You might say that.” Stanton awards him another hard stare. “Not just quickly. Immediately. The very

day he arrived, Harkness was targeted by a number of the other high-security cases; one in

particular…”

Klempner cocks a brow. “Really? Hardly unexpected, of course. It’s routine when a new prisoner

arrives that he will be… tested… by the other inmates.” His lips quirk.

Will chisels his words from the air. “Tell me, Mr Waterman, does the name Kalad Reichmann mean

anything to you?”

Klempner remains silent, but something shifts behind his eyes. As it becomes clear he's not going to

reply, Stanton huffs exasperation, fingers drumming against his glass.

I break the stalemate. “Enlighten us, Will. Who is he?”

“Kalad Reichmann. He's a high-security prisoner. A lifer with no possibility of parole. He's in for armed

robbery, assault, murder; you name it. He's as hard as they come, and sadistic with it. He occupies a

cell on the same landing as Harkness, calling the shots there. Along with half a dozen cronies of similar

ilk, he terrorises and rules the remaining inmates.”

He turns square-on to Klempner. “Perhaps you have crossed paths with Reichmann in the past?”

Klempner sips his brandy, inhaling from the glass, apparently savouring both flavour and aroma. His

throat ripples, his voice neutral. “Perhaps I have.” NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

I exchange a glance with Richard; another with Michael. The women watch with wary interest.

Klempner refuses to meet any eye.

I wind a circle in the air with my forefinger. “Carry on, Will.”

The look Will casts Klempner’s way wavers between anger and frustration, then settles on resignation.

“As said, it's routine that a new inmate will be challenged by the existing… hierarchy. The weaker ones

usually go quickly under. Effectively, they become slaves to the stronger inmates…”

“…When Harkness arrived, Reichmann took an immediate and apparently personal interest in him…”

Again, he glares at Klempner, who again refuses to take the bait…

“…As we all know, Harkness is a coward and a weakling. There was no possibility he could stand up to

the likes of Reichmann, and no real suggestion he tried. But his treatment was savage. Within hours of

arrival, he was in the infirmary with half his teeth kicked out. Most of the rest had been removed with

pliers stolen from God-knows-where…”

… His gaze skims Mitch, her fading bruises, her still-swollen mouth and cheeks.

Klempner clucks, nodding. “Almost bound to happen, prison wolves being what they are.”

A short, pregnant silence, then Beth pipes up. “Larry, what’s a ‘prison wolf’? A senior prisoner?”

Klempner softens his tone. “More than that, Beth. A prison wolf is…” He pauses, choosing his words

perhaps… “… a straight prisoner who… engages in sex with other men whilst under incarceration.”

“You mean he…” Beth raises a hand to her mouth… “Oh!”

Klempner cants his head, lips twitching. “Yes. Exactly. ”

Stanton Harrumphs, inspecting his shoes.

Charlotte’s voice is strident. “But Will here just said that they took his teeth. Not that they raped him.”

Stanton raises eyes to the ceiling… pauses… perhaps waiting for her to join the dots herself. Then

when she remains blank-faced, “Charlotte, the fact is that it’s not uncommon for…”

He palms the back of his neck, looking away, then… “… not uncommon for the underdogs to have their

teeth knocked out so they’re better able to service their Masters.”

Klempner leans forward, elbows on knees. “What the Commissioner is trying to explain, Jenny, very

inarticulately, is that Harkness is going to make some shower-stalker a very happy man. Probably

several of them. He’s going to spend much of the rest of his life with a good tight hold on his ankles.

Most of the rest, he’ll be on his knees. And that’s why some lifer bad-ass would take his teeth.”

He sits back again, swishing brandy around the balloon glass. “If it hadn’t been Reichmann, it would

have been one of the others.” A smile skirts his lips that has little to do with humour. “Perhaps

Harkness thought he got off lightly. Arrested rather than killed. But he’s going to do hard time. The very

hardest.”

Stanton’s voice is acid. “And do we suppose it’s a complete coincidence that immediately on entering

the penal system, Harkness has been subjected to this treatment?”

Klempner’s eyes crease. “Coincidence, Commissioner?”

Will strolls across the room, standing over the seated Klempner, perhaps deliberately looming.

“Reichmann's already been inside for over ten years. Any money from his previous criminal activities is

long gone. His family who, credit where it’s due, are the one thing he does display any affection for,

have been living on the edge for years. Living on benefits and handouts…”

“…However, it appears that his wife is suddenly able to afford a pleasant City apartment. And his

daughter, who was scratching a part-time living as a waitress, has somehow found the money to attend

art college.”

Klempner leans back in his seat, looking up, but apparently un-loomed. “As you say, Commissioner.

Quite the coincidence.”

“And the money?”

He tugs at an earlobe. “Well… that’s the entrepreneurial society for you, isn’t it.”

Stanton stoops, eyeballing Klempner. “Harkness is inside. Right? Serving his sentence. Life-long. He’s

not going to breathe fresh air again. I don’t want to hear that he has any unexpected accidents.”

“I agree with you, Commissioner.” Klempner raises his glass in a sort-of toast. “I hope Patrick Harkness

will have a very long and very instructive life.”