The Lover's Children novel Chapter 115

JAMES

I pull up a chair to give myself a few seconds to think. “I wouldn't spend too much time dwelling on that subject.”

“No? You don’t consider it a relevant thought? In my case?”

“No. I don’t. I know where you’re going with that line of thinking. Listen…”

I pause, take a breath, turning the words in my head… “Larry, we all know there is much for you to answer for. But we also know what made you the way you were. The way you used to be. The childhood maketh the man…

“… When it came to it, you wanted redemption. You actively sought it out. And we all know you’ve moved Heaven and Earth to earn it…” He doesn’t speak, merely regarding me silently, lids hooded over flat, grey eyes…

I continue. “… I don't believe Harkness is either looking for redemption. Or capable of it. Every indication is that he intends to carry on exactly as he has been, even if he has gone to ground for now. We all have choices. Whatever made Harkness what he is, he had choices too. He could have turned away from the path he followed at any time…”

Time for a change of pace…

I make a broad gesture over the stacks of paper, the mounds of files. “So… what have you learned?”

“It’s not so much what I’ve learned as what I’m speculating.”

“Which is?”

“The mother. Narcissistic. Over-protective, to the son at least. Controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Narcissists are typically controlling and manipulative. Everything is about them. If the mother played to the audience that she loved the boy, there’s every reason to think she would have done her best to keep hold of his reins. Kept him as her satellite.”

“So… you think… what? Harkness resents his mother? Perhaps hates her?”

Klempner slips something from a file; a photograph, old, yellowed at the edges, what looks like an ordinary family photo. A group of three. A woman, older, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a teenage boy, the other arm around a younger girl.

“The Harkness family,” says Klempner. “You’ll recognise Patrick Harkness, but look at the mother and daughter.”

I look again…

Two women, a generation apart. But cast the same mold.

The older one, attractive, but with hard edges written into her face, her stance, and now I look properly, the firm hold on both of the children. What, on casual glance is an affectionate arm around the shoulders, on a closer inspection, is a tight grip. The fingers clutching into their arms.

The younger girl, she’s lovely, in the way of blooming teenage girls. Leggy, fresh-faced, her long hair catching a little in the breeze, she destined to be a beauty.

But she leans away from her mother and brother. Her face is angled away. Physically, she’s part of the group. But in every other way, she’s not. In her head, she’s somewhere else.

And Harkness himself…

A rictus of a smile aims at the camera, but his eyes are elsewhere, scything toward the two women.

What are those eyes saying?

Lust for the sister?

Or hatred for the mother?

Or both?

“It has been assumed,” says Klempner softly, “that Harkness’ motivation was lust for his sister. But suppose, in fact, it was the mother?”

“You think we have some sort of latter-day Oedipus? He lusted after his sister, but it was really the mother he wanted?”

“I was thinking more of Nero than Oedipus.”

My brain turns through a quick spin… “Nero who… who had sex with his mother? And later murdered her?” I scrape fingers through my scalp. “Sorry, I’m just trying to remember my classical history.”

Klempner holds up a tablet, displaying some Wiki article. “I was running through a refresher myself. Agrippina, mother of Nero. According to what we know of her, beautiful, ruthless, and intelligent. And insane for power. To consolidate her hold on her son, she seduced him. She married her own uncle, the then emperor of Rome, Claudius, and later poisoned him. That put Nero, whose sanity was way out, dancing with the fairies, into power as emperor of Rome and its empire. Agrippina paid the price for her power-lust when Nero murdered her.”

I ponder this rush of insight. “So… you think that… when Harkness has been killing beautiful, long-haired women, it’s not his sister he’s been murdering, again and again. It’s his mother? He’s working through a kind of… vicarious revenge?”

Klempner nods down to the photograph. One known serial killer. One long-haired, beautiful, victim. One long-haired, beautiful… living woman.”

“Where the hell does she live? If Harkness goes after her. Whatever she’s done in the past, if he…”

“I’ve already messaged Stanton with my thoughts. But, in fact, the police already have her home staked out. It’s an obvious place for him to try to hide.”

*****

HARKNESS

My cash is getting pretty thin, but a collect call gets me through on the phone. The line connects.

“Mom, it’s me. I was thinking of coming back home for a few weeks. Is that okay?”

“Ricky Darling. So good to hear from you. It’s been so long. Of course, it's alright. Is it the end of term?”

“Yeah, finished my exams last week.”

“How did it go? As if I needed to ask.”

“Aced them all, Mom.”

“Of course you did. I'll make up your room for you. Oh, and I can introduce you to Owen while you’re staying. You'll want to meet him. He and I have become such good friends.”

*****

Owen…

Wonder what this one’s worth?

You’ve been smiling your Botoxed smile at him? Showing off your pumped-up tits?

You turn my stomach.

You old whore…

You old fucking whore…

*****

From a distance, I park up and wait. And I watch.

The binoculars aren’t great, but they’ll do. The original owner doesn’t need them anymore.

Chomping on a pizza, I wash it down with cola. The roadside cafe where I bought it is new. They won’t know me.

The pizza’s okay-ish…

Could have used more anchovies...

Six-thirty…

Whoever this Owen is she’s fucking this time, he’ll probably turn up some time in the next couple of hours.

The door opens a couple of times and she strolls out, looking up and down the road, then strolls back in, looking pissed off.

“That's not exactly dancing, is it? More like gymnastics. Give it a try by all means.”

Charlotte strides across.

Beside me, Michael murmurs, “How d’you feel about installing a pole down in the basement?”

“Way ahead of you.”

*****

HARKNESS

I slide a look sidelong at my 'companion'. He swigs from a bottle clutched in a brown paper bag. I'm not sure what he's drinking, but I'm pretty sure it came from a hardware store, not a liquor store.

A chemical smell drifts my way, not masking the stench of unwashed body and clothes. And something else: a scent like rot. Putrid.

Meths?

Stupid bastard.

He'll be blind soon if he's not careful. Or worse.

I shiver, tugging my jacket tight. The days are still warm, but the nights are getting colder. A faint breeze nips through my coat. My shoes too. The soles are wearing thin.

Stupid-Bastard’s not shivering. He looks quite cheerful, in fact. Turning my way, he waves the bottle at me, grinning, brown-toothed, his lips split and cratered with a purple tinge.

How long's he been drinking that stuff?

The breeze drifts my way. He smells like an open sewer.

Probably rotting from the inside.

“No, thanks.”

Still… his overcoat looks quite good. A decent, heavyweight serge, army surplus or some such. It looks a lot better than what I'm wearing.

He wasn't wearing it yesterday.

The grin turns my way again. “Got any shmokes?”

“Sure, if you don't mind these.” I fish a couple of not-quite-finished butts from a pocket. I don't use them myself, but I’ve learned that at my current social level, they're hard currency. “Help yourself.”

I pass one to him. The khaki/toothed grin gapes to a blast of putrescent breath. He takes the butt with fingers like diseased sausages.

Wonder where he got the coat?

Some charity flop?

About my size too…

He staggers upright, lurching to where half a dozen of his kindred warm hands over a tin barrel, burning whatever rubbish is to hand. The flames smoke black; oil or rubber perhaps, but at least it cuts down on the floating litter and washed-up trash which accumulates here.

Lights the butt from the ‘brazier’, he smokes the thing while exchanging what passes for conversation, then weaves his way back to ‘home’.

His legs fold, letting him back down to the layers of cardboard. Eyelids drooping, he takes another swig from his bottle. Briefly, he turns my way. “Thankshh.”

“No problem. You can do the same for me sometime.”

He nods, expression flaccid, the grin rubbery, then curls in on himself and closes his eyes, the bottle clutched to his middle. He didn't screw the top back. The angle increases. He'll lose it all soon.