The Lover's Children novel Chapter 43

RICHARD

“So she did.” Klempner sucks at his cheeks…

Choosing his words?

“… But I was hoping we’d put that behind us.”

It’s as close to an apology as I’m ever likely to get.

Take the rod from out of your ass…

Forcing myself to relax back into my seat, I take another sip from my glass. Sculpting my voice to more mellow tones. “We have, yes.”

Klempner mirrors my sip then gestures vaguely around the square. “This one of yours, too? Last time I was here, a few years ago, if I’ve got my geography right, it was a truck repair yard.”

A swift change of topic…

Flattery?

From Klempner?

Or simply learning some tact?

But I suppress my smile. “You’re right. We moved the repair yard away from the City centre, put it somewhere more appropriate on what was waste ground behind the railway station. This square was completed just two months ago. What do you think?”

Klempner swings his head, nodding as he looks around. “Pretty good. Got an almost Mediterranean feel about it.”

“The design is James' work…” I wave a finger toward my architect and fellow director… “… I think he was hankering for Spain while he was putting pencil to paper.”

James nods pleased agreement. “If there’s one thing the Spanish understand about city planning, it’s how to use outside space so that everyone benefits…” His voice trails away as he realises Klempner’s not listening, instead his attention is on the women.

Mitch and Elizabeth are comparing notes on a trim bra and pantie set. In a shade of the deep jade green both women suit so well, trimmed with lace, it looks quite lovely. Mitch holds the set up against Charlotte, who scowls and leans away.

James sighs, stands, and strolls around the table. Stooping to ear level, he says something quiet to Charlotte. Her eyes widen and, swallowing, she accepts the lingerie set in apparent surrender, but sits, still stiff-backed and belligerent.

James strolls back, shaking his head. “You’d think she didn’t need clothes.”

I’m intrigued. “What did you say?”

“I told her what I'll do to her when I find she's wearing them. And what I’ll do if she doesn’t.”

Klempner winces and looks away. “That's my daughter you're talking about.”

“It's my wife I'm talking about.”

He glares, then shrugging, turns to Charlotte. “Which taxidermist assaulted you?” he drawls.

She looks away, folds her arms.

“For what it's worth to you,” he continues, “I didn't much want to lounge for two hours by the women's lingerie department either.”

Her mouth purses.

Klempner leans across the table, resting on folded arms. His voice low. “If you don't put on a good face and start showing some courtesy to your mother, you and I are going to cross swords.”

Still, Charlotte says nothing, simply lifts her chin, stares him down.

James speaks equally quietly. “As will you and I.”

Charlotte blinks. Her mouth opens and closes before she ducks her head. “Sorry. I’ll… I’ll try.”

James inclines his head. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

Charlotte’s blink is matched by Klempner’s. Picking up his glass, his gaze flickers between James and his suddenly cooperative daughter.

What did Mitch make of all that?

But Mitch’s attention is elsewhere. Looking out across the square toward the bus station, she lays a hand on Beth’s arm, muttering something I can’t pick out. Beth nods, replying equally quietly.

A girl in a cheap cotton print dress and cheaper shoes hovers in the exit of the station. Barely a teenager, wheeling a suitcase behind her, she gazes first one way, then the other.

Runaway?

Straight out of the small towns.

First time away from home...

She looks utterly lost.

Mitch drums fingernails on the tabletop in a machine-gun rhythm. “What are you going to do about her?”

Klempner, glass in hand, swishes beer around his mouth, then realising Mitch is addressing him, jolts to attention. “What?”

“That girl. What are you going to do about her?”

Bafflement skips across his face. “Do?”

“Yes. Do. What are you going to do?”

Klempner follows her pointing finger. “Why me? And anyway, what d’you expect me to do?”

Mitch leans close. “Look at her. She has no idea,” she hisses.

“I’d agree.” Klempner muses into his glass. “… but this is my fault, how exactly?”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault…” Mitch eye-points a figure on a nearby bench. “… but she'll be eaten alive.”

The figure makes a show of breaking up bread and tossing the pieces to an incoming squadron of pigeons. But it doesn’t take much to see he’s watching the girl.

“Hmmm…” Klempner nods agreement, takes a mouthful of beer and wipes away a foam moustache with the back of his hand. “… Yes, if she hangs around looking that docile, they’ll have her by evening.”

Distant thunder rumbles into Mitch’s voice. “Larry...”

He rubs at his forehead. “Mitch, I'm not a branch of the social services. How am I responsible for the girl? I didn't put her there. She’s made her own choices about where to be.”

Mitch’s lips press to a line that would cut glass. Cannonballs would bounce off her expression.

Feeding time in the shark tank…

I knock back my beer, then under Mitch’s gimlet stare, amble across the square. I’ve done this before of course, many times.

But with different intentions.

As she sees me coming, the kid’s all eyes. Barely out of the freckles and knobbly-knees phase. She’d bring a good price to a handler who knew what he was doing.

Her voice wavers. “Hello.”

“Hello.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “New in town?”

She drops eyes, cheeks pinking. “Yes.”

“First time away from home, I suppose?”

“Umm… Yes.”

“Got somewhere to go?”

“No... Not yet.”

“Any money?”

“A bit.” She toes at the ground, then attempts to pull herself together, lifting her face to meet mine. “…I can look after myself.” She raises her chin. “I’m going to find a job. Get my own place.”

“Is that right?” I thumb toward the bench and its occupant. From here, I have a partial view of his profile.

Definitely familiar…

Who the hell is he?

“You see that man over there? Blue check shirt. Blond curls and beard. Feeding the pigeons. Or pretending to.”

She rubs a palm over her thigh, then snatches it back again. “Yes. What about him?”

“He was watching you until I arrived. He still is, but he’s wondering who I am. If you hang around here, he's going to come and offer to buy you a drink. Or to pay for your lunch, perhaps. He'll be persistent…” Her eyes and mouth form Os… “… If you walk away, you’ll find that you accidentally bump into him again, maybe in a cafe. Or he’ll have your purse and say you dropped it.”

Her breathing is rapid. She shifts on her feet, her weight moving from left foot to right and back again.

I continue. “Once he’s got you talking, he’ll invite you to a party. Or maybe he’ll tell you he knows someone with a room going cheap. Then, when you’ve agreed and gone along with him, you'll find you've been offered that job you were talking about. But it won’t be the one you’re looking for, and he won't take no for an answer…” She looks half-catatonic… “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

The girl pales, hunching. “Yes,” she whispers. Her eyes redden and gloss. “I only want to find some work. Get my own place. I can’t go back home.” Her palm slides down again, this time stroking her belly.

“I understand that. We can’t always go back home. Sometimes there’s no home to go back to.”

She’s trembling. “Do you know where the labour exchange is? Or the jobcentre?”

I turn, angle a finger back at Haswell, watching me from behind the mirrored sunglasses. “You see that man there? Wearing the flashy shades. With the smile like a smug cat? He's an important man in this City. I happen to know he's hiring trainee secretaries. Go over, introduce yourself. If you make a good impression, you won't find a better employer.”

Her breathing shudders. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”