Masters And Lovers 1-4

Chapter 43

The church is tiny, set in maybe half an acre of green grass and greener trees. Everything by the gate,

the path, the porch, is neatly clipped and mown. But further away, towards the back, the grass is

longer, save for where it dies away under the shade of a vast yew tree.

A few late bluebells nestle under a hedgerow and some kind of little brown bird whistles melodically

from an overhanging chestnut, the only sound here away from the road, save for the susurration of

wind in leaves and the sound of our own footsteps.

We step carefully around marble-edged graves, avoiding low green mounds no longer having

headstones.

And she’s there, kneeling in the grass, in a tucked-away corner set back from the rest of the graves.

She doesn’t hear us, occupied in some task or other.

As we draw closer, I see she’s tidying up an already tidy grave. Although someone has been looking

after it, dandelions have invaded and she’s busily digging out the roots with a hand-fork.

James meets my eye.

Do we disturb her?

I shrug, hold up palms. It’s clearly a private moment…

Charlotte turns. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise you were there.” Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Her cheeks are wet and she wipes at them with dirty hands before James passes her a handkerchief.

“Are we intruding?” He speaks softly.

“No.” She sniffs. “But I wanted to come. It’s not as though anything I do really helps… but… You

know…”

He kisses her on the cheek. “Yes, I know.”

He wanders across to the grave. Plain, nothing out of the ordinary, a simple headstone bears a six-

pointed star and a name, Levi Kalkowski.

*****

Klempner

I can’t be bothered to turn the light on. As the day fades, I sit, cradling a glass in my palm. The heat of

my hand warms the brandy and the fumes are heady, but I don’t drink.

Two photos sit together; both women red-headed, green-eyed. Both beautiful.

Might-have-beens and never-weres flit through my brain; sweet memories made bitter by time and the

toxic reality.

All those years…

Made my own bed…

Mitch…

I think of her, as she is now. Older than the image carved into my brain, but her hair still red, with that

hint of gold. Her eyes like green gems. Her skin like milk tinted with rose petals.

Terrified of me…

…

…

Conners…

He lied…

… beat her…

Inside me, the fire burns; clean and bright, consuming, banishing the darkness.

After a while, I slam the glass down, stand and reach for my holster.

*****

Sitting in the armchair I hold the pistol lying loosely on my lap.

I moved the chair to sit comfortably, within easy reach of the door. And I drew the curtains, but light

from the street-lamps outside spills through, weirdly orange.

And now in the semi-dark, I wait.

It’s almost midnight before there’s movement. Footsteps echo outside the window, click-clicking closer

in an unsteady rhythm on stone paving. Just outside, they halt.

I stand and take my position to the side of the entrance.

The lock rattles, grates and turns, and the door opens. In the dark I raise my gun towards a silhouette,

back-lit by neon.

I’m smiling.

The silhouette shuffles as it closes the door, belches…

The stink of too much beer…

A touch of vomit in the air…

… and stumbles…

With a click, I turn on the light.

For a frozen moment, Conners gapes as he sees me, then tries to turn, as though to run, but I’m faster

than he is, prepared and…

… I’m not falling-down drunk.

“Hello, Frank. It’s been a long time.” I point with a forefinger to the far corner of the room, then with the

muzzle. “Over there.”

“Larry…” He attempts a smile. It’s not a success. His face sags with age and bloat and alcohol. His

eyes are bloodshot.

“You’ve not aged as well as Mitch has, Frank. You’re not looking good at all.”

“You’ve seen her? Is she…?”

“Mitch is doing well and I’m sure will continue to do so, now that she’s with our daughter…”

He’s not looking at my face. His whole attention is fixed on the barrel, staring down its length. “Hey,

Larry. You don’t need to point a gun at me.”

“Not just a gun, Frank. It’s an FN Five-Seven. One of the best there is. But I’d not expect you to know

something like that. You defend yourself using women and children.” Under a sagging chin, his throat

ripples. “They tell me you've been beating your wife. Using her as a punchbag.”

“Larry, I...”

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. They also tell me that you knew Jenny wasn't yours and you threw her to the

dogs. And then went playing mind games with Mitch. Fucking with her head. Let her think her daughter

was dead. Our daughter.”

His breathing is accelerating. His forehead, blotched white and scarlet, is beaded with sweat.

“Mitch might have saved you before but she’s not here now. And after the trick you pulled over Jenny,

I’m not even sure she’d try to help you this time. It’s just you and me.”

I raise the gun, aiming for his forehead. “Ask me nicely and it’ll be quick. If you don’t, you’ll get it in the

stomach. It would take you three or four days to die like that.”

“Larry, please. Please…”

I lean in close, touch the muzzle to his skull…

… and I pull the trigger.

It clicks…

… but the gun’s not loaded.

Then I step back smartly, avoiding the dark patch spreading across the front of his pants.

He collapses, dropping to his knees, sobbing.

I stand over him. “You’re not the only one who can play mind games, Frank.” He shudders and quakes

and sobs.

I touch the muzzle to his skull again, running it through greasy strands of hair. “Don't ever go near her

again. If I learn you have, and I will know, I'll be back, and next time, it won’t be a game. Do we

understand each other?”

He nods, sharply, his whole body rocking with the movement.

“I didn’t hear you.”

He gulps the words. “Yes. Yes.”

“You’ll be receiving divorce papers. When they’re served, you'll agree to everything she asks, sign and

get them back by return post, like a good boy. Yes?”

“Yes. Anything you say, Larry.”

“Good. I’ll be off now. It’s been a pleasure, but I hope we don’t have to meet again, Frank.”

Slipping the pistol back in its holster, I straighten my jacket and, leaving the cringing bastard kneeling in

his own piss, I quit the stinking hovel.

*****