Masters And Lovers 1-4 novel 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.

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?