Masters And Lovers 1-4 novel 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.”

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.