The Lover's Children novel Chapter 12

KLEMPNER

We return to the house to find James waiting for us. “I’ve had an interesting morning. Kirstie…” he begins.

Michael interrupts him. “… has been burgled and everything at the mill is a mess. Ryan’s at his wit’s end…”

“… and Kirstie was in tears at work. I’ve invited her and Ryan to stay here for a few days. To give them a break from living in that caravan. Hope that’s okay with you?”

“Better than okay. You beat me to it. And Larry here has a few ideas about these stolen goods.” He plucks at a lip. “I’ll go make up a room for them. Catch you later.” He strides away, humming.

“He’s walking with a spring in his step,” I comment.

“It is a wedding,” says James. “It’s supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“Looks like more than that to me.”

James leans in, speaking quietly. “In fact, you’re quite right. He and Charlotte are working on your next grandchild.”

“Ah... And that’s something he wants? The house isn’t exactly short of babies now.”

“Yes, well, Michael always said he wanted to fill this house with children.”

“He’s off to a good start: Cara, Adam, Vicky...”

James raises brows. “I think it was implicit he'd like some of the children to be his. Out of all of us here, Michael’s the only one here who’s not a parent. That was the deal we made, he and I, when we first set up our Triad. And that, for the sake of the children, he would be the legal father…”

“Including Cara?”

“Including Cara, yes. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, she is Cara Summerford. At least while she’s still small.”

“And when she's older?”

“When she's old enough to understand…” He rocks his hand… “… we'll see. The important thing right now is that she's raised, protected and loved.”

“And you? How do you feel about that?”

“I shall be Uncle James, to Cara and to any other child Charlotte produces.”

I ponder. “So what does that make me?”

He laughs. “We’ve established that, haven’t we. You’re Grandad K.”

*****

JAMES

In the kitchen, I find Klempner. The table cleared of pots and cutlery, he’s laid it out with newspaper, set with a variety of brushes, bottles of cleaning fluid and lubricant, old rags and a roll of kitchen paper. A desk lamp casts a bright white beam over his work area.

The man himself is wearing spectacles frames fitted with what look like jewellers loupes. Peering through, he scrubs at some widget with a toothpick-sized wire brush. He pauses, sprays a little fluid from a bottle onto the brush then, holding brush and widget under the light, continues his work.

I know what this means.

A rifle leans against the table, three handguns of varying types lie in a neat row on the newspaper. A fourth is in pieces: the barrel, grip, springs, feeds and God-knows-what also laid in tidy ranks on the paper.

On the end of the table lie…

… one… two… six… seven…

… eight knives. The smallest barely qualifies as a penknife. The largest looks designed for gutting rhinos, and the saw-edged blade has the teeth to make short work of the job. They look to have already received their owner's attention, every blade polished, gleaming with a wipe-over of oil.

I pull up a chair opposite him. “Larry, why do you need so many knives?