Chapter 2

Dear Klempner Larry,

I wanted to drop you a couple of lines to apologise for my behaviour the last time we met.

I would like you to know that I regret my words to you and if I could take them back, I would.

I understand your reasons for leaving without saying goodbye but I wish it had been otherwise. I would
have liked the opportunity to apologise face to face. Despite our past differences, for reasons we both
understand well, I have come to regard you as a friend and I trust that can remain so.

You might like to know that Mitch was very pleased, delighted, overcome when she received your
delivery. I think it is fair to say that she is looking forward to your return. In any case, I promised her I
would let you know that she is wearing the ring.

Charlotte is well, as is Cara Deanna. When Cara cries, Charlotte is telling her not to be scared of the
monsters. Grandad K will come and eat them.

I trust that your hunt for Juliana Diaz is progressing successfully. Baxter is, I am told, a wreck of a man.
The doctors tried to save his hands but could do little. After Juliana’s attentions, there was too little left
to repair. I understand that amputation is proposed but that Baxter is resisting that. If he refuses for too
long, necrosis will kill him.

If there is any way in which we can assist you, do not hesitate to get in touch.

I would appreciate a reply to this message, however brief, even if just to confirm you have received it.

Best Regards,

James



*****

I detest writing personal letters. I never know what to say. I’m articulate enough face-to-face, but when
faced with penning a simple message, my eloquence founders.

Is that enough?

I re-read my words.

Probably…

It’s not as though he’s given to idle chit-chat himself…

I hit Send.

*****

 

Klempner

In Arrivals, the baggage carousel takes fucking ages to produce anything at all. After fifteen minutes, it
vomits a small overnight case from the chute which travels a 360 circuit, drawing no more attention
than muttering and complaints from the waiting crowd.

The ceilings are low and the air suffocating.

Could murder a beer…

Bored, I lean against a wall, ankles crossed, fishing my phone from a pocket.

Anything new?



A message pops up: James.

Hmmm…

The last time we spoke, he blasted me out for fucking up his life.

The Sender has requested a Read Receipt - Yes/No?

I let my finger hover, then tap, Yes.

Shading the screen with a cupped hand against possible observers, I read James’ message. Then, I
re-read it.

Grandad K?

There’s a thought that hadn’t occurred to me.

Still… I think I rather like the idea of being Grandad K.

A slightly silly smile skirts my lips and firmly, I suppress it.

Should I reply?

?

No, too many complications. As James said himself, it would be better done face-to-face…

… when the opportunity arises again…

*****


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