Chapter 18

James

And now, for the first time, I push the door, quiet as I can, looking in.

Mitch is there, a pad on her lap, sketching. She sits by Charlotte; sleeping, so pale.

No, not pale; pallid.

What they did to you…

But she’s clean and warm and comfortable. And by the side of the bed, within touching distance, also
sleeping…

Cara…

My daughter…

And in a chair by the window, a hawk-eyed nurse.

What’s been happening?

Mitch smiles, holding up her pad: a half-drawn sketch, in pastels, of mother and baby. Then she looks
me up and down, pulling a face.

?

I mouth silently. “What?”

She nods me to the mirror and I see myself.

Oh, My God…



Even though I changed, brushed my hair, I can’t let Charlotte wake up to see me like this. Or Cara…

The eye is not a pretty sight. It’s not so swollen now and it’s beginning to open again, but the colour, a
kind of reverse rainbow in blue, green and sickly yellow, is enough to put anyone off their… milk…
There’s not too much I can do about the bruising, but at the least, I should clean myself up.

I stoop, kiss Charlotte’s cheek. She stirs, mumbling something soft. I can’t make out the words, but
sleeping, her lips are curving.

I stroke Cara’s tiny face, and eyes-closed, she blows a bubble.

Then, with a nod to Mitch, I turn to leave. And Michael’s there. He too holds the pair in his gaze, then
with a tap to my chest. “Let’s let them sleep.”

Mitch follows us out, picking up a baby monitor en route and popping it in her pocket.

*****

A hot shower and I feel more myself. Then Richard snags me, bullying me through to where the doctor
I saw is waiting.

“I’m sorry… What’s happening?”

“What’s happened is that last night, Elizabeth went into premature labour.” He holds up palms… “It’s
settled and she’s fine, but under the circumstances, for the sakes of both Elizabeth and Charlotte, and
considering Charlotte’s feelings regarding hospitals right now, I have assembled a team for us,
James…”

He hovers, as though waiting for me to argue. I don’t. “They are staying in the hotel for the next few
weeks and are on 24/7 call should we need them. Meanwhile you…” He levels a finger at me… “…are



going to let Doctor Polinski examine that eye. Along with any other damage you might have taken last
night. I can see for myself that you are limping badly…”

*****

In the kitchen, I pull my ingredients together. Prawns, ginger, chillis…

Michael comes in, inspects my work area and Hmmms, then grins as he gets a look at me. “Well, if it
ain’t my old friend Capt’n Bluebeard.” He elbows me in the ribs. “Oohhh, Aaarrr!” Then, slaps his
forehead as I wince. “Sorry, James. I forgot.”

“Please don’t.”

Mitch sucks in a smile from her place at the table. “It suits you. Kind of… distinguished.”

“I’ll be glad when I can take the bloody thing off.” The tang of onions rides up my sinuses and I try to
rub my nose, then realise my damn eye is watering under the patch.

Klempner looks over my shoulder. “You don’t have to cook for me, James. I’ll be happy with a cheese
roll.”

“I enjoy cooking. It helps me relax. I could do with some relaxation right now.”

“Fair enough.” Klempner turns, grunting as he moves.

Mitch pins him with her eyes. “Larry, why are you moving like that?” She looks closer. “You're bleeding.
Did Baxter get you?”

Klempner looks down at himself, seeming surprised. “Oh! Must have done. Um, yes, he did, now I think
about it.”



Mitch is incredulous. “And you forgot something like that. Let me look…” She plucks at the top he's
wearing, Michael's, and the fabric gapes open at a clean slice. Mine is underneath and it's not much
better.

“Jesus, Larry, these are soaked through with blood.”

Mitch has a trace of panic on her face. Klempner watches her, apparently unconcerned by the damage
to himself. Quite the opposite. He seems gratified by her attention, eyes crinkling as she fusses at him.

“Get these off,” she says. “Let me have a proper look.”

He reaches to pull them up, fingers tugging at the bottom hem, then hisses, eyes rising to the ceiling.

“Let me.” Mitch hooks fingers under, then lifts.

Klempner squeezes eyes, grimacing, as the sodden fabric peels away from the gash underneath; a
wicked slice, six inches long, scored from shoulder to chest. At the edges, blood crisped dry resists,
plucking at the wound as she peels away the garment. But liquid blood, dark and red, dribbles from the
slit flesh.

Michael takes the briefest of looks. “That needs a doctor. I’ll go get him…” He makes as though to
leave.

“No! No doctors, thank you.” Klempner calms, then apologising with his eyes, says, “They have an
annoying habit of wanting to know who you are. Just dress it. I’ll heal.”

Michael shakes his head then runs warm water into a bowl, dumping bowl, soap, clean rags and a tube
of antiseptic cream on the table. Then he rummages through drawers before producing gauze,
bandage and tape.



The bloody tops removed, Klempner's naked chest is smeared in blood, red by the wound, black at the
edges.

He looks down at himself. “It looks worse than it is,” he comments. “My clothes... Sorry... Your clothes...
soaked up the blood and spread it across.

Mitch gives him a look calculated to swat flies then, starting at the outer edge, working in, she wipes
and cleans, squeezing the cloth into the bowl which swirls red.

After only a minute or two, silently, Michael fills another bowl with fresh water and replaces the first.

The worst of the blood cleaned, the wound can be seen as a clean slit, starting shallow, but slicing
deeper. Mitch slaps a pad of clean cotton over the top, pressing it in place with her hand. “It needs
stitches.”

Klempner removes her hand, replacing it with his own, face stony.

Mitch sits back, a set to her eye. “You behave as though you've done this before…” She halts in mid-
sentence, staring at his chest. “Good God, Larry. What have you been doing the last few years? You
look as if someone's been using you as a tic-tac-toe board.”

Michael weighs in. “Or darts.”

On a physique bare of any trace of flab, apparently constructed from whipcord and leather, Klempner’s
chest is crisscrossed with scars, slices and punctures. Some deep and red, some fine white lines.
Trying not to be obvious about it, I steal a look to the rear. His back is not much different.

Klempner growls. “I'm not a bloody circus show. Mitch, just dress it and then I can get some clothes on
again. I’m bloody freezing here.”

I pick up what’s left of my fleece. “Not in these clothes, you won't. I'll get you something else.”



“It needs stitches,” insists Mitch.

Michael leans in, peels the cotton pad from Klempner’s reluctant fingers and peers close. “Stopped by
the breastbone from going any deeper. It does need stitching, yes.” He presses pad and fingers back
into place. “Back in a minute.”

Klempner scratches at his forehead. “You telling me he keeps sutures in the house?”

I shrug.

Michael returns with a small tube; hands it to Mitch. “Superglue. Use a dot wherever you would stitch
but keep to the edges. If it gets onto raw flesh, it'll hurt like fuck.”

Mitch looks at the wound. Looks at the tube. Bites a lip. “Can you help.”

“Course I can. Let me just wash my hands. You get it cleaned out.”

Michael scrubs soap at his hands under the running tap. Klempner watches him slant-eyed. “You’ve
done this before?”

“Nope. Read about the technique.”

“Ah, that’s comforting. A text-book expert.”

Michael takes a seat by him. “And where else would I get the practical experience? Except by knowing
someone like you.” He smiles brightly. “Mitch, you hold the wound closed… Ease the edges together…
That’s it…”

Sitting close, his tongue-tip protruding, Michael dots the glue at quarter-inch intervals along the gash...
“You can take your hands away now, Mitch. Klempner, move your arm… carefully.”



Klempner lifts the arm, horizontally, then vertically, teeth gritting as the muscle flexes.

Michael, tube still in hand, “Okay, drop the arm. Stay still.” Then carefully, he applies more of the glue,
dotting between the original spots.

He sits back, examines his handiwork. “Okay, Mitch. You can dress it now.”

Mitch applies cream and gauze then tapes a dressing over the top. “Your scars, Larry…” Her voice is
wondering. She runs fingers over the tracery over his body. “You've led a violent life.”

His voice level, “Stood us in good stead the last day or two though, hasn’t it.” Klempner gives the arm
another experimental stretch. “Thank you, Michael.”

The water runs red where Michael rinses his hands. “Just returning the favour.”

Klempner quirks a smile. “How is your bullet wound now?”

“Don't even notice it anymore. I was luckier than James.” He jerks his chin to the ruined clothes.
“James, could you let him have a fresh tee-shirt and sweater.”

“Of course.” I stand, turning for the door…

… and she’s there.

In a long flannel nightie, barefoot, hair loose; she’s pale, but not with the pallor she had before. And
she’s carrying the bundled Cara in her arms, turned into her chest.

“Charlotte, I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, but I woke up. No-one was there… Well, just the nurse… I was alone.” Her grip around Cara
tightens.



“You’ll get cold. You should be in bed…” But she’s not looking at me. Her attention is on Klempner; her
eyes travelling the dressed wound, his scarred body. Neither seems to know what to say.

Break the impasse…

“Hey, Klempner. Would you like to meet your granddaughter?”

He blinks, stands, walks across. Charlotte shifts, turning Cara for him to see, but keeping a tight hold
on her.

Klempner holds her eyes, then his gaze drops to the red-faced bundle…

His expression…

“Well, there’s a raison d’etre for a man.”

*****


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