Chapter 47

Michael

Klempner is, as usual, waiting as we arrive. From his seat, behind the barrier, he watches me enter
with Charlotte. He looks rough; shadows under his eyes and he's lost weight.

The guard, Hartland, is there. He leans down, whispers close by my ear. “If it looks like trouble, just say
the word.”

“I will.”

Then he straightens up and levels his baton towards Klempner. “Behave yourself, Larry.”

Klempner looks up, just barely tilts his head in acknowledgement. But I remember the look he gave
Hartwell the last time we were here…

The monster stirring…

Klempner watches as James follows us in, letting out a barely audible sigh as he sits.

“That leg giving you trouble?”

James reply is curt. “Cold, damp weather.” But I hear his surprise at the question lurking behind the
words.

Klempner fingers a long white scar on his hand. “It can't have been pleasant when Bech shot you. Tell
me, do you remember it happening?”

James’ eyes shoot arrows. “What's it to you?”

“If you had just discovered you have a daughter, don't you think you would want to know something
about the man she answers to?”



James shifts. Not much and perhaps not visibly to those who didn't know him, but I see it.

Unsettled?

“I didn't remember it at first, no,” he says. “The memory resurfaced after a few months.”

Klempner raises a flat, mirror gaze to him. “The memory was repressed?”

“Apparently.”

Klempner has a plastic cup of water by him. He takes a long mouthful, then sets it down again.
“Interesting,” he says, “how the mind protects itself.”

What the hell’s he talking about?

Between me and James, Charlotte sits, shuffling awkwardly. Klempner chews at his upper lip. The pair
regard each other in silence for a long minute then Charlotte finally speaks. “Thank you for sending the
necklace.”

In restrained tones, “You’re welcome.” His eyes dip to her collar bone. “It suits you. As it did your
mother.”

Charlotte swallows and lapses into silence again.

This could take a while…

After another long pause, Klempner says, “Are you going to ask me about your mother? That’s what
you usually do.”

Charlotte fidgets then blurts, “I don’t even know what to call you.”

Klempner blows air. Looks down. Looks up. Then, “I suppose Dad is too much to hope for?”



James huffs and Klempner levels a stare at him. Then, “What do you want to call me?”

Charlotte’s voice would cut glass. “Don't tempt me.”

He coughs a laugh with no humour in it. “They know me as Larry around here. You can call me Larry.”

“What's your real name?”

“What?” He seems genuinely taken aback by the question.

She repeats. “What's your real name? I don’t think it’s Klempner. I think you've probably gone by a lot
of names. In a lot of places.”

He shrugs. “You’re right. I have. If you mean my original name. I left that behind when I was fourteen.
Klempner works as well as anything else. Klempner will do.”

“And Larry?”

His lids lower. “That was what my mother called me.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, I did have one you know.”

She ignores the sarcasm. “I wanted to ask you about her.”

He taps a fingernail on the counter. “What about her?”

“What was she like?”

His stare would freeze a basilisk. “Why do you want to know?”



“If you’re…” She halts and starts again. “If you’re my… father… then she's my grandmother. I’m trying
to find out who my family were… are…. You told me that your father beat you. I wondered what your
mother was like. Did she let him do it?”

Something plays around his eyes. “No, she didn’t.” Klempner’s speaks quietly.

He looks haunted…

“Tell me about her.”

“I barely remember her.”

“Tell me what you do remember.”

He swallows. “Perhaps one day. But not now.”

What going on?

Charlotte props elbows on the counter. “You said you killed your father. In self-defence.”

“Yes. He was a violent man. It was him or me.”

“He beat you?”

“Yes. He enjoyed it. Used his fists. When I was small, he used my mother as a punch-bag. Later, it was
me.”

He has her attention. As though painted into place, Charlotte sits, frozen as he speaks. Klempner jerks
his chin up. “It’s not a pleasant story. You sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes.”



He rocks his head; forward, backward, slowly, as though considering, then, “I was fourteen, maybe
fifteen. He had me backed against the kitchen table. He was drunk. Throwing punches. Not caring what
part of me he hit so long as he got something. I grabbed for whatever was to hand…”

He takes a breath. “It turned out to be a knife from the dinner plate. Nothing special. Not a bread knife
or a meat knife. Just the kind you’d use to eat your eggs or scrape butter onto bread. But it’s what was
in my hand. I stabbed him. I sank it into his chest. It went between his ribs and he dropped like a sack.”

Her chest rises and falls; rises and falls. “Did you enjoy it?” she whispers.

He sits, blinking for a moment, then, “No. I was shocked; in pain from the beating he’d already given
me. I was scared. I panicked and I ran.”

“Where to?”

He shrugs. “At first just out… Then, out of town. Then I didn’t know what to do. I considered joining the
army. You know the kind of thing. ‘Learn skills. Become a man.’ But I was too young, and they’d soon
have identified me anyway. So, I kept going…”

James interrupts. “They wouldn’t have jailed you. Not for defending yourself. And you were a minor.”

Klempner sneers. “I was fourteen. How much did you know of the world at that age? I’d run a knife into
a man and watched him die at my feet. I thought they’d lock me up and throw away the key.”

Charlotte’s face goes slack…

Jenkins…

A mirror of what happened to her at the same age…

She thought she’d killed him…



She ran…

And she kept running…

But Klempner is still speaking. “I left the country. Worked my way on the cargo ships. There’s
destinations where they don’t ask too many questions so long as you pull your weight. And it was
easier back then. They didn’t have the kind of security on ports that they do now. I ended up in Africa.”

James unfolds his arms, leans forward. “Which part of Africa?”

“I disembarked in Lagos, but I moved around a lot. Congo, Chad, Central African Republic… you name
it…”

James sits back again. “Those were dangerous places to be. And dangerous times to be there.”

“So they were.” Klempner’s voice is languid, almost bored, but his gaze holds steady to James’.

Charlotte breaks in. “What were you doing? Why did you stay?”

James’ eyes pass to her, then back to Klempner, “Charlotte…” he murmurs.

Klempner shrugs. “There’s always a war to be found in that part of the world.”

Her face blanks over for a moment, then refocuses. “You were a mercenary?”

“I was. Yes.”

“Why? Why would you do something like that?”

“It’s a living.”

“But it’s so dangerous.”



His head tilts. “Compared to what?”

“Compared to….” She holds… chewing her lip.

Klempner leans forward, resting on folded arms. His voice is almost gentle. “A piece of advice, for what
it is worth to you. If you find yourself in a dangerous situation, make yourself part of what is dangerous
about it.”

Charlotte’s mouth flaps, then, “What happened after that? Tell me.” Klempner doesn’t speak. “Tell me.
You wouldn’t have said all that unless you wanted me to know. Why did you stay there?”

“I was on the run,” he says, a touch of asperity in his voice.

“On the run? But… you can still only have been young then… What, twenty?”

“Fifteen when I first arrived.”

“Fifteen? What’s a fifteen-year-old doing as a mercenary?”

“Learning my trade. And remember where we’re talking about. That part of the world has a long history
of child soldiers. And a lot younger than I was. The only difference was that I volunteered and so they
paid me a bit for it. A later, a lot.”

Charlotte digests that. “So, what happened then?”

“I moved around a lot, making money where I could. Eventually, I found myself in Libya, Tripoli…”

James Aaahhhs, face tilting to the ceiling.

Klempner scowls at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”



“Tripoli. Centre of the Arab slave trade. That’s how you…”

Klempner rolls eyes. “Yes, that’s how it started. How I got involved. Technically it was illegal but in
practice…” He plucks at an earlobe, gazing into nothing. “They're savages there… The first time I
realised what was happening was when a local merchant offered me one of his daughters. Take my
pick. Twenty American dollars. But he’d have accepted sterling. Or the mark.”

Charlotte gapes. “Twenty dollars? To buy a woman?”

“Yes, twenty. And she wasn’t a woman. She was about twelve I’d say. Life's cheap in that part of the
world. Mainly he was interested in getting rid of her in a way that meant he didn’t have to find a dowry
for her.”

In measured tones, James asks, “Did you buy her?”

“No, Bech did.”

James jolts. “Bech? That’s where you met him?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing there?”

Klempner shrugs. “No idea. Except that he was running from something too.”

Dripping disgust, “And he bought a twelve-year-old girl?”

“Yes.”

James sucks in his cheeks. “Was she willing?”



Klempner inhales. “Willing enough. I asked Bech about it afterwards. His words were that he…” His
gaze shifts to Charlotte… “… He didn't have to slap her around too much before she learned to
behave.”

I interrupt. “Klempner. Why are you saying all this? So far as I’m aware, the police, the social and the
doctors never got this out of you. Why are you telling us?”

“I’m not telling you. I’m telling her.” He flashes eyes to Charlotte.

“And what’s brought about this change of heart?”

“What do you think?”

“Suddenly, because she’s your daughter, you want to excuse yourself?”

“No.” His head drops, then lifts. “No. But I do want to explain myself.”

“You were abused as a kid and so that explains everything?” James presses a forefinger to his lips.

Klempner doesn’t reply but doesn’t meet his eye either.

James continues, ice in his tone. “You were mistreated as a child and so you think that excuses what
you did to Charlotte; Jenny as you knew her. She had the upbringing from hell…”

Klempner snaps, “Hasn’t done her much harm that I can see.” He swings back to Charlotte. “Look at
you.”

“I’m not scared of you,” she hisses.

Weirdly, he grins. “I know. No, you’re not scared of me. And haven’t been since you were old enough
not to pee your pants.” The grin shrivels. “And you should have been. I’ve seen you in action. Ready to
take on the world. Ready to fight for what you value.” He leans back, arms folded. “My Jenny.”



James freezes. “She’s not your anything…”

Klempner pinches the bridge of his nose. “I suppose.” Then his eyes rise, first to James then back to
Charlotte. “But what man wouldn’t be proud to call you his daughter?”

*****


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