The Lover's Children

Chapter 8: What Is Unfinished? - Michael

"... Maybe you should have decided to get married at a different time of year. You could always put it off 'til the Spring."

Ryan turns his back on the man, shaking his head in disbelief, now talking to me. He jabs a thumb backwards. "He promised me everything would be ready..."

The foreman shakes his head, his face sour...

"... He promised me. Oh, God, Kirstie..." Ryan rubs at his forehead. "What the hell do I tell her?"

Klempner, arms folded, looks up, around about, his eye evaluating, brow furrowing.

So do I. "Ryan, what exactly is unfinished? The last I saw, you had the roof fixed up, the door and windows in place. The electricity is working..." The great arched window overlooking the river is brightly lit, a warm glow spilling from the inside. "... So, what's such a problem?"

"Yes..." Tension shimmers through his voice... "... all that's done. But only in the main building. The wheelhouse is being converted into accommodation. One day, it's where Kirstie and I plan to live eventually. But for now, we were supposed to be putting up some of the family in there for the wedding. It should have been ready. At least good enough for sleeping. Now Howards there tells me the roof won't be in place."

"Where are you living now?" says Klempner. "Can't you put your guests in there?"

Ryan snorts. "Hardly." He jerks a thumb at the battered trailer that he and Kirstie have been living in for most of the year. "You can barely swing a cat in there, even with just the two of us."

"How many guests are we talking about?" I ask. "All of them?"

"Um, no." He scrapes a hand through his hair. "Most are booked into hotels in the City. But Kirstie's got family travelling from God-knows-where. There's my family flying in from Ireland and some from Italy. They've booked tickets. Paid for the flights. They'll never get accommodation this close to the New Year..."

"Ryan, stop flapping. How many?"

"Um..." He stares upward, counting fingers... "Sixteen... No, eighteen."

"Just eighteen? The rest are all booked in elsewhere?"

"That's right."

"End of problem, then. At the end of the evening, they come up to our place and stay in the hotel."

He stares at me. "I thought you said you were booked solid for Christmas and New Year?"

"In the restaurant, yes. But not the hotel. That's closed down for the period..." Relief washes over his face... "... If you recall, we're all supposed to be helping out at the wedding of some friends of ours."

Ryan closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a long breath. The flush cools from his face." "Michael, thank you. I don't know..."

"I'm not going to have the staff to go running after them, but if they're happy to make their own beds and shift for themselves, then they're more than welcome. Let me have the details. The names. Who shares with who. If anyone needs a family room, a cot or whatever else. I'll make sure the stuff's there for them. Now... Are there any more emergencies to deal with before you help me 'n Larry here lug your tree inside?"

*****

Klempner whistles through his teeth as we unlash the tree. Ryan wears his accustomed casual smile again. "I'm hoping we can get it up before Kirstie gets back from work."

The foreman stands a little distance away. "Can I help you with that?"

Ryan's reply is cool. "No thank you, Mr Howards. I wouldn't dream of putting you to any more trouble."

Klempner meets my eye, c*****g a brow, but doesn't speak.

It takes the three of us to winch the tree into position, but once in place, it looks great. Now the centrepiece of the hall, well over twenty feet tall, it stands beside a huge arched window, overlooking the river.

Given its size, it needs mounting safely. Between us, we drill out the bottom of the trunk, bolt it to a wide plywood stand and screw in some posts to brace the tree to the base. But in the end, properly upright, it looks good. Bricks and concrete blocks stacked over the base stabilise it nicely.

Klempner gives it an experimental shove, then another, harder this time. The top, towering above us, quivers. Fine lower branches rattle, shedding the odd needle. But the tree's not going anywhere.

"So, there's your Christmas tree," I say. "Once the branches have dropped back into position, it'll look great. I'll tell Mitch and Charlotte it's up. They're itching to have another tree to decorate. It's like a production line back home with them churning out Christmas decorations."

I stand back to admire our handiwork. "I know you're having problems, Ryan. But I've got to hand it to you. Seeing it now, it's hard to recognise this room for the old industrial site you bought.

"The window was originally a loading bay entrance..."

"Yes, I remember. Served the barges I imagine, when water was the way to transport heavy goods."

"That's right. Now it gives us a view over the river itself. And in better weather, we'll dine outside on the terrace." Ryan's usual self-assurance shines through. "Thanks so much, Michael. It'll really cheer up Kirstie. With everything that's been happening, she's been a bit blue. And you too, Larry. Thank you."

Klempner is strolling around the great open space, Ryan and Kirstie's dining hall, gazing upwards and around. "You're welcome, Ryan. If it gets you and Kirstie off to a good start, I'm happy to help." His tone is completely sincere and, in a way I've not seen before, quite charming.

Well, there's a thing...

He thinks of them as friends...

Then he swipes irritably at his hands. "Bloody resin over everything."

And now he's back to normal...

Rubbing palms and fingers against his jacket, Klempner continues, "What was that about stolen equipment?"

Ryan stuffs hands in his pockets, examines his feet. "Would you believe we had a break-in? They cut through the fencing at the side and took a stack of the power tools and other equipment. Materials too."

"You can claim on the insurance presumably?" I say. "You're covered?"

He shrugs. "Well, yes, but it takes time doing that. And to get the replacements. And meantime there's men standing by with their hands in their pockets. And... not all of the stuff taken was mine. Some of it belonged to the builders and... quite a bit was equipment Richard let me borrow."

Klempner sucks at his teeth. "Got a list of what was stolen?"

"Sure, I had to put that together for the police and the insurance. Why?"

"Let me have a look."

It only takes Ryan a minute to find his list, a single sheet of paper. Klempner reads it, pulling at his chin. "Classic petty-thief stuff. The kind of thing they can sell cheap on the side to the types who don't ask questions." Producing his mobile from a pocket, he holds up the sheet. There's a brief flash and a click. He turns it over, snaps the reverse side and returns the list to its owner.

Ryan surveys the tall, sombre man. "What's on your mind, Larry?"

"I'll ask around for you. See what I can find out."

Ryan c***s a brow. "Something that the police can't learn?"

Klempner displays his teeth. "The police can't ask in all the places I can."

*****

JAMES

Richard and I enter Reception together; suited, booted and briefcased.

Kirstie glances up from her desk. "Good morning, Mr Haswell. Good morning, Mr Alexanders." She's dressed in standard 'office-wear'; white blouse, dark jacket and a straight skirt cut to an inch above the knee. Her hair is pinned neatly back and up, and a touch of colour at lips, eyes and cheeks highlight her strong features.

"Good morning, Kirstie," I return. Our concierge is always efficient and professional when at work, usually issuing a polite 'Meet and Greet' smile. Today, the smile seems forced.

Richard glances around the foyer: the tree, the tinsel and decorations, a four-foot-high plastic Labrador wearing a Santa hat and a sign around its neck: A dog is for life. Not just for Christmas. It sits by the waiting area, a charity tin on the coffee table. All Donations To Kirstie's Canine Christmasses

"It's all looking very festive, Kirstie." He gives the dog a hard stare. "Did you clear the charity box with Mrs Gillis?"

"I did, sir. I... I hope that's alright? It's just, there's always so many puppies given at Christmas and..."

"It's fine, Kirstie. It makes a pleasant change from people asking me for money. Still..." He takes a wallet from his jacket, extracts a note and pushes it, folded, into the money slot.

"Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that."

"You're welcome..." Richard looks closer. "Kirstie, are you quite well?

She shuffles papers. "I'm fine, sir. Thank you for asking."

But I too have seen what Richard has. Close up, Kirstie's eyes are shadowed, her make-up heavily applied.

In the elevator, he Hmmms. "James, did it seem to you then, that Kirstie looked rather tired?"

"It did, yes." I do a quick re-run of the last few days. "Now I think on it, she's not seemed herself for the last week or so. And Mitch said something about it too. She was fitting Kirstie for her wedding dress and commented afterwards that she'd not seemed so excited as she should be."

"Bride's nerves?"

"Maybe."

*****

Upstairs, Francis, Richard's PA, greets us. "Coffee first, Mr Haswell? Or do you want to see your diary for the day?"

Richard tugs at an ear, grimacing. "I know what's in it. It's that damn lunch today, with the Mayor." He looks glum. "No doubt he'll drag it out for half the afternoon... Sure I can't persuade you to join me, James?"

"I'll leave that particular pleasure to you. I'm the technical man. You don't need me..."

"I might need your input regarding the works on... " He stalls, floundering.

"I'm not fooled, Richard. You're only trying to tow me along for moral support against that wife of his. She still want you to pay for a music college?"

"No, it's a water park now. She wants it including in the renovation works down by the river, but..."

Francis is doing her best not to smile, and not succeeding. "Not looking forward to your lunch, Mr Haswell?"

He snorts. "I'd rather spend the afternoon gnawing my own foot off."

"Would you like to receive a phone call, say two o'clock, with some emergency requiring your immediate attention?"

Richard leans over the desk, kisses her forehead. "What would I do without you, Francis?"