Solstice

Chapter Four - Klempner

Chapter Four - KlempnerJenny eventually emerges from hiding, enveloped in a vast towelling robe, about five sizes too large for her…

Michael’s?

Probably…

She curls up onto the settee, and Mitch descends on her in comforting angel mode, fussing at her, fluffing up cushions, smothering her with hot chocolate and cookies, pressing some book into her hand.

“Can I do anything?”

Jenny gives me a watery smile, but Mitch, just a quick shake of her head. Neither says anything more and after a few minutes, it dawns on me that I’m surplus to requirement.

“I’ll… um… I’ll go take a walk. Anything I can fetch while I’m out?”

“No, we’re fine,” says Mitch, but she flashes me a brief look of gratitude.

Hmmm…

In fact, I was rather comfortable by the fire. In the hall I hover, deciding what to do with my unsought freedom.

Where are the men?

Haswell and his wife are nowhere in sight, but from the kitchen comes the Clunk! of metal on wood. I meander after the sound, Bear padding behind me.

I find James, a heavy-bladed knife in hand, at his chopping board. A huge basket of onions sits to one side, a mountainous bowl of diced onions to the other. As I watch, he brings the knife down on the next victim with gratuitous violence, and the onion drops into two halves

“They can’t fight back, you know.”

“What?” James looks up, but the knife thunks down again, and two quarter-onions fly over the board in opposite directions, then skid off the counter. “f**k!” Stooping to retrieve the quarters, he rinses them under the faucet, then replaces them on the board. Finally, he looks back to me, his expression tight. “What was that?”

“I said, ‘they can’t fight back’. And dismembering an innocent victim qualifies as wanton brutality.”

He looks blank for a moment, then blinks. Lips twitching, he shrugs, setting his knife to one of the quarters.

“What are we eating?”

He shrugs again. “No idea.”

“You’ve diced…” I eye the bowl… “… enough for an army, and the enemy camp besides. And you don’t know what you’re making?”

Yet another shrug. “Half the cookbook starts with ‘Chop a medium onion’…”

“Well, you have half a cookbook’s worth of medium onions there.”

James sucks at his teeth and raises brows, looking around the kitchen. “Onion soup it is then.” Looking blue, “It’s a good choice for Charlotte right now. Comfort food.”

Who’s it comforting?

Was James really so invested in another man’s child?

“Anything I can do?”

I’m going to have to stop asking that…

He turns back to his chopping board... “What could you possibly do?” … slicing the quarters into fine shavings.

He falls silent and again, after a few moments, I realise I am dismissed. Hands in pockets, I dither…

Now what?

The walk was probably the best idea…

Fresh air…

From beyond the kitchen door, something thumps: the thwack of axe on timber.

I know what I’m hearing. Pausing by the refrigerator, I rummage for what I’m sure will be there, then head outside, following the pounding from the woodshed. Much as I expected, I find Michael, his back to me, stripped to the waist, splitting wood.

A slice of pine sits on his tree-stump ‘anvil’, the cross-section of a trunk. Axe in hand, he swings with the practised ease of the expert. The blade curves through a long arc to impact squarely on the centre of the pine block, cleaving it into two smaller logs that clunk to the ground, one side and the other.

The whole action is uncannily reminiscent of James back in the kitchen.

Michael’s mongrel lies in one corner, ears drooped, head dropped onto front paws. I move to stand by him, well out of the range of the swinging axe. The stub that passes for its tail gives a perfunctory wag as Bear joins me.

Grunting, Michael reclaims one of the logs, centres it back onto the stump and swings again.

And again.

And again.

Over the next five minutes, the timber slice is reduced to kindling, fingers of pine lying in a scattered heap around his stump.

Sweat trickling down his spine, he rests the axe, head down, onto the stump, his hands clasped over the heel of the handle. Breathing heavily, he stoops over it, resting his forehead on the back of his wrists.

I shouldn’t be here…

Silently, I edge for the door, when abruptly, Michael straightens up, axe in hand, and with a scream, turns and throws, spinning the axe through the air…

Fuck!

I jerk back just in time, the air rippling my hair as the blade whirls past, slams into the door frame, bites then, vibrating, hangs there.

“Christ!” Michael strides forward. “Klempner, I didn't know you were there. I didn’t mean…”

Resisting the pounding at pulse and temples, and from under my ribs, I snarl, “First rule of handling a deadly weapon. f*****g look where you’re aiming it.”

He rubs at his scalp. “Klempn… Larry… My apologies. I came out here to…” He grinds to a halt. Looks away.

“To burn off some frustration?”

“You could put it that way.” He gives a lop-sided smile. Offers up palms. “I had a deep urge to hit something. Seemed best to target it usefully.”

“You almost did hit something.” I keep my tone dry. “And almost succeeded where for over forty years, half the globe’s criminal underworld has failed.”

He grimaces. “Really. I’m sorry.”

I hold up my offering from the fridge, a six-pack. “I come bearing gifts.”

He huffs a laugh, droops his head for a moment, then straightens up. “Thanks. Yeah, I could use one.”

Peeling off two cans, I offer one, take the other myself. He sits on the tree stump. Sucks at the beer. Breathes in. Cups the can in his hands. “Funny how life turns out sometimes. All good intentions. Everyone pulling in the same direction. And it still goes wrong.”

“It wasn’t actually your fault,” I say. “I’d not announced myself. I didn't want to startle you.” I aim a finger up at where the axe juts out from the door frame. “I didn't intend to be on the receiving end of that.”

He rolls eyes at me. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

“Oh… Jenny?”

“Yeah…” He droops. “It’s strange. I know intellectually that it's just ‘one of those things’. But it never occurred to me it could happen like this. I never thought it would sting like this.” He takes another gulp of beer… “And that's before I even have children.”

“You already have one child in Cara. She’s calling you ‘Daddy’. And you… in a sense… have two more.”

His throat bobs. “Two more?”

“You are… what… godfather… to the Haswell’s boy. And I wouldn't hesitate to consider you a guardian to Vicky.” His eyes widen… “And…” I continue… “Vicky is your sister-in-law.”

He stares, then chuckles. “So she is. I'd not thought of that. Ye gods…” He gazes into the distance… “We’re a weird mixed-up family, aren’t we. Women with two husbands. Men with two wives. Sisters a generation apart in age. Mitch with a ‘son-in-law’ older than herself. And you…”

“Me?” I keep my tone innocent. “What about me?”

He swings his head. “Nothing.” He tilts back, finishing his can. “There another of those?”

“Sure.” I peel off another beer, pass it across.

He pops the seal. Drinks. Sighs. Sits in silence.

I finish my own can.

“Klempner.”

“What?”

“Thanks for the beer. You know…” He tips his can to me... “You're turning into one of the good ‘uns.”

What the f**k do I make of that?

*****