The Master's Child - Complete Series

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What’s she thinking about?

Or who?

Conners?

Ex-husband. Wife-beater. Liar…

The man who let her think her little girl had been murdered…

No.

Klempner?

He said he’d leave us alone and he seems to be keeping his word.

Is she thawing out to him?

None of my damn business.

“Anyway, Mitch. This is what I’ve been doing for you. Let’s go take a look at what you’ve been doing for me.”

And she smiles.

*****

Mitch chews at a thumbnail. “Do you like it?”

I turn; around and around; taking it in. “It’s… amazing, Mitch. I know you said you can paint, but I didn’t expect this. You have a real talent.”

Charlotte’s mother volunteered to paint and decorate the new creche facility in the hotel. And the result is… ‘Fantastic’ doesn’t do it justice.

At floor level, grass and flowers frame the walls; cartoon cows and sheep and horses skipping and dancing through a meadow. To one side, bulrushes and lily-pads home dragonflies, ducks and smiling frogs; all in brilliant and unlikely hues. The sss rain forest may have seen frogs in those colours, but certainly nowhere around here has.

Above the grass, the walls gradient from a pale pastel to the brilliant blue vault of the ceiling, the sun nesting into one corner. Golden rays finger their way through sapphire sky and white fluffy clouds. Birds swoop across the ceiling or perch on a tree towering over the lilies. Butterflies flit across the walls.

Thick green rubber matting covers the floor and boxes of toys and games are stacked into shelves, teddies and pink rabbits side-by-side with building blocks and fat wax crayons.

It is a small child’s paradise.

“Mitch, it’s fabulous. I can only say thank you.”

The thumbnail is released, much reduced and a bit ragged. “You like it then?”

“Very much. Will you do some more for me? I’m thinking of the spa areas.”

“Definitely, but… I was hoping you would let me decorate the nursery for the baby.” She frowns. “Have you decided on a name yet?”

“James calls the baby ‘Peanut’. And until we know the baby’s s*x, I imagine that’s as far as it will go.”

“So… can I paint the nursery?”

“For myself, I’d love you to. But… this time, you’d better ask James. Let him take a look at this.”

*****

James – Twelve Weeks

Wow!

What a great job.

Mitch’s work on the creche is seriously good. No-one would think she wasn’t a professional.

“I based it on the room I used as Jenny’s nursery when… When she was a baby… Before…” Mitch’s voice catches.

I lay a hand on her arm. “You have her back now. And she’s not going anywhere.”

“I know. It’s just, sometimes, when I think how I lost her…”

Her voice breaks again…

Spiralling out of control…

Change the subject…

“You have an amazing talent, Mitch. You could easily make a living as an interior decorator.”

She shrinks in on herself… “Oh, I don't think so…”

Too many years of being told she has no worth?

“…Think how much time this takes. I'd have to charge the earth to make it pay.”

“Alright, so you have something to sell where you can charge the earth.” She looks askance at me, frankly unbelieving.

“Mitch, remember who your family members are. Richard and Beth move in the kind of circles where they would love something like this. ‘Paying the Earth’ for it would simply give them bragging value.”

Her brow wrinkles, but behind her eyes, wheels are turning. “You think so?”

“I'm sure so. Take some photos of your work. Get yourself a website and you'd be good to go.”

She huffs. “James, I don't know anything about the internet. I certainly don’t know how to go about setting up a website.”

I lay a hand on her arm. “No, but I do. If you want to do this, I'll get you set up with a site and show how you can do more as you're ready. And I am quite sure Charlotte would be only too pleased to help.”

Her eyes flash to mine, then around the room. “You really think it’s saleable? That I could make a living doing this?”

I fold my arms. Nod. “Yes.”

She paces the room, knuckles pressed to her mouth. Then, “Do you have a camera I could borrow?”

“Only my phone, but that's not a problem. I'll ask Richard to get Marketing to send a photographer across. This will advertise you and your services. It advertises the spa and the hotel. And since, if they decide to visit, they’d at least buy a lunch in the restaurant, it even pays for itself.”

“I’d… I’d not thought of it like that.”

“Well, do. Get into that way of thinking. You have a skill, Mitch. If you learn to sell it, you’re in control of your own future. Once you’re earning in your own right, you’ll be dependent on no-one.

*****

Klempner - Thailand

The track’s a long one; a series of muddy ruts that decay to quagmire if I go any further. But it’s fine. We’re far enough off the main highway not to be heard.

Pulling over, I reach under the seat for the Glocks, shoving one into my belt, keeping the other in my hand. “Here’s our stop, gentlemen.”

Chaos in the rear…

“What’s going on?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“So, we are.” I get out, then keeping them covered, unlock the rear doors. “Out you come.”

Strohmayer blusters. “What the f**k’s going on?” But he’s sweating as he looks down the barrel of my Glock, and he’s weaving on his feet.

“Delivering, as I promised, the experience of a lifetime, gentlemen. To be precise, the last experience of your lifetimes.”

It doesn’t take long. Two try to run. I take them down first. Trolley-man drops to his knees, pleading. I make it quick for him. A single round through the forehead; not even enough time to feel it.

Strohmayer seems in denial. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yup.” I aim for his stomach, giving him a few seconds to roll around the ground, screaming in on himself as I finish the final two then, muzzle pressed to Strohmayer’s temple, I say, “Don’t be too sad. You’re performing a valuable service to humanity today.

And I squeeze the trigger.

*****

James - Thirteen Weeks

I put the phone back into the cradle.

“All arranged?” asks Mitch from her place on the couch.

“Yes, all arranged.” I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t expect to be the one doing this. I thought Charlotte would be telling me. We should have been seeing a doctor weeks ago…”

Mitch nods, looking thoughtful, then smiles as Charlotte enters.

“Ah, Charlotte,” I say. “Good timing. Just to let you know, I’ve booked an appointment for you at a specialist pre-natal and maternity clinic…”

She stills, going ‘all eyes’. “Master? What for?”

Am I hearing this?

“You’re pregnant, Charlotte. I'd like you to have a full medical examination and...”

“I'm fine, Master. They checked me out at the hospital while I was there. Why do I need another examination?”

Mitch watches, eyes narrowing.

“I’ll repeat. You’re pregnant. Did you really think you wouldn’t be visiting a prenatal clinic? And especially after the damage you took with that fall down the steps and everything else Ben was responsible for.”

“But, Master...”

Why is she resisting?

But I’m not accepting argument on this. “Do as you're told, Charlotte. You're going.”

Her head hangs. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. You chose your pregnancy. And I’m the father. That gives me a say. You’re doing this.”

Mitch rises from her seat, hands out-held. “Jenny, what’s wrong? It’s the right thing to do. And I know the reputation of the clinic James has chosen. When I was carrying you, I could only dream of being able to call on such a place.”

Face lowered, Charlotte mutters something.

I’m losing patience. “What was that?”

Still she looks down, but she speaks more loudly this time. “I don’t like doctors.”

Mitch laughs, patting her on the shoulder. “Tough. You’re going to have to get used to them.”

*****

Charlotte, flanked by me to one side, her mother to the other, scowls as we enter the clinic.

In the waiting area with us, over-made women wearing a fortune’s worth of designer maternity wear and high heels…

How do you wear stilettos when you’re pregnant?

… sit, drinking latte and reading glossy magazines. I pick one up while we wait, flicking through page after page of high-fashion baby clothes, which the babies are surely too young to appreciate.

Who buys this stuff?

More money than sense…

Charlotte sits, unspeaking, unresponsive.

Mitch is brisk. “Jenny, be sensible. Every pregnant woman has to see a doctor and have regular check-ups. Think of the baby.”

“I am thinking of the baby. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

And I’ve had enough.

Hissing under my breath, “Charlotte! If you can’t be polite to your mother, you’ll regret it. Now behave.”

She remains sullen. “You can’t punish me when I’m pregnant.”

Twisting on the seat, I square her up to me by the shoulders. “You think? You really believe I don’t have options? That I’m so uninventive or unimaginative that I couldn’t think of something appropriate if needed?”

Mitch’s mouth twitches and she looks away.

Charlotte swallows. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”

Mitch lays a hand on her arm. “I don’t understand what you have against doctors, Jenny. They’re here to look after you.”

But Charlotte just hangs her head.

*****

The doctor has a brisk air about her. “Good morning. Mrs Summerford? I am Doctor Redshaw. Please come this way.” She turns to lead her from the waiting area.

Charlotte takes a step or two, looking over her shoulder to me and Mitch, pleading in her eye. I make to follow but the doctor holds up a hand. “Mr Summerford, I assume? I’d rather hold the consultation just with your wife to begin with.”

I don’t see the point in correcting her on my name. It would take too much explaining, but Mitch’s eyes roll my way.

Charlotte’s voice is small. “I’d really prefer him to come in with me. And my mother.”

Why is she so nervous?

The doctor sniffs, pursing her lips. “Very well. If you really feel it necessary.”

She leads us into the kind of bland white space one expects for a medical consultation room. The smell of hand-sanitiser competes with a vase of lilies on the windowsill. The walnut and leather desktop is polished to a high gleam, occupied by one of those clicking chrome executive toys and a brown manila file.

Boxes of instruments, latex gloves and syringes sit alongside shelves of heavy texts and glossy brochures from drugs and medical equipment suppliers. Posters line the wall showing various stages of development of mother and foetus. One, weirdly, asks Have you been using contraception?

Doctor Redshaw waves Charlotte to a seat, repeating that sniff…

Who’s paying who here?

… then pulls out a couple of extra chairs for me and Mitch.

Seating herself, she flicks through the brown file, settling on a page. Looking down at the document, not at Charlotte, she traces lines of text with a manicured fingernail. “You appear to be in overall good health, Mrs Summerford. However, a few questions first. Then we can go over the test results from the examination and the scans.”

Charlotte sits, all but rigid save for the winding of her fingers, knotting and re-knotting.

“I will say,” continues Redshaw, “that having reviewed your medical records at some length, I would like to go over a few specific items.”

Brows raised, she inclines her head, as though asking Charlotte’s permission, but without waiting for a reply, continues, “First of all, I have to ask if you have continued your alcohol habit into adult life and through your pregnancy?”