The church is tiny, set in maybe half an acre of green grass and greener trees. Everything by the gate, the path, the porch, is neatly clipped and mown. But further away, towards the back, the grass is longer, save for where it dies away under the shade of a vast yew tree.
A few late bluebells nestle under a hedgerow and some kind of little brown bird whistles melodically from an overhanging chestnut, the only sound here away from the road, save for the susurration of wind in leaves and the sound of our own footsteps.
We step carefully around marble-edged graves, avoiding low green mounds no longer having headstones.
And sheâs there, kneeling in the grass, in a tucked-away corner set back from the rest of the graves.
She doesnât hear us, occupied in some task or other.
As we draw closer, I see sheâs tidying up an already tidy grave. Although someone has been looking after it, dandelions have invaded and sheâs busily digging out the roots with a hand-fork.
James meets my eye.
Do we disturb her?
I shrug, hold up palms. Itâs clearly a private momentâ¦
Charlotte turns. âOh! Sorry, I didnât realise you were there.â
Her cheeks are wet and she wipes at them with dirty hands before James passes her a handkerchief.
âAre we intruding?â He speaks softly.
âNo.â She sniffs. âBut I wanted to come. Itâs not as though anything I do really helps⦠but⦠You knowâ¦â
He kisses her on the cheek. âYes, I know.â
He wanders across to the grave. Plain, nothing out of the ordinary, a simple headstone bears a six-
pointed star and a name, Levi Kalkowski.
*****
Klempner I canât be bothered to turn the light on. As the day fades, I sit, cradling a glass in my palm. The heat of my hand warms the brandy and the fumes are heady, but I donât drink.
Two photos sit together; both women red-headed, green-eyed. Both beautiful.
Might-have-beens and never-weres flit through my brain; sweet memories made bitter by time and the toxic reality.
All those yearsâ¦
Made my own bedâ¦
Mitchâ¦
I think of her, as she is now. Older than the image carved into my brain, but her hair still red, with that hint of gold. Her eyes like green gems. Her skin like milk tinted with rose petals.
Terrified of meâ¦
â¦
â¦
Connersâ¦
He liedâ¦
⦠beat herâ¦
Inside me, the fire burns; clean and bright, consuming, banishing the darkness.
After a while, I slam the glass down, stand and reach for my holster.
*****
Sitting in the armchair I hold the pistol lying loosely on my lap.
I moved the chair to sit comfortably, within easy reach of the door. And I drew the curtains, but light from the street-lamps outside spills through, weirdly orange.
And now in the semi-dark, I wait.
Itâs almost midnight before thereâs movement. Footsteps echo outside the window, click-clicking closer in an unsteady rhythm on stone paving. Just outside, they halt.
I stand and take my position to the side of the entrance.
The lock rattles, grates and turns, and the door opens. In the dark I raise my gun towards a silhouette, back-lit by neon.
Iâm smiling.
The silhouette shuffles as it closes the door, belchesâ¦
The stink of too much beerâ¦
A touch of vomit in the airâ¦
⦠and stumblesâ¦
With a click, I turn on the light.
For a frozen moment, Conners gapes as he sees me, then tries to turn, as though to run, but Iâm faster than he is, prepared andâ¦
⦠Iâm not falling-down drunk.
âHello, Frank. Itâs been a long time.â I point with a forefinger to the far corner of the room, then with the muzzle. âOver there.â
âLarryâ¦â He attempts a smile. Itâs not a success. His face sags with age and bloat and alcohol. His eyes are bloodshot.
âYouâve not aged as well as Mitch has, Frank. Youâre not looking good at all.â
âYouâve seen her? Is sheâ¦?â
âMitch is doing well and Iâm sure will continue to do so, now that sheâs with our daughterâ¦â
Heâs not looking at my face. His whole attention is fixed on the barrel, staring down its length. âHey, Larry. You donât need to point a gun at me.â
âNot just a gun, Frank. Itâs an FN Five-Seven. One of the best there is. But Iâd not expect you to know something like that. You defend yourself using women and children.â Under a sagging chin, his throat ripples. âThey tell me you've been beating your wife. Using her as a punchbag.â
âLarry, I...â
âShut the fuck up, Frank. They also tell me that you knew Jenny wasn't yours and you threw her to the dogs. And then went playing mind games with Mitch. Fucking with her head. Let her think her daughter was dead. Our daughter.â
His breathing is accelerating. His forehead, blotched white and scarlet, is beaded with sweat.
âMitch might have saved you before but sheâs not here now. And after the trick you pulled over Jenny, Iâm not even sure sheâd try to help you this time. Itâs just you and me.â
I raise the gun, aiming for his forehead. âAsk me nicely and itâll be quick. If you donât, youâll get it in the stomach. It would take you three or four days to die like that.â
âLarry, please. Pleaseâ¦â
I lean in close, touch the muzzle to his skullâ¦
⦠and I pull the trigger.
It clicksâ¦
⦠but the gunâs not loaded.
Then I step back smartly, avoiding the dark patch spreading across the front of his pants.
He collapses, dropping to his knees, sobbing.
I stand over him. âYouâre not the only one who can play mind games, Frank.â He shudders and quakes and sobs.
I touch the muzzle to his skull again, running it through greasy strands of hair. âDon't ever go near her again. If I learn you have, and I will know, I'll be back, and next time, it wonât be a game. Do we understand each other?â
He nods, sharply, his whole body rocking with the movement.
âI didnât hear you.â
He gulps the words. âYes. Yes.â
âYouâll be receiving divorce papers. When theyâre served, you'll agree to everything she asks, sign and get them back by return post, like a good boy. Yes?â
âYes. Anything you say, Larry.â
âGood. Iâll be off now. Itâs been a pleasure, but I hope we donât have to meet again, Frank.â
Slipping the pistol back in its holster, I straighten my jacket and, leaving the cringing bastard kneeling in his own piss, I quit the stinking hovel.
*****