Chapter 26

Klempner - Twenty-Six Years Ago

The air is glacial, but although the breeze whips through my hair, I’m not cold. Instead, invigorated, I
feel strong and ready for anything.

Standing by the frozen sea, I watch the wind drawing snow across the ice in a whirling dervish of frozen
granules that lash around my feet. And I think of the last time I did this, here, with her.

Valentine’s Day coming up… I’ll be back in time.

Get her a present…

What would she like?

Something regional? She loved Helsinki…

Some of the local food?

Then I remember her bending over the porcelain, throwing up gravlax and vodka in equal measure…

Maybe not…

Jewellery?

Still persuading her to wear the emeralds I gave her…

A piece of art?

?

?



Perfect.

I head for the town centre, searching for galleries and craft shops, not knowing just what I’m looking for.

But I’ll know it when I see it…

Most are full of the kind of useless knick-knacks that are met with an ‘Oh, how lovely. You shouldn’t
have.” greeting, then get pushed to the back of the cupboard: I-Heart-Helsinki fridge-magnets,
overpriced chocolates and tee-shirts, dolls in fake Laplander costumes.

Weirdly, some of the gift shops are stocked with mementoes which seem to me completely out of
place. Who comes to Helsinki to buy posters of London buses or ‘New York They named it twice’ tee-
shirts?

Am I missing something?

Nope…

And then, there it is.

Beautifully painted by some local artist with more Js and Ks in the name than English allows: a scene
of the frozen sea, painted from almost where I stood only a couple of hours ago with ice grit-blasting
my clothes. A couple stand hand-in-hand looking out over a glinting scene of white and blue, and in the
distance, a lone figure sits fishing.

The price, like everything in Helsinki, is horrendous, but who cares? Money is nothing. Mitch is…

… Mitch.

Padded and carefully gift-wrapped, I tuck the package under my arm and head back for the ferry port.

Time to go home…



Home?

When did I ever think of home before?

She’s waiting.

*****

 

Michael

“How is she?”

James props himself, both hands knuckled on the kitchen table, head bowed. “The same. Not good. I’d
say she’s gotten past denial, but I almost wish she’d cry… Get it out of her system. Instead, she
behaves as though she’s in shock.”

He's mourning the loss of a daughter…

She's panicking over gaining a father...

Both bereft…

…

What a fucking mess.

“Shock is probably the right word…” I say. “… Discovering she has a psychopath for a parent. It’s going
to take time and support to get her past it.”



He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing closed for a moment. “I think,” he says, “part of the
problem is that not knowing much about him, she’s cooked up some idealised vision of Conners in her
imagination…”

“The perfect father who never was?”

“As it turns out, yes.” He rubs at the back of his head. “How the hell do we deal with this?”

“Time may be the only thing that deals with it. We simply wait for her to come out of her funk.
However…” I raise a forefinger… “… What we might try is to deal with the practicalities.”

“Like?”

“Like, when did she last have a bath? Or a proper meal?”

“Don't think she's had a bath since we got back. Just sits there wallowing in pizza boxes and boil-in-a-
minute noodles. I’m happy to cook anything we can get down her, but first, we have to get her
attention.” He jerks his chin towards the lounge. “You want to get in there again? Give it another try? I
think this needs your touch.”

I pull up a seat, rock the chair back, cross my ankles up on the table. “No, I don't think so. Not this time.
On this occasion, I think she needs what you give her.”

His eyes shift to mine. “You think?”

“Yes, I think. Hugs aren’t carrying this one. She needs knocking back into reality.” James straightens
up, plucks at a lip. “You might like to know,” I add, “that I turned on the heating downstairs first thing this
morning.”

He Ahhhs in silence, then, “Maybe you’re right.” He stares into nothing for a long second, then, “Come
on then. You’d better be there too but stay in the background if you prefer.”



I follow him through to the lounge. Charlotte sits on the couch, hugging her knees, gazing slack-faced
into the fire. She doesn’t appear to notice us.

What’s she thinking...?

… Feeling….?

Fear?

Loss?

?

?

Humiliation?

James speaks. “Charlotte?” There’s no softness in his voice.

She doesn’t turn, maintaining her vigil of the flames. “Mmmm?”

Ram-rod straight, his arms folded, “I expect you to look at me when I address you.”

She hunches, then turns to face him. “Sorry, Master.”

“Come here.”

Charlotte uncrumples from her self-hug to stand, then shuffles across the room to stand before him.
“Yes, Master?” But she doesn’t meet his eyes. Head low, her fingers wind and twist together, unwind
then rewind…

Yes… humiliation…



Her hair, unwashed since God-knows-when, hangs in greasy rat-tails and her face is sallow. Clothes
are creased, spotted with what look like tomato stains, and she’s still carrying traces of makeup she put
on days ago; mascara gone panda-eyed.

Doesn’t smell great either…

James squares up to her. “Charlotte, I am your Master. You will behave appropriately when we speak.
Your face lowered in submission is acceptable. Your head hanging in shame is not.”

Her voice chokes. “Master…”

He takes her by the shoulders, pinning her, almost shaking her. “Listen to me, Charlotte. Nothing has
changed. Nothing. You are exactly the same person you were a few days ago.”

Still she won’t look at him. “But I’m not. I…” The words choke into a sob.

Finally crying?

Good…

For God’s sake let it out…

“The only thing that is any different is inside your head. You are not Jenny, the child victim. You are
Charlotte, the woman who reinvented herself, who knew what she wanted and took on all comers to
get it. The woman who took the world by the throat and shook until it gave her what she deserved.”

She’s still gulping down sobs. James continues. “Charlotte faced down everything life threw at her. I
saw you do it. I saw you auction yourself to the highest bidder; to me; because doing so would take you
where you wanted to go. Even though you knew it was dangerous. Even though your memories must
have made that an appalling decision for you to take.” He’s still holding her, jolting her at the shoulders
to punctuate his words. And each shake draws a sob.



“I saw you face down the man who terrorised your childhood and who threatened you with assault and
gang-rape. And just because that man might be, genetically, your sire… I don’t say father… that does
not mean he has any power over you. Klempner has no hold over you unless you give it to him. And
you are too strong to let that happen. Do you understand me?”

“Jenny didn't have choices, but Charlotte does. And one of those choices is whether or not she lets
something that is part of her past control her present and her future.”

She swallows, her sobs subsiding a little.

And now, he grips her chin, forces her face up to meet his. “When you and I first met, I wanted you
because I admired you. Not just liked you. Not just loved you, although all of that is true. I admired you.
Your courage, your tenacity, that resilient core you have, your refusal to knuckle under. And I will not
see you bend at the knee over something that does not matter. If Klempner was the sperm donor to
your mother, that does not change who you are or what you are.”

And finally, she looks up to James’ face. His eyes soften at the corners. “Just because Klempner
allowed his monster of a father to turn him into a monster doesn't mean that will happen to you. It
hasn't happened to you. You made different choices in the past. You will make different choices now.”

She blinks tears then wipes a hand across her eyes. James draws a thumb across the streaks running
down her cheeks.

Her voice hollow, “He said he was sorry…”

James snaps, outrage in his tone. “He has no right to say that. Sorry? What’s different for him to be
sorry about? He abused a child. The fact that it turns out he sired that child makes no difference. ‘Sorry’
isn’t good enough. Sorry doesn’t even come close to good enough.”



Her head hangs again, her voice small. “He’s in prison.”

He knocks her chin back up with a finger. “So Klempner’s locked up. What of it? That’s to punish
him…”

Keep your anger under control…

From behind, I wave my palm down a couple of times.

Cool it…

James scowls at me but moderates his tone, gentler now as he speaks to her.

“… And to keep him from doing more damage than he already has. Do you think that gives him any
kind of right to salvation? How would a man like that ever earn redemption?”

Her voice is trembling. “I always thought… even when it was at its worst… I thought that somewhere
out there, she must be there. My mother. And she’d been with my father. With Frank Conners…”

And finally, we’re getting it…

What she’s thinking…

What’s really upsetting her…

“… and they'd have been happy together while he was still alive. Before Klempner murdered him. And
there must have been some reason that she left me there. With him. She couldn’t have just abandoned
me. But if he was my father… Klempner… Maybe that’s why she did it. Maybe she was so… horrified…
that I was his… Maybe she simply didn’t want me. She just left me with him…”

She raises eyes red-rimmed and swollen, looking first at James, then at me. “Do you think he raped
her?”



Is that what’s bothering her?

She thinks she’s the child of rape…?

“No,” James snaps, his voice decisive. “Klempner’s admitted to a lot; murder, enslavement, terrorism,
but he denied rape. Given his willingness to admit everything else, I’m inclined to believe him. I don’t
think he forced your mother.”

She uncoils a bit, weeping again, but now it has the sound of release… I move to stand behind her,
wrap my arms around her. She shudders, her weight relaxing back into my arms.

“You're right.” Her voice is still shaky, but some calm is returning. “You’re right. With everything else, he
would have no reason to lie.”

James stands back, letting me hold her. “That’s better. I know you’re unhappy, but at least we’re talking
about it now.” He nods me to the cabinet. “Michael, why don’t you open a bottle of wine. I think we’ll
share a drink and then you…” He plants a long forefinger on Charlotte’s chest… “… are going to have
a long soak in the bath. Michael or I will join you if you wish. Or you can be by yourself if you prefer.
After that…”

“After that, Master?”

“After that, we are going to share a meal…”

“I’m not very hungry, Master…”

“So, we will share a small meal. Now, sit by the fire, get warm and drink your wine.”

She submits, sits and returns to staring into the embers. James lays a hand on my shoulder,
murmuring, “Can you keep her company for a while. I want to get the basement ready.”



“Of course. What are you planning on doing?”

“I’m going to take her to the edge then tip her over.”

“Don't overdo it.”

“That's what you're there for. “

*****


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