I need air. “Please excuse me a moment.”
Mitch watches as I exit. So does Klempner. Michael is taking care of Beth.
In the kitchen, safely out of earshot, I lean over the sink and throw my guts up.
At length, head banging, I’ve nothing left to puke with; so, running water around the basin, I fill a glass, rinsing my mouth, spitting out the foul taste. And then another, this time gulping it down. Then, soaking a paper towel, I wipe over my face; hot skin and cold, stinking sweat.
Leaning forward, I rest my hands on the counter for a few moments while I gather myself, then straightening up, turn and…
… Klempner is there, a hip parked against the table, calmly waiting, a hipflask in one hand. He takes a swig then offers it to me. “As I said… and as you know…the bastard’s playing mind games with you. If you let it take you like this, you’re letting him win.”
The alcohol is tempting. I look at the flask but don’t accept it. “I need my head clear. I don’t need Dutch courage.”
“I know you don’t.” Klempner rocks the outreached flask from side to side, proffering it again. “I prefer Dutch anger.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But this time, I accept the flask, taking a gulp, then gag at the burn as it goes down. “Harsh stuff,” I gasp, then take another.
“Yes, but it’ll help settle you. Hold it down. Let it work. Don’t get sick. Get mad. Get angry.”
The despair rises inside again, threatening to overwhelm me. I look to the floor, blinking back the prickle at the back of my eyes. Then I take another mouthful. “I’m trying. I’m finding it hard… Charlotte…”
I offer the flask back. Klempner raises it to his mouth, takes a sip. “I realise you’re torturing yourself with the idea that you should have prevented all this. But I’ve watched that footage for the hospital, several times over. And I agree with everyone else. You’re not to blame. You were looking for her almost as soon as they took her. No-one would reasonably have come looking any sooner. Crucifying yourself with guilt isn’t going to help Jenny. Anger is a much more useful emotion. And now, we know who to vent it against.”
“I know but…”
He talks over me… “We’ve all done things we regret…”
… He meets my eyes, holding them…
“… Me more than most. But wallowing in remorse doesn’t achieve anything. Get your head under control, James, and harness your anger. Make it work for you.” He passes the flask back to me.
“As you do?” I take another swallow, now enjoying the rough heat of the whiskey as it goes down.
His answering smile is ironic. “Demonstrably.” He holds out a hand and I return the flask. He takes another swallow. “Mind if I ask you something?”
One of those questions, eh?
“Odd time to choose for a question that has to start like that.”
He smiles again, quite disarmingly. “Well… with a stomach full of my whiskey, I thought you might answer.”
“Go on then.”
“What attracted you to Jenny? I mean, yes, she’s a looker, just like her mother, and I realise I’m prejudiced… But… Older man… Young girl… And yet, under very unusual conditions, you’ve made the relationship stick. What triggered it?”
I stare out of the window, gazing out over a winter landscape before turning back. “I saw a brochure for an auction. And I fell in love with a pair of green eyes.”
“Ah…That’s interesting…” Klempner takes a swig from the flask, offers it back. “So did I.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The whiskey’s working on me, dispersing the tension coiled inside. My chest is loosening. So’s my tongue. “Right from the start, I didn’t just want Charlotte. I would have done anything to keep her.”
“I can relate to that.” Klempner sucks at the neck of the flask, then tips it, upside down over the sink. A single drop falls. “Can I give you some advice?”
“I’m listening.”
“Go cold. Freeze it out. You’re no good to Jenny in this state. Bury your feelings. There’s an old saying that revenge is a dish best served cold. And it’s spot on.”
“Klempner, I don’t want revenge. I just want her back.”
“I want her back too. But not just that. I need to be sure this can’t happen again.”
“How?”
“When I catch up with Baxter, I’ll be making an example of him. And I’ll make sure the world knows who did it. And what the consequences will be for anyone who threatens my… family.”
“Family? Is that how you think of Jenny?”
A long silence.
“It’s the best I can do. She’s never going to love me, deservedly so. But that doesn’t mean I can’t protect her.”
*****
My phone pings… Incoming email. Simultaneously, so does Michael’s.
It’s a link and a one-word message: Klempner.
Michael eyes the link. “Not sure I want to click that.”
“Let me see it,” says Klempner, craning.
I’m already opening my laptop, forwarding the message from my phone without opening it. “Let’s get it visible where we can all see it.”
Klempner leans over me, looking over my shoulder. “I know this platform,” he says. “It’s a messaging and video system popular with those who don’t want to sign up to anything and who don’t want to be traced. James, do you have a screen recorder on this machine?”
“Absolutely.” I open it up, then click the link… A short, simple message appears.
One million. You agree?
I startle at Richard’s sudden voice by my ear. “The money’s there and available. It’s being packaged now.”
I type in. Yes, we agree. Your instructions?
The cursor blinks.
One million. Used notes. Confirm money available?
Yes, available.
“Hold it,” says Klempner. “Proof of life.”
Mitch whimpers. My gorge rises, but I type.
We require proof of life
You have video
We do not know provenance of video. Current proof required that Charlotte alive NOW
A pause, then,
Ask a question for your proof
My brain curdles. I can’t think. What do I ask of my Jade Eyes that no-one else would know?
Something completely private…
My fingers hover over the keys…
Michael takes a seat next to me. “James, type this. Ask… Who was brave when she was in the power of the wicked king?”
Richard and Beth exchange glances. Klempner looks at Mitch, who shrugs.
My hands hanging over the keyboard, “Michael, what are you talking about? What kind of question is that?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know what it means. So does Charlotte. I don’t believe anyone else does. Type it in. Those exact words.”
I type.
Who was brave when she was in the power of the wicked king?
The cursor blinks, then…
Wait
…
…
…
Abruptly, the screen fades to black then reopens, a widening eye…
… to the same view as we saw in the ransom video.
Charlotte…
She’s still on the collapsed cartons, now clearly sodden with God-knows-what. My imagination runs wild over how it must smell…
Klempner elbows me in the ribs…
Go cold…
He’s right…
… But now, she’s on all fours, straining and sobbing. The hospital gown is bloodied, coated in filth. As we watch, she’s trying to move the card.
But of course, she’s kneeling on it too. She crawls off onto the bare floor. The concrete must be grinding into her knees and toes. But her weight off it now, she shifts the card around, arranging it so a drier, cleaner area is exposed.
The sound of grinding metal echoes over the grim cell, and seen from above, the top edge of a door swings into view, standing ajar.
At the sound she looks up, her neck twisting at something below and outside the view of the camera. Her eyes are wide, her face sweating as she pants.
“You bastard!” she screams. It’s not a scream of defiance, but of fear and hopelessness.
“Shut the fuck up,” growls a voice…”
Klempner leans in, cocking an ear to the screen…
“… Got a question for you… Who was brave when she was in the power of the wicked king?”
For a moment, Charlotte looks baffled, blinking rapidly as she pants, then her eyes widen.
Her gaze rises, and as we watch, the light switches on behind her eyes. She looks directly at the camera; looks at me, looks at Michael, looks at Klempner and her mother.
The fear and the exhaustion dissolve from her face, replaced by that feral expression she has.
“Scheherazade,” she says. Then she flops forward, her mouth widening in a groan and her back arching.
The door closes with the clang of metal. Charlotte looks below the camera and then up at it again. She speaks silently, mouthing the words.
Master… Michael… I love you.
Then her gaze drops, and she returns to her rearrangement of her fetid cardboard couch, tearing a flap from the edge, rolling it into a cylinder…
A pillow?
… wrapping what looks like discarded packing tape around it…
… and the screen flickers to black.
The cursor blinks back to life.
Satisfied?
Yes. Satisfied.
Wait for instructions
Will do
*****