The Lover's Children

Chapter 115 – Autumn’s Fury – Part 7

JAMES

I pull up a chair to give myself a few seconds to think. “I wouldn't spend too much time dwelling on that

subject.”

“No? You don’t consider it a relevant thought? In my case?”

“No. I don’t. I know where you’re going with that line of thinking. Listen…”

I pause, take a breath, turning the words in my head… “Larry, we all know there is much for you to

answer for. But we also know what made you the way you were. The way you used to be. The

childhood maketh the man…

“… When it came to it, you wanted redemption. You actively sought it out. And we all know you’ve

moved Heaven and Earth to earn it…” He doesn’t speak, merely regarding me silently, lids hooded

over flat, grey eyes…

I continue. “… I don't believe Harkness is either looking for redemption. Or capable of it. Every

indication is that he intends to carry on exactly as he has been, even if he has gone to ground for now.

We all have choices. Whatever made Harkness what he is, he had choices too. He could have turned

away from the path he followed at any time…”

Time for a change of pace…

I make a broad gesture over the stacks of paper, the mounds of files. “So… what have you learned?”

“It’s not so much what I’ve learned as what I’m speculating.”

“Which is?”

“The mother. Narcissistic. Over-protective, to the son at least. Controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Narcissists are typically controlling and manipulative. Everything is about them. If the mother played to

the audience that she loved the boy, there’s every reason to think she would have done her best to

keep hold of his reins. Kept him as her satellite.”

“So… you think… what? Harkness resents his mother? Perhaps hates her?”

Klempner slips something from a file; a photograph, old, yellowed at the edges, what looks like an

ordinary family photo. A group of three. A woman, older, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a

teenage boy, the other arm around a younger girl.

“The Harkness family,” says Klempner. “You’ll recognise Patrick Harkness, but look at the mother and

daughter.”

I look again…

Two women, a generation apart. But cast the same mold.

The older one, attractive, but with hard edges written into her face, her stance, and now I look properly,

the firm hold on both of the children. What, on casual glance is an affectionate arm around the

shoulders, on a closer inspection, is a tight grip. The fingers clutching into their arms.

The younger girl, she’s lovely, in the way of blooming teenage girls. Leggy, fresh-faced, her long hair

catching a little in the breeze, she destined to be a beauty.

But she leans away from her mother and brother. Her face is angled away. Physically, she’s part of the

group. But in every other way, she’s not. In her head, she’s somewhere else.

And Harkness himself…

A rictus of a smile aims at the camera, but his eyes are elsewhere, scything toward the two women.

What are those eyes saying?

Lust for the sister?

Or hatred for the mother?

Or both?

“It has been assumed,” says Klempner softly, “that Harkness’ motivation was lust for his sister. But

suppose, in fact, it was the mother?”

“You think we have some sort of latter-day Oedipus? He lusted after his sister, but it was really the

mother he wanted?”

“I was thinking more of Nero than Oedipus.”

My brain turns through a quick spin… “Nero who… who had sex with his mother? And later murdered

her?” I scrape fingers through my scalp. “Sorry, I’m just trying to remember my classical history.”

Klempner holds up a tablet, displaying some Wiki article. “I was running through a refresher myself.

Agrippina, mother of Nero. According to what we know of her, beautiful, ruthless, and intelligent. And

insane for power. To consolidate her hold on her son, she seduced him. She married her own uncle,

the then emperor of Rome, Claudius, and later poisoned him. That put Nero, whose sanity was way

out, dancing with the fairies, into power as emperor of Rome and its empire. Agrippina paid the price

for her power-lust when Nero murdered her.”

I ponder this rush of insight. “So… you think that… when Harkness has been killing beautiful, long-

haired women, it’s not his sister he’s been murdering, again and again. It’s his mother? He’s working

through a kind of… vicarious revenge?”

Klempner nods down to the photograph. One known serial killer. One long-haired, beautiful, victim. One

long-haired, beautiful… living woman.”

“Where the hell does she live? If Harkness goes after her. Whatever she’s done in the past, if he…”

“I’ve already messaged Stanton with my thoughts. But, in fact, the police already have her home staked

out. It’s an obvious place for him to try to hide.”

*****

HARKNESS

My cash is getting pretty thin, but a collect call gets me through on the phone. The line connects.

“Mom, it’s me. I was thinking of coming back home for a few weeks. Is that okay?”

“Ricky Darling. So good to hear from you. It’s been so long. Of course, it's alright. Is it the end of term?”

“Yeah, finished my exams last week.”

“How did it go? As if I needed to ask.”

“Aced them all, Mom.”

“Of course you did. I'll make up your room for you. Oh, and I can introduce you to Owen while you’re

staying. You'll want to meet him. He and I have become such good friends.”

*****

Owen…

Wonder what this one’s worth?

You’ve been smiling your Botoxed smile at him? Showing off your pumped-up tits?

You turn my stomach.

You old whore…

You old fucking whore…

*****

From a distance, I park up and wait. And I watch.

The binoculars aren’t great, but they’ll do. The original owner doesn’t need them anymore.

Chomping on a pizza, I wash it down with cola. The roadside cafe where I bought it is new. They won’t

know me.

The pizza’s okay-ish…

Could have used more anchovies...

Six-thirty…

Whoever this Owen is she’s fucking this time, he’ll probably turn up some time in the next couple of

hours.

The door opens a couple of times and she strolls out, looking up and down the road, then strolls back

in, looking pissed off.

Nothing’s changed.

Still all about you, isn’t it…

Then I see it. The car, parked across the road, a man inside, watching.

The pizza sours in my mouth…

There’s another, at the end of the road…

And now I look.

A man on a bench pretends to read a paper. But he’s not really reading. His face is angled wrong.

And there’s someone on the roof across the road from hers.

Is that a gun?

They’re watching her…

I can't go home.

*****

JAMES

Back home, I go in search of Michael, locating him eventually in the gym.

Beyond a screened-off area, a dozen or so women, squeezed into over-stretched pink and purple

Spandex, huff and sweat through some dance routine.

Michael himself sips from a water bottle, watching Marty at the other end of the room graceful and

athletic in leggings and leotard, demonstrating something or other to Charlotte. He chin-lifts me a Hello.

“How’s Klempner?”

“Bad-tempered.”

He barks laughter. “Fucking indestructible, isn’t he.”

“Damn close.” I nod across the floor. “When did you install a pole as part of the gym equipment?”

“About an hour ago. I told Marty she’s welcome to stay for as long as she needs to get settled. She got

huffy about accepting charity, so I offered her the chance to sing for her supper. Well, dance anyway.

She’s going to give lessons.”

Pole dancing?

My mind races. “Who to?”

He shrugs. “Plenty of them come here looking for yoga and pilates and line dancing. Pole dancing

should make an interesting add-on.”

I run a quick internal movie of some of the over-sized waddlers I see in the next room…

…cavorting around the pole…

… then decide that there are some images I don’t want haunting my imagination.

Michael sucks in his cheeks, maintaining a diplomatic silence.

Charlotte spots me, murmurs something to Marty, then strolls across. “How is..?”

“He’s fine,” I say. “Busy bullying the nurse into doing what he wants. Trying to anyway.”

She Hmmms then turn back toward the gyrating Marty, eyeing her with a speculative expression. After

a moment, she turns back to Michael, one brow arched.

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. Then he flashes brows, eyes creasing. “You'll get no argument

from me, Babe.”

“I'm not very good at dancing.”

“That's not exactly dancing, is it? More like gymnastics. Give it a try by all means.”

Charlotte strides across.

Beside me, Michael murmurs, “How d’you feel about installing a pole down in the basement?”

“Way ahead of you.”

*****

HARKNESS

I slide a look sidelong at my 'companion'. He swigs from a bottle clutched in a brown paper bag. I'm not

sure what he's drinking, but I'm pretty sure it came from a hardware store, not a liquor store.

A chemical smell drifts my way, not masking the stench of unwashed body and clothes. And something

else: a scent like rot. Putrid. Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

Meths?

Stupid bastard.

He'll be blind soon if he's not careful. Or worse.

I shiver, tugging my jacket tight. The days are still warm, but the nights are getting colder. A faint

breeze nips through my coat. My shoes too. The soles are wearing thin.

Stupid-Bastard’s not shivering. He looks quite cheerful, in fact. Turning my way, he waves the bottle at

me, grinning, brown-toothed, his lips split and cratered with a purple tinge.

How long's he been drinking that stuff?

The breeze drifts my way. He smells like an open sewer.

Probably rotting from the inside.

“No, thanks.”

Still… his overcoat looks quite good. A decent, heavyweight serge, army surplus or some such. It looks

a lot better than what I'm wearing.

He wasn't wearing it yesterday.

The grin turns my way again. “Got any shmokes?”

“Sure, if you don't mind these.” I fish a couple of not-quite-finished butts from a pocket. I don't use them

myself, but I’ve learned that at my current social level, they're hard currency. “Help yourself.”

I pass one to him. The khaki/toothed grin gapes to a blast of putrescent breath. He takes the butt with

fingers like diseased sausages.

Wonder where he got the coat?

Some charity flop?

About my size too…

He staggers upright, lurching to where half a dozen of his kindred warm hands over a tin barrel, burning

whatever rubbish is to hand. The flames smoke black; oil or rubber perhaps, but at least it cuts down

on the floating litter and washed-up trash which accumulates here.

Lights the butt from the ‘brazier’, he smokes the thing while exchanging what passes for conversation,

then weaves his way back to ‘home’.

His legs fold, letting him back down to the layers of cardboard. Eyelids drooping, he takes another swig

from his bottle. Briefly, he turns my way. “Thankshh.”

“No problem. You can do the same for me sometime.”

He nods, expression flaccid, the grin rubbery, then curls in on himself and closes his eyes, the bottle

clutched to his middle. He didn't screw the top back. The angle increases. He'll lose it all soon.