Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Chapter 35

The food in the canteen isn’t haut cuisine, being served for a clientele who go for quantity over quality. But it’s hot and there’s plenty of it, and Benny hits his plate as though he’s not eaten for a week…

Perhaps he hasn’t…

My Master has his smile firmly switched to On, but I see his eyes travelling Benny, measuring and gauging. He doesn’t say much, simply playing with a bowl of soup while Benny engulfs a huge plate of casserole, veg and mash, then wipes the plate down with a roll.

“They do top-ups as part of the price.” My Master waves vaguely at the serving counter. “Go get more if you want it.”

Benny mumbles something and gripping his tray, heads for the serving counters. As soon as he is out of earshot, my Master turns to me. “So, how do you know him?”

“He was in Blessingmoors when I was. He… was kind to me.”

His brows rise. “Kind to you?” He props an elbow on the table, his chin on a fist.

“Yes. At a time when there wasn’t much kindness around, Benny tried.”

Expressionless, “What did he do?”

The stew I just ate sours as I seek memories I usually suppress. “There was a day… There weren’t many books in Blessingmoors. I think they only kept the ones they had to fool the authorities. But there was one. It was my favourite. ‘The Thousand and One Nights’. You know, the Arabian Nights…” The smallest of nods. “One of the men there, one of the staff, ripped it up…”

In a voice with no tone, “Why did he do that?”

“No reason. Just for spite. But he tore it up in front of me then…” I bite down on my words, shrinking from the memory. “Anyway, Benny tried to mend it. Put it back together again for me.”

My Master says nothing, takes a spoonful of soup. Benny returns with another mountain of food.

“So, what do you do, Benny?” asks my Master.

Benny chews at a potato chunk, struggles to swallow before he speaks. “Do?”

“What do you do for a living? Charlotte here… Jenny… is training to be an engineer. What do you do?”

Benny’s eyes round up, his smile broad and bright as he looks at me. “Engineer? Hey, that’s great.” Then he looks down into his plate. “But she was always the smart one. I’m not clever like her. I don’t have a job right now.”

My Master muses into his soup. “Would you like to work? You want a job?”

Gulping down, “Oh, yes. I always get work if I can, but it never lasts long.”

Brow furrowing, “Why’s that? Short contract work?”

Benny’s face falls. He stares at his food, stirring it around. “No. I always try to get something permanent. I work hard, and I’m good with my hands, but sooner or later they always give me something I have to read; instructions or a diagram or something…”

My Master sits up in his seat. “You can’t read?”

Benny’s thin face flushes. “Like I said, I’m not clever like Jenny.”

Fingers drumming on the table, “We have work going here on site if you want to try.” Benny jolts up. “It would just be temporary labouring for now, but if we find out what you’re good at, it could lead to more.”

Benny’s answers with a grin like a rising sun. “That’d be great. Sure. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Good.” My Master offers his hand again. And again, Benny takes it a little hesitantly….

As though he’s never done it before?

… and shakes.

“…That’s settled. Enjoy your meal and after lunch, I’ll introduce you to the site manager, Sam Callaghan.” He eyes Benny’s plate, just being cleaned of the last of its gravy, and jerks a thumb back at the counters. “I believe dessert is apple pie today.” Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

As Benny vanishes off on a quest for apple pie, I say, “Thank you, Master.”

He steeples fingers. “What goes around, come around. He was kind to you, and for me, that means he gets a chance…”

*****

Twenty-Six Years Ago

Mitch sits by the window, staring out at the world. She tries to read but can’t concentrate. She watches daytime TV; quiz and game shows, crap soaps and re-runs. Two minutes later, she can’t remember any of what she just watched.

She has only the clothes she arrived wearing, so she settles in bed, trying to sleep. After twelve hours she can sleep no more and yet, gritty-eyed, feels as though she never rested at all.

No-one calls.

How long has it been?

Have they forgotten her?

At least here, she’s safe.

Passively, beyond thinking, she waits.

Two days later, the phone rings. She gazes dead-eyed at the ceiling for a moment before registering what the sound is.

She reaches from the depths of the bed. “Hello?”

“Mitch, it’s Theo. Max is sending a taxi to bring you to our offices. Be at the front door in twenty minutes.”

*****

The receptionist is much friendlier than the first time she visited the offices. “Mr Devlin is expecting you, Miss Kimberley. Go straight in. Tea or coffee?”

In the office, Max wears a neutral expression. He takes a sheaf of photos from an envelope, spreading them out on the table top; a dozen faces, seen from different angles and distances; not good quality, as though taken covertly or perhaps reproduced from newspaper cuttings. “Your man Klempner, can you pick him out?”

She scans the photos but barely hesitates as she points. “That's him.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Max nods, pursing his lips, then lays another photograph on the table; a different shot of the same face. Old and blurred, in black and white but yellowing at the corners, nonetheless the features are clear. “Is this him?” His face is still a careful blank.

She travels the face with a finger. “He’s younger there. His hair is darker than that now and he doesn’t have the beard. “But, yes, it’s him.” She picks it up, peers close. “Is that a soldier’s uniform?”

“Yes, it is.” Max speaks slowly. “Mitch, I don't want to scare you, but I have to say that you have become involved with a very dangerous individual. The man you know as Lawrence Klempner has known connections with a range of criminal organisations. In this photo here, he’s in Angola, but there is information linking him to a variety of mercenary and terrorist groups.”

She listens, frozen… “We’re going to have to keep you out of sight while we gather the evidence…”

“I’ve nowhere to stay. I have to earn a living…”

“I can have someone sent to your address to collect clothes and other necessities, but you can’t go back there.”

“I can’t go back to my home? How long for?”

“Mitch, how do you think the police knew where to find you? I don’t believe you ever took clients back to your apartment, did you?”

Her voice is hushed. “No.”

“Did you ever take Klempner there? Does he know where you live?”

Slowly she nods, fighting the pricking behind her eyes.

“Then I don’t think you can go back there, Mitch.” He regards her, not unsympathetically. “Listen, I have to work quietly on this. As you say, it’s clear that Klempner’s got someone behind the scenes, so I can’t just go barging in. We have to tip-toe through this. Meanwhile, go back to the hotel. I’ll call you in a day or so when we work out something more permanent for you. I should be able to get you on a witness protection scheme; somewhere else to live, a new identity if necessary.”

She’s trembling.

Everything she’s worked for…

Her home…

Her living…

Her freedom…

…

…

Butterflies…

He lays a hand on hers. “Write me a list of what you would like us to collect from your apartment.”

*****

In the hotel, her meagre belongings arrive; clothes, personal items; a few precious books salvaged from her collection.

She settles into her armchair by the window and starts to read: Travels in West Africa, Mary Henrietta Kingsley.

*****