Chpater 6

In the street outside, Charlotte is sobbing, Mitch with her arms around her. “Was it Larry? Did he do it to you?”

“No. It wasn’t him. He never touched me. But the supervisor there…”

Mitch persists, “But Larry was in charge?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there at the time.”

Bile rises in my throat. I want to hold her; to tell her that everything is alright. But I’m not sure if I should interrupt Mitch’s embrace with my own. I settle for moving close, laying my hand on her shoulder. “Was it Jenkins? The man who…” And I swallow my words.

The man who died while pursuing her...

…the man she believed for years that she had killed…

The last thing she needs to be reminded of right now…

“Yes,” Her sobs break loose again. “Yes, it was him. I’d escaped one time, but the police caught me and took me back to Blessingmoors, like they always did. Afterwards, Supervisor Jenkins was beating me and I ran. He chased me up the stairs then, when he caught me, he punched me down and I fell. That’s when it happened.”

Mitch’s voice is flat, an iced monotone. “Did you get any medical care?”

“No, they didn’t realise at first what had happened, just locked me in the cellars. They only realised a few days later there was something wrong because I couldn’t eat. Then they put me in the medical room and cuffed me to the bed so I couldn’t run again.”

The front door of the clinic opens, Doctor Redshaw appears. “Mrs Summerford, if you would just calm down…”

But Mitch gives her a look that would shrivel the skin from a peach and the woman, po-faced, retreats back inside.

Charlotte is trembling violently, her shoulder shaking under my hand. “I’m not going back in there. I’m not.”

I meet Mitch’s eyes and she passes her daughter into my arms. Holding her close, my cheek pressed to hers, I rock her, very gently, side to side. “No-one’s asking you to. As for that woman, I’ll be telling the manager a few home truths about bedside manner. Let’s get you home…”

Where did I park?

“… Mitch, you stay here with Charlotte. I’ll bring the car around.”

*****

Back home, I leave Charlotte and Mitch together while I make…

Hmmm…

Comfort food…

…hot chocolate for three, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.

Back in the lounge, Mitch is calming Charlotte, but she’s still a bit weepy. Mitch herself wears a face that looks set to put the country on a war-footing.

I push the mug into Charlotte’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find another clinic for you and I’ll check it out personally first; talk to the doctor myself and make sure we have someone with her brain plugged into reality.”

She sniffles and won’t meet my eye. “If I have to…”

“You do.”

“… can't I go to an ordinary hospital? Where it’s just ordinary people? And not…”

This isn’t my Charlotte…

She’s not afraid of anything…

Until now…

“Alright, I’ll book us an appointment at the City Hospital, but…” I hold up a forefinger… “But if there are any complications, I reserve the right to take you to a specialist. Good enough?”

She takes a couple of breaths. “Yes, Master. Good enough.”

“We’re agreed then. And now…” I glance to Mitch. “You are going to tell me and your mother what happened to you when you were a child.”

“I did tell you.”

“Only in the briefest detail. And I’m sure you’ve skimmed over a lot of it. It’s time to tell the full story.”

*****

Nausea tugs at my stomach. I saw those cellars. I read the stories in the papers. But it’s not the same as hearing it from the woman you love.

“Mitch white-faced, her features pinched “I’ll never forgive him for what he did. Never… And to think I was beginning to…”

Klempner?

She was beginning to warm to him again?

That’s busted his chances…

*****

James – Fourteen Weeks

“You and Beth should leave some of your things here; a change of clothes, toiletries. Pick one of the guest bedrooms and it’s yours.

“A good idea, James.” Richard strokes Beth’s hair. “Are you happy with that? And it means that you and Charlotte can spend more time together while you’re both expecting. Mitch too.”

Charlotte’s mother nods a smiling acknowledgement, but Beth positively glows…

Pregnancy suits her…

“I’d love that. Home from home. And if you’re both working, we’re not by ourselves.”

“Perfect,” I say. “That’s agreed then.”

Michael’s face appears from around the door. “Ah, there you are.”

Clothes dusty, his hair stands in plastered points and a white smear runs from nose to chin. He aims a finger at the coffeemaker. “I’ll have one of those, please.” Then he tosses a small brown envelope onto the tabletop by Mitch.

She picks it up, turning it over in her hand. “What's this?”

Sitting as I offer him a mug of coffee, he swings his feet up onto the table. “What I owe you for the decorating work you did on the creche.”

She double-takes down to the packet. “I wasn’t expecting to be paid for that, Michael. I did it to help.”

His eyes crease. “I know that, but when you do work in the hotel, Mitch, you're on the payroll. I've simply paid you the same as the other decorator quoted…” He scratches at chalky hair. “… Except that's cutting you short. Your work is better than his would have been.”

Mitch just stares at the packet, not opening it, but turning it over and over…

When was the last time she had money of her own?

Michael seems oblivious. “Anyway, if you let me have your bank details, I'll pay it direct next time.” Forehead creasing, he regards Mitch over the mug which hovers half-way to his mouth. “Is that alright? I hope there’ll be a next time? I’d love you to do some more for me.”

The packet clutched in her fingers, “I don't have a bank account.”

Oh, Jeez…

Michael swings his legs down, sitting upright. “You don't? Why not? Oh…” his face clears. “… Was it a shared account with Frank? You're right. We'd better steer clear of that.”

Still gripping the envelope, Mitch chews at a lip. “No, Frank doesn't have one either. Neither of us do. My account was closed down years ago. And then for so long, it wasn't an option because we might have been traced.”

She finally releases the envelope, laying it on the table. “Then when I saw the news about Blessingmoors, when I heard Larry was in prison, I did try to open a new account, to get back into real life, but the bank wouldn't give me one.”

Michael drains his mug then offers it out for a refill. “But you can't function in the modern world without a bank account.”

“I know that, but they said I couldn't have an account without a credit record first.”

Ahhh…

“And you can't get a credit record without a bank account first,” I say. “Catch-22.”

Her eyes raise to mine, tragedy there. Those great and glorious green eyes that I see in both her and her daughter. “That’s right.”

Richard has remained quiet throughout the exchange, but his gaze flicks between us as he listens in silence.

I lean over the table, propping myself on my elbows. “Does it occur to you, Mitch, that you know just the man; indeed, are part of his family; with the wherewithal to lean on a bank?”

She blinks at me, not understanding at first. Then it dawns and she turns to Richard.

His mouth puckers. “Which bank did you try, Mitch?”

“All of them. None would give me an account. Do you… Do you really think you could do something for me?”

He sucks in air. “I would be proud to, Mitch.” At her startled glance, he simply says, “Family.”

Fishing in a pocket, he takes out his phone, then pauses. “Mitch, did you have any financial problems other than simply having to duck out of the system?”

She sags. “I don’t truly know. I owned an apartment once, but I think it was repossessed when we ran. Certainly, I would have been listed as a defaulter. Maybe even a bankrupt. I don't know. We spent so long living under the radar.”

Richard stares at the ceiling, a fingernail tapping at the mobile screen. After a moment, he scrolls through a couple of screens then, clearing his throat, sets the phone to loudspeaker and places it in the centre of the table.

The mobile rings three times before one of those robotically trained female voices replies. “Good morning. Gerald Hagman’s secretary. How can I help you?”

“Richard Haswell here. I'd like to speak with Gerald if he has five minutes.”

The voice turns off ‘robot mode’ and morphs to ‘startled underling’. “Of course, sir. I’ll see if Mr Hagman is available.”

In something under fifteen seconds, the call clicks through to an artificially cheerful voice. “Richard? How are you? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until our lunch meeting next week. What can I do for you?”

“I have a favour to ask, Gerald. I have a friend who, through no fault of her own, is having difficulty opening a bank account. I wonder if you could oil the wheels for her. I’d take it as a personal favour.”

“Of course, Richard. Of course. We’ll be happy to help. Um, what is the nature of your friend’s difficulty?”

“Some years ago, she became entangled with the wrong sorts. It resulted in the loss of her account.”

A pause…

Then, cautiously, “Which bank was she with at the time?”

Richard cocks a brow at Mitch.

“City Vanguard.”

The other brow arches. “Did you get that, Gerald?”

“I did, yes. Um, Vanguard collapsed… Oh… Twenty years back.”

“So they did. But I am assuming that City Fidelity Credit can help my friend rejoin the modern age?”

Another pause… Longer this time…

“So she has no track record?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

“You understand, Richard, that financial institutions are tightly regulated these days…

Richard presses a forefinger to his lips. “Of course.”

“… The restrictions placed on us with the money laundering laws regarding identity and security...”

Richard’s voice remains level. “She doesn't want to borrow funds, Gerald. She’s not asking for credit. She simply wants a functioning cash account.”

“Nonetheless, with no credit record to draw on, I'm not sure I can help you, Richard.” The voice whines. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Richard turns brisk. “That’s fine, Gerald. Don't worry about it. I'll ask Henry Parkes when I see him at lunchtime.” His eyes shift to Mitch, creasing at the corners.

Can a phone radiate silence?

It does.

Then, “You're lunching with Henry Parkes?”

“That's right.” Richard grins a shark grin at Mitch, counting fingers in the air…

One… Two… Three…

… then, “Did you know he's making a pitch for the financing of F and G sites? I thought I might as well hear what he had to say. He was talking of dropping the interest rate by a couple of points if I gave him the whole deal.”

Another silence.

Michael leans close to me, his voice low. “I swear the phone is icing over.”

“Shhhh…”

But Richard’s eyes are dancing. His fingers count another beat…

One… Two… Three… Four… Five…

“Anyway Gerald. My apologies for having interrupted you. I'll see you next week for that lunch. Give my best to Esther.”

“Oh no, don't go Richard. I'm sure we can do something for your friend. Of course, rules can be interpreted…”

“Interpreted, yes.”

“And what are viewed as regulations are often only guidelines…”

“Indeed. Guidelines.”

“Er… You can vouch for this person of course?”

Richard raises eyes to heaven. His voice flat once more, “Of course. You think I would ask otherwise?”

“I'll have the forms sent to your friend. Can you give me her name and address.”

“Just forward them to Francis. I'll get them to her.”

He taps off the phone, checks that the connection has broken, then, “Punctilious little runt. How he became CEO escapes me.”

*****