Man on the Inside

25

It's something of an odd scene. The kids are standing around, awkwardly, as Brontë gets them the first aid kit out of the laminate cupboard, asks Charlie and Jake if they're alright. Charlie says she's fine, and Jake's wrist hurts but isn't injured, so Brontë sets them up on a couch and gets the other two to look after Ricky. He insists he's fine. The three of them keep looking around at the on-break cops who are mostly minding their own business, stuck in their own conversations, with only a passing glance towards the three teenagers now sharing their break room.

"I've got a bit of business to sort out," Brontë tells them, "...but hopefully it doesn't take long. Just sit and wait, okay?"

"What kind of business?" Charlie asks, and she bites her lip as she questions if she should really say, "...are you quitting?"

"Looks like it. But that's not what I'm talking about, I'll-" he looks back at Nimm, who's looking at the other cops as uneasily as the children were, and coughs heartily again, face buried in her arm. "I'll tell you what I can when I know."

Charlie shrugs and nods at the same time. Ricky's trying to get his phone working again, and Jake's helping him, so Brontë turns back to Nimm.

He follows her to the hidden corner of the break room. There's a wall you can stand against where nobody can quite see you, beside a vending machine, and she heads straight there. The kids shouldn't be able to see them from this angle, and the passing cops would have to deliberately come and sit at the one table back here- and Brontë would see them coming. This is as private as this conversation can get.

She crosses her arms, foot tapping quickly on the floor. She looks like she's holding back a sneeze for a moment, like she's trying her absolute hardest to not sound sick. Brontë doesn't know exactly what this conversation will consist of, but he won't let it finish without addressing that.

"All the other cops can still hear us," she says quietly, the strain evident in her voice. "...just so you know."

"Not really," he mutters in response. "But I'll keep my voice down."

"I mean, do do that, but that's not what I'm talking about." She looks down at her feet, shakes her head. "Do you, um. Wanna go first?"

"I suppose you don't." Brontë mutters. "I probably have a lot more to say than you think."

She looks up at him, her head tilted. He's got feelings in his chest he doesn't have time to identify, but considering everything he's been feeling about this whole situation, it's not that insane that they burn with a heavy pain. "I'm already thinking you have a lot to say."

Brontë winces. "How much do you know about Canberra?"

Nimm frowns. "You mean- everything, Neil, unless this is completely out of left field."

"It is." He looks down at their feet. Nimm's still anxiously tapping her foot, and he's only just noticing the thickness of her boots, how much height that must add to her, despite her seeming about average height for a woman. "I get that we were worried about, I don't know, the dangers of criminal connections, or whatever, and I fucked that up massively as it is. But I wasn't actually worried about it."

Nimm narrows her eyes at him. "Neil, just how left field is this? Or have you-"

"I didn't want to do it." Brontë covers his eyes in order to actually spit it out.

"What the actual fuck are you talking about right now?"

"Art. Uh- Artemy Volkov. I didn't want to arrest him, Nimm, and I only arrested Anastasia Volkov to protect Art."

He opens his eyes again. She's staring blankly at him.

He raises his hands up. "I can explain, I guess, I just- I thought you'd-"