I sat cross-legged on the floor of Grace's dank attic, ran my hands over the hundreds of letters scattered across the tiny room.
Dearest brother, one of them read. I beg you; end this. Things have gotten far too out of hand. I know you cannot help yourself, but please, let us just pack up and move once more. A fresh start. If we don't, I fear your playthings will get too close. They will get us locked up, and I cannot go through that again. Please, brother. Just say goodbye.
Yours,
Albert.
I shifted, grabbed another letter.
To Albert,
I am sorry. I no I get us in trubble lots, but I need to see her. I cant go. I hope you can figive me.
From Nicky.
P.S. Im sorry I got us bit. I just wantd to see her again.
...
Dearest brother,
I understand. If we cannot leave, then perhaps I could be of assistance. What would you say if I offered to ask out your lovely lady for you? Of course, this would mean that you must stop your shenanigans. That is, you mustn't call her, follow her, or leave any more gifts. You must stay away from a short time so I can get to know her and ask her on a date.
Please consider my offer.
Yours,
Albert.
...
To Albert,
YES. Thank you. Your the best brother ever.
From Nicky.
P.S. Im sorry I talked to Richie. He made me so mad. He said I was going to hurt Grace. I had to tell him that he was wrong. Please figive me.
"Richie?"
I blinked, pulled my eyes up from the letters. Phillip Day's warm brown eyes stared at me, illuminated by a dozen small white candles, burning around the small room.
"Uncle?"
He smiled sadly, placed his hand on my shoulder.
"Sweet boy," he said. "I'm so sorry this has happened."
I shook my head, confused, and he pulled me into his chest. My eyes began to swell, mouth began to water.
"How are you here right now?"
"I called him."
Godric's voice, deep and painted black, rumbled from behind us. I pulled back, looked up at him.
"You called him?" I shook my head, looked at Phillip. "No, that can't be right. Dad used to tell me stories about you. He said you hunted Godric for years. You wanted him dead, or locked up."
Phillip patted my shoulder.
"We may not always see eye to eye, but when it comes to Stan and his kids..." He shrugged.
I blinked, tried to process.
"Why don't you come downstairs," he went on. "Let me get you a glass of water."
I lowered my eyes, managed a nod.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I realised the true chaos of Godric Mikhailov and Phillip Day. The entire house was crawling with cops and crooks, the lawful and the lawless, buzzing wildly like a hornet's nest. A dozen policemen were crammed together like sardines in a tin, pointing at diagrams hung up on a wheeled-in whiteboard as their voices bounced off the walls of the living room. Another dozen men in white tracksuits were spitting Russian into their flip phones, their faces turning red and eyes enflamed. I weaved between blue uniforms and Italian leather, following Phillip Day into the living room.
"Who are all these people?"
Godric, who walked by my side, cleared his throat.
"Some are fine policemen," he said. "Some are cousins of the Devil. Some are both."
I met his eyes, saw the seriousness in them.
"Phil!"
A clean, fresh voice escaped the mouth of a young man sitting at Grace's kitchen table. He met my uncle's eye through his thick black-rimmed glasses, his childlike face set in a hard expression and his soft hands flat on the laptop in front of him. Phillip weaved through the crowd, leaned over his chair.
"What is it?"
"Footage," he said as Godric and I joined them. "It starts here, goes on for about half an hour."
The grainy, black and white tape quivered on the screen. Outside the house we all stood in, an old rusted Ute pulled up, number plates clear and untouched.
"It's stolen," the techy explained. "Reported about an hour before this took place."
The car door opened and a dark figure emerged. With his back to us, He shut the door, cracked His neck, took a step towards the house – paused. I frowned.
"What's he doing?"
"Wait."
With the smallest smirk, Nicholas Somerton pivoted on his left heel, turned up his black eyes to the camera, and saluted.
"That little bastard," Phillip said.
The techy paused the video, Somerton's eyes still locked on us.
"He goes into the house, comes out with Scott over his shoulder, drives out of town. Footage ends at the outskirts."
Phillip shook his head.
"How did he get in?"
"He was staying in the attic," I said. "Broke in while we were out of town. It wouldn't have taken him long to figure out how to disarm the alarm system, particularly since he was the one who recommended it to Grace."
"He also installed hidden cameras around the house," the techy said.
Godric lowered his eyes, nodded his head.
"Right," he said. "Well, first things first. Vincent!"
The techie turned up his eyes to focus on Phillip.
"Who's Vincent?" He asked naively.
"Godric's personal B&E strategist," Phillip said through gritted teeth. "I've been trying to catch him since '94."
An enormous, greasy man stomped his way over to the kitchen table. He locked eyes with Godric, who I had previously thought intimidating, and offered a simple nod. Then, he went to the end of the table, flicked up his eyes and stared at all in the room through his uncut, ashy hair, falling in his face. Godric lifted his chin and almost – almost – smiled.
"Attention!"
His deep, roaring voice boomed, swelled and expanded until it took up every inch of the trembling house. Every set of eyes locked onto him, a tangible fear quivering in their irises, as if waiting for the swollen space to burst at its very seams.
"Alright, folks." Vincent said, reaching for a large, rolled up piece of paper sat at the end of the kitchen table. He ripped the rubber band off the paper, rolled it out to reveal the blueprints to a two storey house. "This is the only building within forty miles of Somerton's co-ordinates. It belongs to a Sheila Dennis, an eighty-three year old grandmother who nobody has heard from in four months. Thus, we are assuming she is dead and that this is where Somerton and his hostage are residing. Martina, Leo, Trevor – you will go in through this door." He pointed to the cellar doors. "Emilio, Lily and Ayat will go through here and Johnny, Ricky and the rest of Day's crew will go through here. Meanwhile," he smirked, "the remainder of Mr Mikhailov's men will be here, out the front of the house, providing a distraction in the form of exploding vehicles. Does anybody have any questions?"
Vincent scanned the room. Nobody said a word. I lifted my chin.
"I've a question," I said. The room gawked. "Where do I come in?"
Vincent smiled, broke into a small laugh.
"Richard," he said, though I wasn't sure how he knew my name. "I'm afraid we will have to leave you here to hold down the fort."
"With all due respect, Vincent, this is my brother we are speaking about. Not to mention that Nick or Albert or whoever is expecting me, not your circus."
Phillip inched over to me, put his hand on my shoulder.
"Richie, this is not your place."
"Not my place?" I exclaimed. I shook my head. "I don't think you're hearing me. This isn't a matter of whether I play a role in this, it's a matter of which role I will be playing. Now, bait is a classic, and much more low-key than exploding cars."
"You are not being the bait in this." Phillip said.
"Then tell me what I have to do."
"Nothing!"
Godric's voice, swollen and paralysing, crippled us once again. Only, this time, his hard eyes were locked on me.
"You will stay here with your lover," he said, taking a step towards me. "You will not call anyone. You not do anything. You will simply stay here, and do nothing."
I gulped, met his fiery eyes with a fierceness running through my veins.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "But you will get him back for me, in one piece. And if Somerton so much as breathes his air, I want him shot between the eyes."
Godric, tense and unmoving, stared down at me and admired the fire raging in my once passive eyes. He nodded.
"I give you my word."
"Then I will see you all very soon."
© A.G. Travers 2018