by S E Holmes
First a shovel, then a knife, now a semi-automatic hand-gun. What next? A bazooka? The .45 calibre Colt weighed an anvil at the small of his spine. There’d been a heated exchange, the closest he’d come to an argument with his father since his mother’s death. If Sam chose to put himself in harm’s way, why should Nic conduct the rescue? It didn’t seem fair. He had no desire to go anywhere near the Arkady place for reasons too numerous to catalogue.
“You were there, Nic. You could have stopped him! Should have. He’s your little brother. He depends on you.”
“And you never thought to show yourself and express an opinion, instead of pretending to be Bruce Willis! Sam’s not an invalid. You’re the adult, Dad. Not me. In case you’d forgotten. What did you want me to do? Tackle him and use chains?”
Jonathon slumped at his desk. “Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry, Nic. I’ve expected too much. Placed too much responsibility at your feet.”
Oh great! Tired old reverse psychology that was bound to trigger submission. The grieving widower raising teens alone, etc. And so on. Nic was certain his father didn’t do it intentionally, but exploiting his son’s penchant to do right was obviously a well-worn and effective habit. Once again, plans for a game of footy in town and a pizza afterwards, maybe a movie with Nate and CJ, were shelved. He was just too over it to bother debating.
“Why aren’t you doing this, Dad?”
“Because I’m investigating precisely who our new neighbours are.”
So, he found himself puttering further along their road than he’d ever had the inclination to go, carting a pistol loaded with seven rounds. He was never the marksman his father was, liable to put a bullet in his own foot as hit a moving target. There was no mention of forcing Sam home in deference to his delicate emotional state. It was far more sensible to send his people-pleasing elder brother up, armed with a safety lecture, and dangerous to no-one but himself.
Nic decided he’d insist on a proper bike for his eighteenth with a gnarly, sizeable engine in compensation. He wasn’t normally the demanding type, but it seemed to work for others. Higher and higher into the hills he rode, motor straining, the sun eclipsed by towering Liquid Ambers. Shadow smothered even though it was barely lunch. He shivered in his thin t-shirt, bemoaning forgetting his head phones. Music would provide some distraction from this Sasha-baiting, Mira-evading, covering-Sam’s-arse chore.
The gates granting entry to the Arkady mansion came into view. They were huge curly iron numbers, painted black with spear-tips piercing the heavens. Excellent! He pressed the intercom and announced his name to a woman on the other end whose response was unintelligible. They swung wide in eerie silence and Nic rode through.
He thought the Dante quote about hope abandoned before entering hell seemed appropriate. Resentment made him melodramatic. It was high time to get a grip. The satisfying image of pounding his brother, repeatedly, helped. Ten winding minutes later, woodland opened out to reveal an imposing stately grey-stone home bathed in sunlight.
A man-made lake spread in the middle of manicured gardens as far as he could see, where swans honked and other water-fowl frolicked. He’d toppled into one of those Victorian romance novels his mother had read. A mob of baying hounds and a groundsman in tweed with dead pheasants slung over his shoulder would make a perfect addition. But the cats had probably eaten them all. The swans were next on the menu.
He loathed Jane Austen and her ilk, forced to study it in English. All the boys groaned and grunted their way through the course -- it was a vicious punishment at an all male school. The girls they knew from the Ladies College one suburb away frothed over Mr Whatever of Wherever, who saved the wishy-washy heroine after far too many pages and rambling sentences. The surrounds heightened his angry disposition.
A portly middle-aged woman, who must have been Elmas, trundled from a generous veranda down fluting charcoal slate steps, to this cul-de-sac. Parking for many visitors made an empty gravel rectangle cut from the lawn opposite. Black marble urns with pink flowers in bloom and modern granite sculptures dotted like an experiment in geometry.
His host flapped sinewy calloused hands, a home-knitted jumper and baggy slacks in brown doing nothing to flatter. The socks and scuffs were unlikely to make the style column either.
“Back! Back,” she said, pointing animatedly.
Her accent was too thick to understand. Was she throwing him out? He squinted, straddling his bike, not wanting to ask again and seem ignorant. She closed her eyes and concentrated.
“Cats out back.” She gave him a triumphant toothy grin and jabbed the direction. “Sam also.”
“Ohh,” he nodded. He put a hand on his chest. “I’m Nic.”
Her reaction almost knocked him from his seat. She barrelled forward, crying, “Yes! Yes!” She grabbed his hand in both of hers, shaking it with tears in her eyes. “Good Nic!” She patted her own chest. “Elmas.”
“Nice to meet you, Elmas.”
She reached up and briefly stroked his cheek. “Very handsome.”
Weird, but at least someone here liked him. She released him, backing towards the house, clasping hands in joy as though she’d had an audience with the Pope. She might not be as hospitable if she knew what he toted in his waistband.
“You! Lunch!”
“No, thank you. Um, jobs to do.”
She nodded stubbornly, bun bobbing. “Lunch.”
And wouldn’t that be an awkward affair, various family members dying to impale him with cutlery or poison his soup. He’d make his excuses to Anatoly. He copied her point.
“I’ll see the cats now.”
As he rode around the corner, she spied his progress from the patio overlooking the lane, waving when he looked back. Nic merely had to trust his ears. Cat yowls and screams lead the way. Katya, no doubt. Curiosity about how they’d transfer her from one cage to another stirred, and with it begrudging worry for his brother. Little pest.
He pulled into a small carpark alongside the silver Mercedes, the cat pens concealed in a copse of trees via another broad expanse of grass. Just as he’d turned, a familiar scornful voice sounded.
“You don’t pay attention, do you?”
Nic lost his cool, spinning back to get in Sasha’s face in two long strides. “What is your problem?”
Where had he come from? He sprawled on the bonnet oozing contempt, appropriately decked out in black jeans and an even blacker t-shirt. “I’m not the one with the problem. All you had to do was stay away.”
“I could live here and I still wouldn’t go near Mira. Not enough girls in town for you? It’s kind of pitiful, crushing on your cousin.”
Nic refused to go on the defensive. None of this was his fault. He wanted to explain the Arkady parent entanglement, assisted in no small measure by his brother, but his temper intervened. He couldn’t comprehend why Sasha had it in for him.
Cheeks mottled by fury, the enemy rose, placed a hand on Nic’s chest and thrust. The motion was slight, yet Nic staggered rearward in spite of resistance. Sternum throbbing, he fought to inhale, bewildered as to how Arkady managed to injure him with so little effort.
“Mira is no ordinary girl. I’ll say this only once more. You will obey me and keep away from her. You have half an hour to leave and never return.” Applause and whooped victory floated their way, Sam’s laughter in clear harmony. Sasha grinned, peering slyly towards the clamour. “There are more ways to skin a cat than you can imagine. I should know. Shall we go down and visit your brother?”
The threat could not have been clearer. The gun beckoned. All Nic had to do was reach for it, push it against this dickhead’s temple and demonstrate his willingness to defend his family by flicking the safety off. It sorely tempted. He strove for the rational, rather than permitting hatred to rule and avenging the Chemistry incident. Common sense and years of lecturing prevailed. Tone forcefully civil, Nic tried again to understand.
“Why do you think I’d ever have a hope with her, even if I wanted
it? She loathes me as much as you do.”
“You are correct in your assessment of my attitude. Not Mira’s. Soon, there will come a time when you must choose. Choose wisely. I shall always be watching.” Sasha’s smile was more disconcerting than the hostility. “Sam likes it here. I will make him a friend.”
“Keep him out of this!”
“Really, Nic?” Sasha mocked. “You are not the one giving orders here. I am. Do as I say and no harm will come to sweet little Sammy. Don’t do as I say… Well, be it on your head.”
Sasha pivoted for the house. Nic’s wrath detonated and he whipped the gun out, grasping Arkady by the face to yank him close. He pressed the barrel at the base of his skull, not foolhardy enough to disengage the safety.
“I will kill you if you so much as look at him the wrong way.”
Sasha chuckled through fingers, teeth abruptly clamping Nic’s palm. Pain seared and flesh tore when he jerked it from the vice. An elbow crashed Nic’s ribcage, new agony competing with his wounded hand. In impossibly swift rotation, he found himself face-planting turf, a knee pinning one arm high on his back to the point of dislocation, the other extended by a boot at his wrist.
“I assure you, it will take more than a puny gun.” Sasha plucked the weapon from the ground, ramming the cold barrel into Nic’s ear. His face loomed, canines bloody and chin smeared. “Click. Ka-boom!”
The pressure released and Nic found himself suddenly alone, hacking sods, various body parts throbbing, humiliated, frustrated and crippled by futility. The bastard had bitten him and relieved him of the Colt. How the hell was he going to justify its loss to his father?
***
Chapter Ten