Wade

Well, I finally arrived here, at my brother's hometown, it's very late at night. They had been expecting me, and while Wade's wife and their young daughter would be long asleep by now, Wade was a night-owl like me, and would be happy to wait up.

I visualized him sipping from a glass of scotch, clicking through various channels on the television, probably landing on some obscure sci-fi horror from the 1970s.

I got off the bus and began to walk, hoisting up my rucksack, which is heavier than usual, and I am glad of the streetlights. I'd walked up the steep hill several times before, the houses very narrow and close together. Wade's house was up on the right, on the corner where Becker Street met The Cove. If you followed The Cove right around for about half a mile, you ended up at a little stony beach, which was great for reading, walking, or just standing watching the tide whilst attempting to skim stones. Wade was always far better at skimming than I was, and with much less effort too.

Cove Beach is a great place to sit and think. An even better place to mourn, to rage, or to plan.

*

I’m standing at his front door now, the glow of the lamp light coming from the open lounge and kitchen area within. I stop there for a few seconds, regaining my breath, as that steep hill always catches me out. True, I was never the fittest man alive. I knock gently, and then push on the door, knowing full well that it will be left unlocked for me.

My older brother Wade sits at the kitchen table, regarding me coolly. His dark blond fringe flops into his eyes, and he swats it away with a hand. I feel a prickle of annoyance, as I self-consciously scratch at the slowly expanding patch of baldness which sits at the very back of my head. His face looks sinister by the lamp light. Sinister, but never less than handsome, even at this late hour, even with the tiredness that haunts him. Smugness blooms as I think about his regular text complaints about screaming children and demanding wives. Life not so perfect now, is it?

That face though. Those chiselled boyband features. The face that the girls at high school and college could never resist. The face that my sweetheart dumped me for.

I push down a hot spike of jealousy, and turn it into a smile. Especially when he pours me a scotch and pushes the glass towards me across the table. The good stuff. The expensive stuff. When was anything ever less than the best, when it came to Wade?

We both sit and sip amicably, eyeing each other. Despite everything, I do love him. My brother. After a few moments, he asks me how I’m doing, and I tell him. I see the glimmer of distaste on his face, and again I feel enraged. How dare he sneer at my life? It may be crappy, and it may be wasted, but it is mine.

My tattered rucksack is still on my back, and I remove it, placing it between us on the table, where it lands with a clank, as the assorted contents move heavily against each other. Again, disgust on my brother’s face at the unpredictability and messiness of my action.

The thing is old and weathered, and I can't afford to replace it. But I know it will last - like me. I muse to myself that Wade has got used to the high life, the smooth life, the life of convenience that we used to laugh at when we were younger and slumming it together. When neither of us had a dime, but we knew how to have fun, how to laugh together, how to make the most of what we didn’t have.

Now, would he even know how to slum it, or how to begin again if he lost everything. God forbid he ever lost everything.

The things I struggled with, seemed to have fallen into his lap over the years: a gorgeous wife, a kid, a prestigious job, financial security.

Beautiful Emma. Who I knew for a fact he had been cheating on pretty consistently since their wedding day, five years ago. Not that Wade had confided in me about that stuff. No, I’d had him followed. Gathered the evidence that sickened me to my core. The many women, most of them nowhere near as classy as his wife.

I didn’t want any of that domestic crap, but the fact he didn’t even appreciate what he had, and then had the gall to look down his nose at me…

There are no words for my rage. For the rage that has been steadily building over the years. There are only actions. I remove the first item from the rucksack, placing it neatly on the table.

Wade’s face registers confusion. “What the hell, Bro?”

I say nothing, but remove the second and third items from the bag, so that they all sit in a line across the table. I relish the shifting of my brother’s face, as he begins to realise with what I expect to be a cold horror in his bones, that I am not simply here for a family visit. Not this time. One item is sharp. Another one cannot easily be identified. But it looks… grimy. Definitely illegal.

And the third one… well, let’s just say it took many weeks of knowing who to ask, of digging around online on specialist medieval websites, and is definitely the most frightening-looking of the three.

I count them out loud, placing a hand on each as I do so – “One, two, three.”

I reach across and pour another scotch. One for me, one for Wade. I down mine in one swig. One last drink before life changes irrevocably, and before I will need a whole new identity. My brother has gone very pale, and I see with satisfaction that he is trembling slightly. His face has sagged, and his dark doe-eyes have gone wider than I have ever seen. A tear is starting to form in one eye. I note all these visuals, storing them away for after the insanity starts.

He is trying to formulate words, but nothing is coming out. I nod towards his drink. “You might wanna down that, Bro,” I say.

I stand up, and he cowers. I lean closer to him. “But don’t worry,” I hiss, gesturing upstairs with my head, to where his wife and child sleep oblivious. “There’s one for each of you. And I’ll let you go last.”