Man on the Inside

18

Brontë has been having a bad day.

Getting Anastasia Volkov booked wasn't hard. He gave his badge number, explained as much as he was obligated to explain, which wasn't much, and handed the problem off to the local department, giving the relevant information to connect it to his own work. If, or when, they manage to make the connections they need to make, he'll get credit. Probably a promotion. Maybe somewhere high enough that he can make changes that actually matter.

He knows there are more important things about this. He's arrested the matriarch of a huge crime family- on minor charges, sure, trespassing and assault, but a criminal record opens up so many official channels that can be used to take down the entire family. He should be concerned about how his colleagues will react, about that promotion. He also should be concerned about potential consequences. She knew his name, but not his job, and neither did Art- so could they really track him down? Maybe they could. It's a regret that's floating around his mind, now, if he could go back in time. He'll have to hope Art will help, as thanks, he supposes.

Because yeah, that's the thing he's actually thinking about. Art said he had, or would make, a plan to get himself out of there- which Brontë potentially ruined- but at the time, it didn't feel like he had a choice. He thought, for a short moment, that he'd see Art again. When he returned to the hotel room after handing her over to security, with a promise to come down and give a statement- that he'd just go and get dressed beyond a dressing gown first- he thought Art might be there. Instead, he opened the door to a made bed, his suitcase laying on the floor beside it.

His phone was laying on the pillow. He had two texts, not far apart on timing, remarkably similar, and leaving him feeling very different. He estimated that the text from Nimm came exactly as Brontë was arguing with Anastasia fucking Volkov, while the text from Art came after Brontë had left the room with his mother under arrest.

From Nimm: I hope you're doing okay. We need to talk when you get back.

From Art: I will talk to you when I'm ready.

Nimm's gives Brontë a feeling of dread that he hopes is false. He wasn't texting her nearly as much as he thought he'd be, caught up in the hurricane that was Art, and although he texted her back the second he could- yes, we need to talk, I'll tell you everything once I'm back, I'll be home soon- he felt the creeping sense that something was very wrong with her, too. Art had given him clear advice that he did intend to follow- to just fucking ask- but it felt almost like he was a bad friend, a bad person, that he was up in Canberra making big-time arrests for extremely personal reasons, when she was, potentially, dying. His throat keeps closing up every time he thinks of her dying.

Art's text gives Brontë hope he knows is false. It's confirmation that Art knows he wasn't bluffing. But it's also confirmation that he's at least considering a second chance. One Brontë doesn't deserve, can't get, can't make sense in the life he lives- how could a forty-eight year old divorced father ever turn his life so far around that there's room for someone as hugely important as Art in it?- but it makes it feel possible. And still, frustratingly, out of reach.

Maybe Art could've said more; he certainly can text. It's not like he had to torture Brontë with one last throwaway line that made no sense, but he did.

Brontë has turned it over and over in his head. As he gave the statement at the station, as he caught the overnight bus home, as he lay there drifting in an out of an uneasy sleep, every bone in his body heavy and tired and needing rest yet unable to relax. He tried to think of what the fuck I cheated could possibly mean.

He has concluded a few things. One is that Art would not respond to any further questions. Maybe he'd ditched his phone, or he was just angry, and in either case he felt that I cheated was enough. Maybe he'd changed his mind and decided that Brontë didn't deserve an explanation.