Unfinished Business by Heather Atkinson

onto the cream carpet, eyes fixed on the window.
    “It’s Mark, he’s here.” The panic of last night had gone. Now she just sounded tired and hollowed-out.
    “Want me to leave you to it?” said Brodie.
    “I don’t know. Could you hang about and see what sort of mood he’s in?”
    Brodie nodded.
    Sarah watched Mark approach the front door, her eyes big and wary. Brodie felt sorry for her. A husband should be the man a wife can trust the most, be a protector to her. That had been taken from Sarah and replaced with fear and doubt.
    The second he was through the door Mark tried to take her in his arms but she stepped out of reach.
    “I missed you last night,” he said, letting his arms fall to his sides.
    She didn’t return the sentiment. “What do you want?”
    “To talk.”
    “I suppose we must, if only for the kids. You’d better come through,” she said, heading back towards the living room.
    “Thank you,” he said, following her like an eager child. He was furious to see Brodie standing in his hallway clutching one of his coffee mugs. “What the hell are you doing here? Did you stay over last night?”
    Brodie took a sip of the excellent coffee before replying, “I did because Sarah was afraid of her own husband coming home.”
    “I told you she’s nothing to fear from me,” he yelled. When Sarah jumped he turned to her, his expression gentle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, he just winds me up.”
    “The kitchen’s through there. Why don’t you stab him to death?” she retorted.
    Mark’s lips pinched into an almost invisible line, eyes full of hurt.
    There was an awkward silence, Sarah shuffling, clearly regretting her words.
    “Brodie, thanks for your time but you can leave us to it,” she said.
    He glanced at Mark, who was staring sadly at the carpet. “If you’re sure?”
    “I am.”
    “Alright but I’ll just be outside in my car. Shout if you need me.”
    “I will,” she said solemnly.
    Brodie glanced once more at Mark, who was slumped with defeat, a far cry from a homicidal maniac.
    He left, quietly closing the door behind him. Outside the morning was mild and cheerful. It was the height of summer and already warm. The street was just starting to wake up. A smartly dressed woman coming out of a house on the opposite side of the road gave him a snooty look as she walked down her drive with a tiny hairless dog on a lead. He just stared back until she looked away. He was not in the mood for stuck-up tossers, even though he was aware he was a rumpled mess.
    He climbed into his car and looked back at the Creegan house but he couldn’t see inside because the blinds were still drawn. With nothing else to do he decided to call Cass.
    “What have you got?” he said the moment she answered the phone.
    “I’m sleeping like you told me to,” was her curt reply.
    “Oh, sorry.”
    “You really need some lessons in etiquette,” she yawned. “Who makes phone calls at six in the morning?”
    Brodie glanced at the dashboard clock and grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so early. Anyway, you’re one to talk about etiquette when only a few hours ago you were slamming a man’s head into a door.”
    “Technically I was slamming the door into his head and the prick deserved it. Actually I did a bit more research into mirror-image twins before I fell asleep. Apparently the egg splits later than in the case of identical twins, so it has already developed a right side and a left side. Did you know there have been cases where one twin has their internal organs on the usual side and the other has them on the opposite side? But that’s really rare.”
    “Interesting.”
    “It is. I found it quite fascinating. Do you know which one’s right-handed?”
    “Mark is, like any good wanker,” he muttered.
    “You’re right-handed.”
    “Alright, it was a crap joke. I spent the night on a couch, okay?”
    “That’s no excuse Boss. Your jokes are always crap.”
    “Isn’t