Burnington Gaol

E I G H T | Adeline

Everything around me – the long, strung out sentences, the change in the traffic lights, the cars driving by – seemed to move too slowly and too quickly at the same time. The world was coated in a disorientating haze, one that enveloped me and seeped into my skin.

"Do you understand?"

The words snapped me back to reality. I looked up at the giant of a policeman, his intimidating stance looming over me with questioning eyes. David, the negotiator, had let all sorts of useful information fall out of his mouth and I hadn't heard a word of it. I shook my head no. He sighed.

"Okay, listen. Be nice to him. Be sympathetic. Build a rapport. And try to make him see you as human. Tell him your name, about your family. Try to get him to empathise with you, too. And try to get him near a window. We have a sniper ready. Do you understand?"

I nodded, looking down at my shoes. I couldn't do this. I couldn't.

"Okay, are you ready to go in?"

I nodded again, the words stuck in my throat.

"Alright. Let's go," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder to guide me.

"Wait!"

It was my father's voice that had stopped him. I turned and saw him weave out of the crowd of nosy spectators, tears streaming down his cheeks and sinking into the lines on his face. He grabbed me and pulled me in, holding me tightly in his grasp, sobbing like a small child.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath against my ear.

He clung to me for a long moment, clutched me to his chest in desperation. Then, reluctantly, he broke away, body trembling. I forced the tears down, knowing I couldn't go into the lion's den looking like some weak baby antelope. I turned away from him, the lump in my throat growing.

"Just go straight through there, okay?" David said, pointing to the front door.

He looked down at me, offered a rigid smile.

"Good luck, kid."

I nodded stiffly in return and turned away from him without another word. Slowly, I approached the diner's door, heart beating away like a drum and my stomach knotting violently under the flesh. I knocked, tried to keep my knees from giving way.

Sarah, weeping in her waitress uniform, pulled the glass door open and stepped aside. I glanced at her, trembling, knuckles white around the handle. She couldn't look at me.

Then I heard the rest of them – dozens of silent, sobbing people sat in booths and at tables, paralysed with a kind of terror that very few people ever experience in their lifetimes. Jimmy Dawson stood by the front counter, a warm smile on his face. That one gesture made my muscles tense painfully – the wrongness of it, how out-of-place a smile like that was in a situation like this. And then there was Billy, sat in the first booth near the side exit. He looked at me, and his eyes said it all. I returned his solemn look and met Jimmy's stare.

"I'm here," I said, voice quivering. "I think it's time to let these people go."

Jimmy nodded.

"You're right," he said. "Okay, everybody out."

A storm of people jumped from their seats and bombarded me, shoving past my 5.6 frame like a herd of buffalo. All but one – Billy. He approached me slowly, his dark eyes sunken. Silently, he pulled me in, hugging me tightly and trembling as our father had. When he broke away from me, he kissed my cheek, offered one last look, and left.

I turned back to Jimmy with all the raw pain and intense fear gleaming in my eyes and knew he could see it as much as I could feel it.

"He's your brother, isn't he?"

I nodded.

"No wonder he looked so familiar. You have the same eyes."

"What do you want from me?"

Jimmy paused, gripped his weapon, and approached me. I took a step back, fear tingling in my veins.

"Please," he said. "Don't be afraid. I only want to talk."

"About what?"

"About you, me, and my brother. I need you to do something for us. Something big."

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"What?"

"Clear our names," he said. "I need you to prove that my brother and I are innocent."

© A.G. Travers 2018