“You do realise he’s having a rough patch, right? His wife kicked him out, he’s lost his job… We can’t have him sleeping at the train station, can we?” Simon looked at his wife as he wrestled with a tea towel, contrite as a schoolboy who’s just broken a window. Judging by his face, you’d think he’d crashed the family car, but all this fuss was simply over a visit from his younger brother.
Emma gave a heavy sigh, letting the shopping bags plop to the kitchen floor. The bags were weighed down enough, plus work had been a whirlwindquarter-end, random audits, and her back had begun to ache by the evening. The last thing she fancied was discussing problems with Simon’s brother, whom she’d seen all of maybe three times in fifteen years of marriage.
“Simon, we live in a two-bedroom flat, not a shelter for displaced officers,” she said wearily, tugging off her boots. “Paul’s got his own place in Leicester. Why doesnt he just go there?”
“Hes renting that out, supposedly,” Simon replied, fiddling with the towel. “Trying to cover the mortgage on a studio he’s taken out for his son. Something convolutedI didnt get all of it either. Says he needs to get a foot in the door here in London, find a proper job. Its just for a week, Em. Maybe ten days, tops. While he sorts his interviews.”
Emma walked through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Simon trailed after, eyes soft and pleading like an apologetic spaniel. He was a good mankind, mild, and worked hard. But his one true failing was an inability to say no to his family, especially his brother Paul, whod always been the familys black sheep, demanding ceaseless attention.
“Fine,” Emma relented, too tired to argue. “A weeks a week. But tell him up front: we have rules. Up at six, lights out by eleven. No parties, and absolutely no guests.”
Paul showed up the next evening, barging into the hallway with a massive chequered holdall that gave off the stale aroma of overnight trains and old socks. He seemed to fill the whole flat just by crossing the threshold. He was bulkier than Simon, louder, and possessed none of his brothers tact.
“Oi, the lady of the house!” he bellowed, all but swinging Emma into a bear hugshe deftly sidestepped. “Go on then, make room for your newest lodger! Ill be as quiet as a mouse, promise! Just need a corner and a plug socket, ha-ha.”
The first three days passed without incident. Paul lounged on the sofa until midday, then traipsed off “to see a man about a job,” and reliably returned for tea. The real issuehe ate enough for a rugby team. Emma was startled to find the five-litre pot of stew, which usually lasted several days for her and Simon, was polished off in a single evening. The leftover sausages, intended for two suppers, vanished overnight.
“Growing lad!” Paul quipped, using a crust of bread to mop up the last of the gravy. “This London air gives you a proper appetite.”
Emma said nothing, just made a mental note to up the shopping. After all, he was a guest; it felt wrong to begrudge the food.
When the promised week neared its end, Emma gently inquired over supper, “So, Paul, hows the job hunt? Found anything promising?”
Pauls face darkened as he set his fork down, putting on a sorrowful expression.
“Ah, you know, total stitch-up everywhere you look. They say one thinggreat pay, flexible hoursthen its pyramid selling or running around as a courier for pennies. Im trained, got a degree in electronics. Cant just take anything. But Ive got a nibble at a respectable firm. They said theyd give me a ring on Monday. Just got to wait it out a couple more days.”
“A couple more days?” Emma pressed, looking to her husband. Simon was suddenly fascinated with his salad.
“Yeah, you wont throw me out for the weekend, will you?” Paul flashed his big, disarming grin. “Besides, me and Si need some proper bloke time in the shed.”
Emma acquiesced. Two extra days, she figured, couldnt hurt.
But Monday blurred into Tuesday, Tuesday became Wednesday, still no word from Pauls “respectable firm.” Soon hed stopped even pretending to go out in the mornings. Each day, Emma would return home to the same scene: the sofa-bed left out, the telly blaring, biscuit crumbs, dirty mugs, and the lingering stench of some particularly pungent deodorant, underscored by stale beer.
“Have you called about any jobs today, Paul?” she would ask.
“Course I have,” came the lazy reply, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Girl in HRs off sick. Told me to ring next week. Got any more mayo, Em? Cant make a sarnie without itfridge is bare.”
That “we” grated. Emma kept her cool but, inside, resentment brewed. Paul was acting as though the flat was his own. Hed nab Simons pricey medicated shampoo, wrapped himself in her favourite throw, and flicked channels whenever she wanted to watch the news.
A month had gone by. The snow outside had melted into grimy slush, and Emma felt her own life was turning just as messy.
One evening, unable to bottle it in anymore, she cornered Simon as he tinkered with the toaster.
“Simon, we need to talk. Seriously.”
“About Paul?” Simons shoulders slumped.
“About him, yes. He hasnt worked, he isnt even looking, and hes sprawled on our sofa every hour. I cant cross the living room in my dressing gown because theres always a strange man there. When does this end?”
“Ive spoken to him. He says things are just about to change, bad lucks holding him up. I cant put my own brother out, Emmayou know Mum would never have forgiven us. She always said to stick together.”
“Your mother lives in Blackpool and has no idea what our lives have become. Simon, were spending double on food, the bills have soaredhe runs the shower for an hour, leaves the lights blazing. He could chip in!”
“Hes got nothing coming inhis cards were frozen over debts. He confessed last night.”
Emma slumped onto a chair, feeling the ground slide beneath her.
“Debts? And when did you know about this?”
“A few days ago. He promised when he gets a job hell start paying up. Just hang on a bit, yeah? Springs coming, more work about; if he doesnt get an office job, he can get on a building site.”
Hang on. That phrase somehow became the family refrain for the coming months.
Spring came and went. Paul didnt get a job on a building siteclaimed a slipped disc, could hardly lift a sandwich, let alone bricks. But he had no issue lifting pints while glued to the telly. Emma started noticing the drink cabinet dwindling. She brushed it off at first, but when Simon’s special bottle of single malt, gifted for his fortieth, disappeared, there was no denying it.
“I never touched it!” Paul exploded when confronted, spraying spit. “Why you calling me a thief? Maybe you guzzled it yourself and blame me. Or Simons put it away somewhere!”
“Dont talk to my wife like that,” Simon protested, though a bit feebly.
“Tell your wife to stop acting tight then,” Paul snapped back. “Youd think shed spare her brother-in-law a drop! When Im back on my feet, Ill shower you both in whisky!”
That night Emma laid down the law: Paul must be out by the end of the week, or shed file for divorce and arrange a split of the flat. The place was co-owned, but her parents had stumped up the deposit, and her accountants salary had paid most of the mortgage.
Simon was frightenedhe spent an hour huddled on the balcony with Paul, chain-smoking. Paul glowered at Emma for days but kept quiet.
It looked like things were shifting. Paul announced that hed found a room to rent in Croydon and would be out in a fortnight, once he got his first payslip from his new job (security guard, he claimed).
Emma let herself breathe. Two more weeks, she thought. She could stomach that.
But a week later, Paul arrived home with his arm in a cast.
“Had a tumble,” he explained, eyes full of martyrdom. “Slipped on the stairs, broke my wrist.”
Emma looked at the white plaster and knew that was the end of it. No job as a security guard. No moving out.
“Surely youre not chucking a cripple on the street?” Paul asked, and as their eyes met, Emma saw cold mockery. Hed found the perfect excuse to stay put.
The summer became a waking nightmare. Paul, playing on his “injury,” demanded care: “Em, can you slice some bread? Can’t manage,” “Em, need a hand with my back in the shower,”to the last request Emma replied so curtly Paul never raised it again, but the atmosphere only grew heavier.
Simon made himself scarce at work, snatching overtime; he was running away, leaving Emma alone with the problem. Emma, too, started working late, loitering in cafes and parks, dreading going “home,” a home ruled by “King Paul” on their own sofa.
So, six months became eight. The cast was off, but Paul, “working on his mobility,” complained about aches and refused jobs. By now, hed totally claimed the living roommoved the furniture about, even brought over a couple dodgy mates (the neighbour tipped Emma off). Any complaint was met with aggression:
“You owe me! Im family! By rights, youre meant to help. Youve got a three-beddont be stingy! Not like Im barging into your bedroom!”
Patience snapped in November, a year to the day since his infamous arrival.
Emma came home early with a headache, let herself in, and froze. Laughter and deafening music drifted from the flat.
A pair of scruffy, unfamiliar womens boots stood by the coat rack, a cheap coat draped on the hook. Moving into the lounge, Emma discovered a scene straight from the worst daytime drama: the table covered in raided leftovers, an open bottle of vodka, and Paul on the sofa with a brassy fake blonde sprawled beside him. Both were smoking, flicking ash onto the carpet.
“Here she is, the landlady herself!” Paul slurred, thick-tongued. “Were just enjoying ourselves. Em, meet Deniseshes my muse!”
Something snapped inside Emmaclear, cold, final. No fear of hurting Simons feelings, no guilt, just resolve.
“Out,” she said, voice deadly calm.
“Eh?” Paul mumbled. “Em, chill, Denisell go home in a bit”
“Out. Both of you. Now. Five minutes to pack.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Paul spluttered, rising off the couch, his face turning puce. “Where am I going to go? Middle of the night, this is my place too! My brothers flat! Who the hell are you? Youre just a lodger here!”
He moved towards her, fists clenched, but Emma stood her ground, pulling out her phone.
“Im calling the police.”
“Go on then!” Paul shouted. “You wont get anywhere with that! I was invited by Simon!”
Emma pressed dial.
“Yes, police, please. Yes, the address is… There are unauthorised people in my flat, theyre drunk and threatening violence. No, neither is on the lease. Yes, Im the owner. Thank you.”
Denise sobered up instantly, grabbed her things, mumbling about “not having a clue,” and dashed out. Paul slumped on the sofa, lit a cigarette.
“Lets see what Simon says, eh?” he sneered. “Youd report your own husbands brother? Rotten, you are.”
Emma walked to the kitchen, locked herself in and rang Simon.
“Ive called the police,” she told him flatly as he answered. “Your brother brought a woman home, theyre drinking, he got violent. If you defend him, dont come home. Ill file for divorce tomorrow.”
There was a long pause, then Simon replied in a strange, tired voice:
“Im coming. Do what you have to. Ive had enough, Em.”
The police arrived sharpish, two big fellows in uniform, exhausted but businesslike.
“Whos in charge here?” the older one asked, surveying the smoky room and Paul, sprawled on the sofa.
“I am,” Emma replied, handing over her passport and the property deeds. “We jointly own the place. This man isnt registered, hes here against my wishes, has been aggressive, and I want him gone.”
The officer turned to Paul.
“Got any ID, sir?”
Paul rifled in his pockets and passed him a drivers licence.
“Im Simons brother! Ive got every right to be here!”
The officer examined the licence.
“Registered in Leicester. No London address. The lady here wants you to leave. Youve no right to remain without the owners permission. Pack your things.”
“You cant do this!” Paul barked. “When Simon gets here, hell back me up!”
“If your brother agrees, you can sort it as a civil matter. But right now, hes not here, and the other owner wants you gone. Youre also drunk and weve had complaints about noise. Either you go peacefully or we take you to the stationcould be fifteen days for public disorder.”
Paul looked between the coppers and Emma, who stood arms crossed, determined. He knew the game was up. His bravado, which might have swayed his soft brother or gentle sister-in-law, meant nothing to uniformed strangers.
“Fine,” he spat. “Enjoy your precious little flatthis isnt over.”
It took half an hour for Paul to cram his belongings into his battered holdall, cursing and slamming doors, deliberately scraping the furniture in a final tantrum. The police watched him every second.
When Paul finally lurched out into the hallway, Simon turned up. He looked ten years older.
“Si!” Paul howled. “Tell them! Your your wifes chucking me out! Im your brother! Tell them!”
Simon glanced at his brotherred-faced, bitterthen over at Emma, pale but resolute, and at the ash-strewn carpet, the empty bottle.
“Go, Paul,” Simon said quietly.
“What?” Paul almost choked. “You pick her over me?”
“Youve lived off us for a year,” Simon replied, meeting his gaze. “You lied, you insulted Emma, you turned our home into a pigsty. I put up with it because youre my brother. But now? Thats it. Go back to Leicester. Or anywhere you like. I wont give you another penny.”
Paul gaped, unable to believe his perpetually obliging brother had finally put his foot down.
“Suit yourselves,” he spat, and slammed out into the corridor, the police following.
“Thank you,” Emma told the senior officer.
“Change your locks,” he advised on his way out. “These so-called family guests often try their luck again.”
When the door closed, a wonderful, ringing silence filled the home. Simon went to the lounge, wrenched open the windows to let in the chill November air and clear out the stench. Then he began picking cigarette ends off the rug.
Emma came in and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Im sorry,” Simon said, not looking up. “I ought to have sorted it, ages back.”
“What matters is its over now,” Emma replied.
That weekend, the two of us did a thorough spring clean. We chucked out the sofa Paul had all but claimed as his ownnothing would get the smell out. We called a locksmith and changed the cylindersSimon suggested it himself, no prompting needed.
Paul did try ringing from withheld numbers, first demanding money for a “train ticket,” then trying threats or emotional blackmail. But Simon simply hung up each time and blocked the numbers.
Slowly, life slipped back to normality. Emma was glad to come home again, to a clean, cosy flat smelling of dinner not sweat and booze. And Simon, I think, learned the lesson of a lifetime: family are those who care for and respect you, not those who bleed you dry with guilt.
Sometimes you have to pass through hell under your own roof to learn how to defend your boundariesand appreciate the peace of your own home.
