Atma Frans

Returning Home

Arthur threw a pair of secateurs into the wheelbarrow and put on a coverall. While he was struggling with the jammed zipper, Frank grabbed a hoe and said he’d weed. It wasn’t on the list of chores, yet the guard just said, “Right on, Frankie,” and sat down in the shade next to the shed and opened a newspaper.

Even though it was only morning, the sun was biting into Arthur’s neck. He didn’t mind that by nightfall his skin, no longer used to the outdoors, would blister. He pushed the wheelbarrow to the rosebushes and started deadheading the wilted flowers. He caught one into his gloved hand and brought the bleached petals close to his face. Breathing in the lingering fragrance of honey, persimmon and frankincense, he became all nose. For a moment the world fell away. He dropped the rose in his wheelbarrow and, kneeling down, gathered the dead leaves under the bush. Beneath the debris, the earth was moist and released a rich scent of rot and compost. He took off his gloves and burrowed his hands into the dirt. A worm wriggled between his fingers. How he had missed touching something alive! Inside the Brussels’ prison, the walls were a drab green, and sound bounced off all the hard surfaces. The worst of it was the stink of detergent, boiled cabbage and the sweat of too many men cooped up together. He looked over his shoulder at Frank, who was standing in the shade of an old oak. The hoe was leaning against the trunk. Arthur could tell from the slightly bent posture that Frank was listening intently to his phone. Likely talking business. Another drug run? Frank could get you anything you wanted but Arthur never asked for stuff. There was a price to be paid afterwards, and not just in money.

Arthur put on his gloves. He’d better get on it with it. If they didn’t get enough done, he would get the blame and lose this new privilege of working in the walled garden of the warden on Fridays. He had gotten this coveted placement because he only had two months left to serve, and a record of spotless behaviour, whereas Frank had simply asked for it. Although overweight and in his late fifties, Frank made everyone run circles around him, even the guards. It wasn’t his first time inside.

The warden’s garden felt like a park. A large manicured lawn was bordered with tall rhododendrons and rosebushes, hiding most of the brick enclosure and its parapet, strung with barbed wire. Several mature trees spread shade over the grass. Not only was the garden wide, it ran the whole length of the prison, a brick building with rows of tiny windows, one of them Arthur’s. Since he was tall, he could look through it if he stood on the table in his cell. Unfortunately, the walls were thick and he could only see a slice of the outside: a bit of lawn, rhododendron and a cherry tree, whose overgrown crown had bothered him all year. Tangled up in itself, the poor thing had no breathing space. He pushed the wheelbarrow towards it. At the far end of the garden was the warden’s house, an elegant mansion, part of its limestone facade covered with honeysuckle. On one side of the patio was a low basin with a dolphin sculpture spilling water into it. If it wasn’t for the city’ traffic noise, Arthur could imagine himself inside a countryside domain.

A sliding door opened, spitting out two children. The girl chased the boy across the patio. Her laughter rang high and clear, so unlike the laughter in prison with all its undertones of threat, power, and humiliation. He had seen the children before, running around the garden, zipping in and out of the small frame of his window. Often, their mother played with them, or at least that’s who he assumed the beautiful, plump woman to be. She had thick black hair cut in a bob, and skin the colour of honey. The girl looked like her. It was strange that the children were home now. The guard had told Arthur and Frank to return to the shed by three as by then the children would be coming back from preschool. It was just after ten, and they were still in their pyjamas. Why had they not left? And where was the woman? Arthur gripped the handles of his wheelbarrow and walked on. This was none of his business.

The shade of the cherry fell over him like a cooling blanket. He slipped the secateurs into his belt, pulled himself up into the crown and surveyed the maze of crisscrossing branches. When he was eighteen, he had worked at a landscaping company. Hating the physical work, he had quit after a year. Now, he enjoyed the feeling of his muscles working, the smell of the cut branches, the leaves brushing against his arms. Could he do this work when he got out? He could trade in his old Citroen for a truck. If he hired a couple of refugees, he could pay them cash. That way, he could launder the stashed-away money from his thefts. He could come up with a catchy name, and a logo, to paint on the side of his truck. Print it on shirts for his guys. That would look really professional. He remembered the way his old boss used to talk to wealthy clients, the way he changed his vocabulary and mannerisms, a role Arthur could imitate. He could make a pile of money, looking after rich people’s gardens, gardens like this one. He should take some pictures and make a website. Ask Frank for a phone. Arthur dropped down from the tree and started piling the cut branches into the wheelbarrow. No, no, he shouldn’t ask Frank for favours. When he got out of prison, he would become an honest man, meet a nice girl, start a family.

“Lemme in! Lemme in!” The boy’s shrill voice pulled Arthur from his daydream. The child was trying to hoist himself up onto the stone rim of the fountain and join his sister who was wading around in it, her pyjamas drenched up to her waist. Before Arthur got arrested, he used to spend Sundays with his sister Magda and her family. She never let her daughter play in the pink plastic pool on her own, even though it was shallow. The mother must be watching from inside, Arthur thought, and she would come out any minute. He piled the last branches on the wheelbarrow. Still no mother. His stomach twisted the way it used to when he was thieving and something wasn’t right. He should get a bit closer, just to make sure the kids were fine. Not wanting to frighten them, he approached the patio at a slow pace. He had always been good at not being noticed. He could blend in anywhere. It was what was keeping him safe in prison, safe from Frank’s bullies.

Staying close to the bushes, he snipped the wilted roses as he went. Meanwhile, the boy ran inside and returned with a plastic mini-chair. He climbed on it and flopped into the fountain, water splashing over the rim. He crawled to the stone dolphin and pulled himself up, then patted the snout, which was green with algae.

“You’re ogling the kiddos?” Frank was right behind Arthur.

“Oh God, no!”

The children froze, looked straight at Frank, then clambered out off the fountain and ran into the house.

Frank crossed his arms, smirking, as if he had something on Arthur. The rambunctious children had indeed awakened a yearning inside Arthur, but not in the way Frank suggested. The grime of prison had seeped into Arthur, choking every pore. He couldn’t face having to go back inside this afternoon. How he longed to be free.

“I think something is wrong,” he said. “They seem to be on their own. We should get the guard.” The guard was still reading next to the shed in the far corner of the yard.

“Yeah, right.” Frank walked straight to the open sliding door.

Arthur stayed at the edge of the bushes, and waited. A deep silence fell over the garden. What was Frank up to? Arthur left the protection of the greenery and crossed the sunlit patio.

Inside the house it was silent. It smelled nice here, a scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Toy cars were scattered under and around a table. An empty glass bottle lay in a white puddle on the kitchen counter. On the floor, two plates with half eaten sandwiches, next to a ripped paper bag, bread slices spilling from it, and a pot of Nutella, a knife stuck in the hazelnut cocoa spread. It looked like the kids had made their own breakfast and had a picnic on the kitchen floor. A wet trail lead to a pile of crumpled pyjamas near a door at the rear. It opened and Frank appeared, waving his phone as if it was a lollipop. “Come on!”

Arthur followed him into the hallway. A wide staircase curved up to a second floor, its railing decorated with floral ironwork that gleamed and glistened in the light streaming down from the upper floor. “We shouldn’t be here,” Arthur said.

“Stop whining and gimme the clippers!” Without waiting, Frank snapped them from Arthur’s belt and walked through a side door leading to a small, dark, library. Wooden shelves lined both sides of a fireplace. Two easy chairs stood in front of it, their green velvet upholstery faded in places. A tartan blanket lay in a crumpled heap on one of the seats. Arthur couldn’t picture the stern, stiff warden in a room this homey, a place of such loose relaxation.

Frank swept the magazines from the coffee table and pulled it to the wall. He climbed on top of it and ran the tip of the secateurs along the frame of the window, breaking the paint, causing flakes to snow down around him. This was all so wrong yet Arthur felt the old excitement return, the rush of the forbidden. The danger heightened his senses and the house seemed to breathe around him, alive. Frank pulled on the handle of the window. In the silence, Arthur could hear the muffled voices of the children, somewhere close by. Frank started scraping again, deepening the groove. On the Persian carpet, barely noticeable on the bright pattern, lay a golden bracelet. Arthur shoved his hands deep into his pockets and clenched his fists. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. It was beautiful though. Two metal ribbons snaked around each other. It looked antique, fifties maybe. Would anyone even miss it? Before he knew it, it was in his pocket.

In the hallway, a phone rang. An answering machine kicked in, a warm female voice calling herself Ellen, asked to leave a message. After the beep, another woman, asked why Ellen hadn’t shown up at the cafe. The woman had been waiting there for an hour. Could Ellen please call her? The machine clicked. Was the mother still home then? Could she appear any minute? With a loud crack, Frank jerked the window open. A gust of wind rushed into the room, filling it with delirious freedom.

Frank poked his head out. Grunting, he heaved himself onto the window sill. Then, he dropped down into the narrow side street.

It would be so easy to leave, Arthur thought. As their coveralls hid their prison clothing, people would likely think they were just a pair of workmen. He could be out of here, right now. A cyclist rode by, ringing his bell. Across the road two girls walked by arm in arm, their laughter clattering on the sidewalk. He would be a fugitive though. He could change his appearance: grow a beard, dye his hair. Nobody would find him. Frank could probably get him a fake ID. Frank could get you anything.

“Hurry!” Frank said. “We’ve got a ride waiting.”

Then it hit Arthur, Frank would own him. Already Frank was talking as if they were in this together. Arthur would become one of Frank’s puppets. He wouldn’t be able to have his own landscaping business. Could he split ways once he was out the window? But where would he hide? Magda wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him and none of his friends had visited him in prison. He’d be on his own. This was madness. He had only two months left. He shook his head. He would stick it out.

“Suit yourself.” Frank stared at Arthur. “Not a peep till three a clock.”

Arthur nodded and backed away. He should get out of the house fast, get back to the garden before the guard noticed their absence.

In the hallway, a loud moan froze him. It felt animal-like, frightened. The sound stopped, then started again, coming from behind a pair of French doors. Their frosted glass obscured his sight. Curious, he turned the knob, opening the doors half an inch.

On the couch sat the beautiful woman he had so often seen in the garden, the children cuddled against her. The boy was pushing a nose onto a Mr Potato-head. Did kids still play with that stuff? The boy’s forehead was furrowed with concentration. The girl was hugging a large stuffed rabbit, one of its floppy ears in her mouth. She stopped sucking it and looked straight at the door. Arthur was about to close it when he noticed something was wrong with the mother. She was slumping. One shoulder had sunk lower than the other and the spaghetti strap of her yellow dress had slid off. Her position was unnatural as if her body had shifted under its own weight. She looked up and said, “Whee do,” moving only half of her mouth.

Was she drunk? Her face looked weird too, as if it had melted, then solidified in all the wrong places. She lifted a hand. It hung midair for a second as if unsure what it was supposed to do, then dropped on the couch. Arthur’s great-aunt’s had moved in a similar stilted and awkward way after she had a stroke. She had slurred her words too. Could young people have strokes? His great-aunt had been lucky, his family had said, that a neighbour had found her. She could have died otherwise.

“Whelp,” the woman said. “Eat whelph.”

He closed the door, wishing he had never opened it. If only he had kept going, out, out of this house. Damn it. Now her life was on his hands. He stopped in front of the creamy white telephone. Making a call would put a target on his back. In and out of prison, Frank controlled the gang. Arthur had seen what they were capable of, and how the guards always waited just a bit too long. Arthur walked on, then stopped. When he had seen the woman running across the grass, she had looked so happy, so beautiful, so full of life. If this was Magda, he would want a stranger to help her, wouldn’t he? Maybe nobody would find out it had been him putting a call through. He listened for a dial tone. No, no! Frank wasn’t stupid. Arthur lowered the receiver. Then he thought of the terrible accidents that could happen if the kids were left alone all day, the fragility of small bones and skulls. And the mother powerless to do anything, maybe dying in front of them! He laid the receiver down next to the phone, and put the golden bracelet beside it. They would be here soon enough: the police, the fire brigade, an ambulance.

Outside, on the lawn, a trail of dead flower heads led from the patio back to the wheelbarrow. Less than half an hour ago, he had cut the wilted roses. Now gathering them, he felt like a hero in the stories he used to read to his niece, the trail of pale petals glowing in the dark-green grass, showing him the long and perilous way home.

END

Atma Frans’ writing has won first prize in Quagmire Magazine’s Poetry Contest, second in Muriel’s Journey Prize and has been nominated for Best of the Net 2026. Her work has been published in Arc Poetry Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, The New Quarterly, FreeFall, Prairie Fire Magazine, Obsessed with Pipework, Lighthouse Literary Journal and elsewhere. She lives on the unceded territory of the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh people in Gibsons, B.C, Canada where she hikes, writes and wild swims.