The Homecoming by Allen Bell

“What time’s his flight arrive?” Cindy asked.

“Six twenty-five,” I said.

“Tomorrow morning?”

“No, tonight, in an hour and a half.”

“Then that’s eighteen twenty-five,” She said.

“You wanna come or not?”

“I’d rather not.”

“You don't want to come pick up your brother that you haven’t seen in five years?”

“Death follows that guy. I’m surprised he even has the balls to come back to Vancouver.” She was putting her toddler’s jacket on him. “Tell him I said hi,” and she scurried out the door.  

Frankie was flying back home after doing five years at Indian Head Penitentiary for some botched armed robbery. He left Vancouver when his boss’s twenty-eight-year-old wife had a heart attack, smoking meth the night he had an affair with her. 

Frankie figured twenty-eight was a little young for a heart attack, especially since she never drank, let alone did drugs.

He fled to Regina. It didn’t take him long to find birds of his feather, and he was doing ARs. An innocent bystander got shot by Frankie's partner. The cops blasted the killer, and Frankie got five years. 

He called me a couple times a month, and I threw him a few bucks to catch a flight home on his release. He said, “I don’t want a big fuss, but it would be nice to see family.”

I didn’t want to see him, but still, I was thinking of having a couple old buddies over to celebrate Frankie’s release.

I dialed Remo, his closest friend.

“Hey, Stacks,” Remo answered. ”What’s goin’ on?”

“Frankie’s coming home tonight. You want to swing by and have drinks?”

The phone was silent for a couple seconds. “I’ll have to take a raincheck; tonight won't work.”

“You sure? Just a couple friends. Nothing big.”

“I can’t. I’ve got the kids tonight.”

On a weeknight?

“You sure?” 

“Some other time. I gotta go.”

That was abrupt.

I dialed Stewie.

“How’s things, Stacks?”

“Same old, same old. I was calling to see if you want to come over tonight. I’m having a little get together for Frankie…”

“Frankie’s back in town?” There was silence, and I could hear Stewie’s breathing get deep. “You tell that backstabber if I see him on the streets, he’s gettin’ it bad.”

“Why the hostility?”

“That punk’s done nothing but stir up trouble. There’s a price on his head. If he’s smart, he won't come back here.”  

“A price. For what?”

“Don't play stupid.”

“That thing with Angie? That was over five years ago.”

“Nothing expires with Anthony. He finds out Frankie’s back, it’ll be messy.” 
The phone went dead.

I called Frankie’s cell to tell him not to catch the flight. 

No answer. 

He must be on the plane already.

I rushed to the airport and stood in front of the arrival panel at the YVR terminal, calling Frankie’s cell phone, hanging up, and redialing. I looked at the time on my phone. The flight from Regina arrived fifteen minutes ago. 

I ran to the escalator, taking two steps at a time, down to the carousels. 

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between an elderly couple, blocking the way, sharing the same step. As I approached the bottom step, my foot twisted, and a sharp pain surged through my ankle. I stumbled to the floor. 

“Careful, son,” the elderly lady said as her husband offered to help me up.
I hobbled off, fighting through the pain.

I looked down the row of carousels and heard a large steel door slam shut behind me. 

I turned.

People screamed. 

My heart thudded.

The air deflated from my lungs. 

It wasn’t a door; it was a gunshot. Small-caliber.

I plowed through the crowd of screaming people running from the direction of the shot. A couple who braved the incident leaned over a body. The man and woman stood up.

I watched the pool of blood slowly widen from Frankie’s head. I felt my spirit spin, flushing away, as the blood flowed through the seams of the grimy floor tile. 

I looked down into my brother's open, frozen eyes. 

Light sparkled.

Lifeless. 

I heard his voice whispering: I don't want a big fuss.

© 2025 Allen Bell

About the author:
Allen Bell is a short story writer breaking into the crime fiction and the gritty noir genre. While working full-time, he obtained a Creative Writing Certificate from the University of Calgary. He's constantly on the lookout to knock on or break down doors that present an opportunity for him to get what he's looking for. He's not afraid to get busted up in the process; he's expecting it.
When he's not practicing the craft, he spends his time studying the craft. He enjoys beta reading and diving deep into the murky waters of what makes a writer successful.