The Writers' Circle

Unlikely Heroes

Chapter 1

Mike Saunders stood waiting impatiently at arrivals and checked his watch again, disappointed to find that it had only been five minutes since his last check, meaning that the plane had been on the ground precisely nine minutes. Not enough time for the kid to have collected his luggage, let alone cleared immigration, even with his American passport. He smiled at the thought. His nephew was even more of an odd mix than him. At least Mike had been born, lived and educated in the US. Both of his parents were from England, so in his formative years he'd spent a good number of his summer vacations visiting relatives in the UK and it was enough for him to vaguely feel the tug of his English roots, but deep down he was all American. 

His nephew, James Maxwell Saunders, was a different case entirely, also born in the US, he had a French mother, and had been educated around the world courtesy of various American Air Force bases. When he was 12 his father, Mike's brother, had been killed in a training accident. His mother had returned briefly to the US, but by that time Mike was the only living relative there, and he'd joined the Marine Corps. So she'd headed for England and the support of family to help bring up her teenage son. James had been educated in the UK before getting into Berkeley on an Athletics scholarship and coming to live once again in the country of his birth.

Mike wondered distractedly what nationality his nephew considered himself. The fact that he'd come to the US as soon as he was old enough could be significant, but he'd never got to ask him, because even when his nephew had been back in the US, just a 45 minute plane ride away, the two had never met up. Not while he was in school, not even after the accident. Mike felt a twinge of guilt at this. The kid had been in the hospital for six months and he'd meant to visit him at some point. He really had. It was just that his life was so complicated, his work so important. There'd been cases that he'd needed to work on, too important for him to get away. 

It all seemed so unimportant now. 

Mike's Aunts had flown over from the UK after the accident. Uprooted their lives and lived out here until the kid was well enough to be flown back home with them, but he'd been too busy to visit from the next State. He shook his head, dipping it against the flush of embarrassment the memory caused. He remembered the unanswered messages from his aunts on his answering machine. The ones he'd meant to get around to, the visits he'd meant to make. He hadn't been much of an uncle, and he sure as hell wasn't sure what good he could do now, but Aunt Jean's message had been clear enough. 

"He's family and he needs your help Mike."

He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her how screwed up he was himself, because somewhere deep down he recognised that he was, that life had dealt him just one too many kicks when he was down, and he was no longer able to get all the way back up. He couldn't even help himself, let alone anyone else. Life was just going through the motions, trying to get by from day to day, but her next words had made any protest redundant.

"I put him on the plane this morning. He'll be there in five hours, flight AA5769. I've told him you'll meet him at the airport." There was a pause while she allowed him to digest the information. "You'll be good for each other."

Mike let out a sigh. Aunt Jean wasn't giving him any room for manoeuvre this time. He scrabbled through the bowl on the counter looking for a pen. He found a pencil and a scrap of paper. "You haven't given me much time to clean up, get the place ready for visitors," he grumbled into the phone.

His Aunt gave a short laugh. "If I gave you a month's notice you'd still be running around at the last minute. Don't forget how well I know you Michael."

Mike smiled himself. No one else called him Michael, not since his parents died, and they'd only used the name when he was in trouble. "OK, give me the flight number again."

His Aunt obliged and he jotted it down, cradling the phone into his neck. He thought for a moment before phrasing his next question. "Umh. . .how long is he going to be staying?" He put the pencil down and took hold of the receiver again.

"That's up to the pair of you," Jean replied cryptically

Mike glanced away from the grey opening that marked the exit from immigration and customs and scanned across the  people waiting with him. Every age and nationality was represented, some already greeting the new arrivals. Relationships made as clear as reading about them simply by their reactions Relatives and friends were greeted with emotion smiles, hugs, sometimes kisses, even the odd scowl, but the emotion always conspicuous by its presence or absence, business acquaintances shook hands and although they also smiled there was a clear difference from the smiles drawn from genuine feelings. Finally there were those there to pick up strangers, holding cards with the name of the people they were waiting for, since neither party was likely to recognize the other. 

It was as he glanced at these generally bored looking faces, their stiff nods of greeting rarely even leading to a handshake, that Mike realized somewhat uncomfortably that these were the people he had most in common with. He hadn't seen his nephew since he was twelve, at his father's funeral, wasn't sure that he would even recognize him. Maybe he needed a card himself, James Saunders, written in neat lettering, or one with his own name on it Michael Saunders, Uncle Mike, your closest living relative who hasn't bothered to look you up for the past fifteen years, even when you were damn near killed, because he was too wrapped up in his own problems to realize that maybe. . .

"Uncle Mike?" the tone was tentative, questioning.

"Jamie?" Mike answered dropping almost automatically into the childhood version of his nephew's name that had fitted so well the last time he'd seen the boy that now flashed him a dazzling smile, holding out a hand in greeting as soon as the nod of recognition reassured him. It was only then that Mike took in the face of the man the boy had become. Short light brown hair framed olive skin and sparkling blue eyes that he definitely got from his mother. Sam's eyes had been green but that was the only difference. If it hadn't been for the eyes Mike could have been looking at his younger brother Sam. The brother that he'd lost when he wasn't much older than Jamie was now.

"It's James now," he said with a slight smile, shifting the pack on his shoulder and breaking off the firm shake. "I haven't gone by Jamie since I was a kid.

Mike studied him for a moment. "You still are a kid," he stated, then nodded to the suitcase behind him. "That all your luggage?"

James glanced back at his case. "Yeah, just the one."

Mike reached for the handle but James grabbed it before he could. "It's OK I can manage."

Mike gave a slight shrug before turning. "Car's this way," he stated and moved off.