My Husband’s Brother Came to “Stay” for a Week—He Lived with Us for a Year Until the Police Had to K…

You see, love, the poor chaps fallen on hard times. Tossed out by the wife, lost his job Cant have him sleeping on a bench in Trafalgar Square, can we? Simon gazed sheepishly at his wife, worrying the corner of a tea towel. He looked the very picture of a man whod just dropped his mothers best china, though all he was talking about was his younger brothers visit.

Beatrice sighed, dropping her shopping bags onto the kitchen floor. Her arms ached after a frantic day at the accounts office quarterly reports, a tax review, and an old twinge playing up in her back. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss her brother-in-law, a man shed met three times in fifteen years of marriage.

Simon, we live in a two-bed flat, not a halfway house for down-on-their-luck officers, she said, kicking off her wellingtons. Harrys still got his own place in Leeds. Why doesnt he go there?

Oh, hes let it out, so he says. To cover the mortgage on some flat he bought for his lad. Complicated, you know. Said he needs to get his foot in the door in London, find a decent job. Just a week, Bea. Maybe ten days. Just till hes done some interviews.

Beatrice went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Simon followed, giving her that hangdog look she found impossible to resist. He was a good husband gentle, diligent, not one for fuss. But hed never learned how to say no to his folks. And especially not to his brother Harry, who had always been adrift and required, seemingly, constant care.

All right, Beatrice waved a hand, lacking the energy for argument. A week, then. But tell him straight: we have routines. Were up by six, bed at eleven. No wild parties, no extra guests. Clear?

Harry arrived the next evening, lumbering into the hallway with a battered tartan holdall that smelled of second-class carriages and something vaguely sour. He was bigger and brasher than Simon, louder, too.

Oi oi, landlady! he bellowed, going in for a hug Beatrice barely dodged. Take me in, wont you? Ill be as quiet as a church mouse. All I needs a bunk and a plug socket, heh heh.

The first three days passed in a sort of uneasy calm. Harry was, in fact, quiet: sleeping till noon on the lounge sofa, then vanishing off somewhere, coming back for supper. Though he did eat enough for three. By the time Beatrice noticed, the casserole that normally lasted her and Simon three days had vanished in a night. The meat pie shed made for the next two dinners evaporated by morning.

Growing lad! Harry guffawed, wiping gravy from his chin with half a slice of bread. London, eh? Does something to the appetite!

Beatrice said nothing, only made a mental note to buy more groceries. A guest was a guest, after all.

The week crept by, its end marked by Beatrices polite inquiry at the dinner table.

Any luck with the job hunt, Harry? Any promising leads?

Harrys face fell. He set down his knife and fork, sighing theatrically.

Oh Bea, its all smoke and mirrors. Adverts promise fifty grand and free hours, but when you turn up its bloody pyramid schemes or courier jobs for peanuts. Im a professional, with a degree, no less. I cant just take any old thing. But Ive one solid lead a real company. Said they’d call me Monday. Got to hang about a day or two, just in case.

Another couple of days? Beatrice looked at Simon, who busied himself chewing coleslaw, avoiding her gaze.

Well, youre not going to toss me out for the weekend, are you? Harry beamed that wide, guileless grin of his. Me and Sill do a bit of bloke bonding in the shed, just like old times.

Beatrice agreed. Two extra days didnt seem worth a fuss.

But Monday slipped into Tuesday, then Wednesday, and still no call from the real company. Now Harry hardly left the flat at all. Beatrice would return from work to find the same scene: the sofa bed unfolded, telly blaring, biscuit crumbs and empty mugs on the coffee table, a fug of stale deodorant and lager settling in every room.

Harry, ring any jobs today? shed ask.

I did, hed reply lazily, eyes glued to the screen. Personnel ladys poorly. Told me to call next week. By the way, are we out of mayo? Wanted a sarnie, cant find a drop in the fridge.

That are we grated on her nerves. She noticed Harry now considered their flat his own. He helped himself to Simons expensive shampoo, wore her favourite blanket, switched TV channels when she wanted to watch the news.

A month passed. Outside, the drizzle and London grime ran together in the gutter, just as Beatrices life seemed to dribble into a grey, directionless mess.

One evening, shed had enough. She found Simon in the kitchen, fiddling with the toaster, and shut the door firmly.

We need to talk, Simon. Seriously.

About Harry? Simons shoulders sagged.

Yes, about him. Its been a month. He doesnt work. Not even trying. Hes camped out on our sofa, ploughing through our food, and shows no sign of shifting. Our homes a bloody hostel. I cant even walk through the lounge in my dressing gown because theres always that man sprawled there. When is it going to end?

Bea, Ive spoken to him. He says things are just about to turn round. Just unlucky, he reckons. I cant throw out my own brother, can I? Mum would never forgive us. Remember, she always said, Stick together, boys. Look out for each other.

Your mother, bless her, lives in Glasgow and doesnt have to see whats become of our lives. Simon, our budgets cracking. Were spending twice as much on groceries. Bills are up hes running baths for hours, leaves the lights on everywhere. At least ask him to chip in.

Hes broke, Simon muttered. Credit cards blocked, over debts. Only told me the other day.

Beatrice sat hard on a kitchen chair, feeling the floor drop away.

So thats it. Debts. How long have you known?

Couple of days. He promised once hes working, hell pay us back. Bea, just hang in a bit. Springs round the corner, jobsll start up. Hell do building work if nothing else comes.

Just hang in. That became the family motto for the coming months.

Spring came and went. Harry never did any building work now he had a back problem, couldnt lift anything. Yet, oddly, he could raise pint glasses while sitting in front of the telly. Soon after that, Beatrice noticed the good whisky, Simons twenty-five-year-old, had disappeared. The row that followed shook the house.

Wasnt me! Harry shouted, nearly spitting with fury. Accusing me of stealing! Maybe you drank it and forgot, or Simon did, eh?

Dont you dare talk to my wife like that! Simon tried to interject, half-heartedly.

Oh, control your wife! Harry snarled She begrudges her kin a drop? When Im up, Ill buy a crate, just you watch!

That night, Beatrice snapped. She laid down her ultimatum: Either Harry was out by weeks end, or shed file for divorce and split the flat. The place was bought during their marriage (her parents had put up the deposit, and shed paid most of the mortgage herself as head accountant). Simon paled, smoked on the balcony, whispered with Harry for hours. Harry fumed, glared at Beatrice, but finally went quiet.

At last, a glimmer of hope. Harry announced hed found a room in Croydon and would move as soon as his new security job came through just two weeks.

Beatrice let herself hope.

But a week later he came home with his arm in plaster.

Fell, he said, tragically. Slipped on the stairs, broke my wrist.

Beatrice looked at the white cast and felt ice trickle down her spine. No more work. No more moving out.

You wouldnt throw out a cripple, would you? he asked, an unmistakable glint in his eyes. He knew hed found the magic talisman.

That summer was hell. Harry, taking full advantage of his injury, demanded everything Bea, cut me some bread, would you? Bea, help me with my back, cant quite reach. When he tried it one time too many, her reply ensured he never asked again, but the mood soured even further.

Simon buried himself in work, staying on for overtime or odd jobs, anything to be away. Beatrice also lingered elsewhere parks, coffee shops, lingering on benches just to avoid her own home, where King Harry sprawled on the sofa.

Six months, then eight. The cast long off, but Harry nursed his wrist, moaning about aches in this weather, as if that excused everything. Hed rearranged the living room to suit, and twice brought home unsavoury friends while they were out (a neighbour had reported it). Any complaint brought a barrage of abuse.

You owe me! Im family! By rights, you should help! Youve got a three-bed or dont you count the kitchen? Im not even asking for your bedroom!

The dam burst in November, exactly a year after his first arrival.

Beatrice came home early with a headache to a racket of music and shrieking laughter. In the hall, strange womens scuffed boots. A tatty parka slung over her coat hook. She strode into the lounge to a tableau straight from a cheap soap: food from their fridge smeared over the table, a half-empty vodka bottle, and Harry, arm draped around a boozy, dyed-blonde stranger. Both were chain-smoking, ashing on the carpet.

Look whos home! Harry slurred. This is my muse, Chelsea! We’re just having a civilised evening, Bea.

Something sharp snapped in Beatrices mind. Calm, cold clarity replaced all pity.

Out, she said quietly.

What? Oh, dont make a fuss. Chels will be off in a mo, were just

Out. Both of you. Now. Five minutes.

Whats wrong with you? Harry lumbered upright, face purple. Where am I meant to go? This is my home too! My brothers the owner! Who are you, anyway? Scrounger!

He lunged toward her, voice rising. Beatrice merely raised her phone.

Im calling the police.

Do it! Harry bellowed. Theyll never touch me! Im family here! Simon invited me!

She pressed call.

Police? I need an officer. Yes, unauthorised persons in my home, making threats, intoxicated. No, not registered here. Yes, Im the owner. Thank you.

Chelsea, hearing the words police, sobered instantly, grabbed her boots and coat, mumbling apologies as she scrambled out. Harry slumped back onto the sofa, lit another cigarette, smirking.

Well see. Wait til Simon gets here. You shopping your brother-in-law to the coppers? You piece of work.

Beatrice escaped to the kitchen and phoned Simon.

Ive called the police, she said as soon as he picked up. Your brother brought a woman, started drinking, threatened me. If you defend him now, dont come home. Ill file for divorce tomorrow.

Silence. Then Simons voice, flat and tired:

Im coming. Do what you think is right. Im knackered.

The police arrived swiftly, two sturdy officers in uniform, exhausted yet efficient.

Whos the owner? the sergeant asked, eyeing the smoke-heavy lounge and Harry, half-sprawled.

I am, Beatrice produced her driving licence, proof of address, and mortgage paperwork, all ready in a folder. Flats jointly owned with my husband. This chap isnt registered, hes staying here against our will, acting aggressively. I want him out.

Identification, sir? the sergeant said, now to Harry.

Harry fumbled, produced a driving licence.

Im Simons brother! Ive every right to be here! Family visit!

The officer checked the ID, flicking through.

Registered Leeds. No local connection. The lady requests you leave. No grounds for you to stay here without both owners consent. Collect your things.

You cant do this! Harry jumped up. Simonll back me up!

If your brother returns and gives permission, youll have to take it to civil court, the policeman replied, calmly. But for now hes absent, and shes asked you to leave. Youre here drunk, neighbours are complaining. Either you go quietly, or youre coming with us for a formal caution or worse. Could be a night in the cells for disorder.

Harry looked from the constables to Beatrice, arms folded, unmoved. He knew hed lost swagger counted for nothing here.

Fine, he hissed. You can keep your precious rooms. But this isnt over.

He packed in a blind fury, tossing his tatty things into his eternal holdall, venting under his breath and even scoring the sideboard in accident. The policemen stood in the doorway, impassive.

Simon appeared at the door just as Harry lumbered into the hallway.

Si! Tell them! Your wifes kicking me out, your own brother! Tell them!

Simon looked at his brother, at his puffy, bitter face. Then at Beatrice, pale but steady; at the stubbed-out cigarettes on the rug, the empty bottle.

Go, Harry, Simon said softly.

What? Youre betraying me? For her?

Youve lived off us for a year, Simon said, quiet but unflinching. You lied to me. You humiliated my wife. You wrecked our home. I put up with it because youre family. But tonight you crossed the line. Back to Leeds. Or wherever. Dont ask for money. Thats finished too.

Harry stared, slack-jawed. In that moment, even Simon seemed to have grown taller.

Sod the lot of you! he spat, and stormed out, police escort trailing to ensure he really left.

Thanks, Beatrice nodded to the officers.

Change your locks, one advised. These relations sometimes come back.

As the front door slammed, a ringing hush fell over the flat. Simon walked into the lounge and flung open the window wide, letting in the cold November draught to clear the smoke and staleness. Then he began silently gathering rubbish from the floor.

Beatrice placed a hand to his shoulder.

Im so sorry, Simon mumbled, not looking up. I shouldve ended this ages ago.

Its over, Beatrice said, not unkindly.

They spent that weekend purging every trace. The sofa Harry had claimed was thrown out; nothing could cleanse it. They changed the locks, called a handyman, Simon helping without being asked.

Harry called a few times from new numbers demanded train fare, pleaded, threatened. Simon blocked every call.

Slowly, normal life crept back. Beatrice walked into her flat with pleasure again, inhaling the scent of her own supper instead of someone elses sweat and beer. And perhaps Simon learned at last the crucial lesson: its not blood that makes a family, but care, respect, and the right to peace in your own walls.

Sometimes you have to survive nightmare lodgers to learn how to defend your boundaries, and realise that a quiet home is worth fighting for.