Nikki Harrington


This time Raffles and Bunny are trapped.

A first time story.

Written: April 2009. Word count: 500.



I always feared the day would come when I would find myself in this position: trapped. Irrevocably trapped. I have come close to it before, on more than one occasion, but always there has been a way out. But not this time. This time it is obvious there is no way out.


And for myself I do not mind, not really. I have adapted to much in life; I am sure I can adapt to life behind bars. No, I have had a good innings; a good life. There is much I shall miss, of course: Sullivans, The Albany, my cricket bat, the sound of leather against willow, fine wine and leisurely dinners. Walking arm-in-arm with my dearest friend and co-gentleman thief, and then sharing a whisky and soda late at night, talking to him on the new fangled telephone. There is much I shall miss. Most of all I shall miss my rabbit.


And it is Bunny for whom I mind. He never wanted this life, not really. It was I who dragged him into it, even though our first crime together was to aide him. I should never have asked him if he would consider doing it again. I should never have taken advantage of the love I know he's always had for me. A love that has always been clear to see. A love that allowed him to wait up for me until the early hours of morning whilst at school, just so he could help me back into the grounds. And that love has never died.


I should not have involved him; no matter how much he wanted to join me. But I did and I cannot undo that now. If only I could; I would. And yet - And yet, would I? Could I? Could I give up the years we have spent together if I knew then what I know now? I like to think I would; for his sake. But I'm not sure A. J. Raffles is quite that altruistic.


My Bunny will find prison life hard. I can hope that we are at least sent to the same place, so that maybe I can keep an eye on him. My Bunny will find it harder to adapt than I will; harder to give up the Sullivans, the time spent in my rooms, the long hours spent watching me play cricket.


For my Bunny not only still loves me, he is in love with me. And God forgive me, I feel the same about him. It is wrong; it is against the law; against God. But then so are the burglaries we carry out.


I always thought I would not act on the feelings. But now seeing him so troubled, so clearly worried and frightened, but trying not to show it, I fear I must.


"Bunny," I say, taking his hand. "My Bunny." Gently, carefully, as if he is made of china, I pull him into my arms and put my mouth onto his.



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