The Thief Page 3

  Maybe she didn’t feel happy because she hadn’t yet destroyed what had been in his case. Breaking or burning or cutting up the things she took always seemed to take a load off her mind. That was how she got to feel better. Those plastic bags would hold only dirty clothes and maybe things he had bought. Cheap things, not worth much, but burning them or stamping on them and putting them in the rubbish would help her. She lifted up the case and put it back on the bed.

  I have to get my own clothes out, she said to herself. I have to take his things out. Don’t put it off any longer. Time is passing. It’s already nearly three and Alex will be home again at six. But she did put it off. It was so long since she had taken anything of someone else’s, destroyed anything. Because I didn’t need to, she thought. Because I met Alex and I was happy. Was that it? I didn’t tell so many lies too because I was happy. She walked to the window and looked down into the street below. Someone parked a red car on the other side. A woman came along with a small brown dog on a lead. Go back, she said to herself. Go back and open that case.

  Suppose there was something dreadful inside. But what could there be? Body parts, she thought, drugs. But no, those things would have been found. Porn? Well, if that was what it was, she would burn it. The best thing would be to burn everything. But where could she burn it? No one had open fires any more except maybe in the country. There was a metal bucket outside in the shed. She could make a fire in that. But she had never in all her life made a fire. It was something people used to do, when her mother was young.

  Count to ten, she said aloud, and when you get to ten open the case. She counted to ten but she didn’t open it. This was mad, this was no way to go on. She put her hands on the lid of the case and saw the scar again. She shut her eyes so that she couldn’t see it, held her breath, and flung the lid open.

  Lant’s plastic bags lay jumbled up inside. She couldn’t see what was inside them. Slowly, she took them out, laid them on the bed, feeling paper inside. She knew what was in them before she looked and she began to feel sick. One after another she opened the packets. Nothing dirty, nothing horrible. The packets were full of money, fifty-pound notes in one, US dollars in the next, euros in the third, hundreds if not thousands.

  She ran into the bathroom and threw up into the basin.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONEY WAS THE ONE thing she couldn’t destroy. No matter how much she might want to. She couldn’t. Things, yes. A book, a watch, a Walkman. That hadn’t felt like stealing but like revenge, like a trick, like getting her own back. A man her father knew had been caught stealing money from the firm he worked for. Her mother and father had been shocked, upset, and so had she when they told her. Now she was as bad as that man, she had stolen money. She could go to prison or, because it was a first offence, get a fine and a criminal record for the rest of her life.

  Telling herself that she must know, there must be no more putting off, she counted the money. Five thousand pounds, a bit less than ten thousand dollars, a bit under ten thousand euros. Yet he had flown economy class. Because he got the money in New York and he already had his return ticket? Perhaps. What did it matter? The big thing, the awful thing, was that she had stolen it.

  She couldn’t leave it there on the bed. Time was passing and it was nearly four. At this time of year the sun had set, the light was going. She couldn’t leave Lant’s dirty clothes there either. Those she stuffed into one of the plastic bags, took it downstairs and put it outside into the wastebin. The afternoon felt cold now it was getting dark. A sharp wind was blowing.

  Back in the bedroom, she counted the money again. Five thousand pounds doesn’t take up much room. She went to the desk she called hers, though everything in this house was really Alex’s, found a large brown envelope and put the money inside. The envelope could have held twice the amount. It wasn’t so bad when she couldn’t see the money. When it was hidden. She took her own clothes out of the case, set some aside for washing, some for dry-cleaning.

  The phone rang. She jumped and caught her breath. It would be him. It would be Trevor Lant. What could she say? Very afraid, she picked up the phone, her hand shaking.

  Her voice came, breathy and shrill. ‘Hello?’

  It was her mother. ‘I said I’d phone. Give you a chance to get home and unpack. How did the wedding go?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine. Have you got a cold?’

  Polly longed to tell her. She couldn’t. She knew what her mother would say: tell Alex, tell the police, say what you’ve done and make it all right. But first she would say, Polly, how could you? What’s wrong with you? ‘I’m just tired,’ she said, and making an effort, ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘Better, I’m glad to say. He thought you might both come over for a meal tonight. Save you cooking.’

  Her mother thought she lived like they used to thirty years ago, cooking meat and two veg, making desserts. She would know how to make a fire, burn things . . . ‘Can we make it some other night? Tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  ‘I’ll phone.’

  When she had put the phone down, the house seemed very quiet. There was no noise from the street, no wind blowing, no footsteps, no traffic sounds. It was as if she had gone deaf. The silence made her long for sound. She put out one finger and tapped the bedhead. The tiny tap made her jump again. Then she said aloud, ‘What shall I do?’

  Not what her mother would have told her to do. Not what Alex would have told her. Still, it was plain she couldn’t keep the money. Every moment it was in this house she was stealing it. If she took it to a police station and said what she had done, they would think she was mad. They would arrest her. She imagined their faces, staring at her as they asked her to say again what she had said. You took a man’s case? But why? What were you thinking of? That was stealing – did you know that? She knew she couldn’t go to the police. But she must do something. Find out where Trevor Lant lived? Yes, that was it. Find out where he lived and get his money back to him.

  The phone book first. If he wasn’t there she would try the Internet. He might not live in London. Still, she would try her own phone book first, the one for West London. Her hand shook as she turned the pages. Lanson, Lanssens, Lant . . . There were four Lants listed, one in Notting Hill, one in Maida Vale, one in Bayswater and a T.H. Lant nearer to her own house than any of them. Only half a mile or so away, in Willesden. But could she be sure it was him? She could phone and when he answered, say, ‘Trevor Lant?’

  He would know her voice. She knew she would be much too afraid to phone him. Could she get someone else to do it? Not Alex, not her mother or her father. A friend? Roz? Louise? They would want to know why. The address in the phone book looked like a house, not a flat. Number 34 Bristol Road, NW2. Why had she got this crazy idea that she would know it was his house when she saw it? Did she think he would have painted it orange?

  Of course she couldn’t go there. He would recognise her. Not if she wore a long dark coat. Not if she tied her head up in a scarf like the Moslem women wore and put on dark glasses. Was she just going there to look? To make sure the Trevor Lant whose money she had, lived there? And how would she do that?

  It was only four-thirty in the afternoon but dark by now. She should go soon if she meant to be back when Alex came home. If she was going to return Trevor Lant’s money she should also return his clothes. Keeping them was stealing too. Outside it was icy in the bitter wind. Her hands shaking again, she took the plastic bag out of the wastebin and for the first time looked at what was inside. Two T-shirts, two pairs of underpants, two pairs of socks, the yellow shirt he had worn on the flight out and a red shirt. She wrote a note for Alex in case she wasn’t home in time: Gone to Louise’s. Back soon. He had never liked Louise. He wouldn’t phone her.

  Alex had the car. She could get to Bristol Road by bus and on foot. Suddenly she was aware of how tired she was. Of course she had hardly slept at all last night and she hadn’t been able to slee
p when she got home. A drink would help. He had called her an alcoholic and maybe he was right. Who cared? When all this was over and the money and the clothes were back with him, she’d give up drinking. Alex would like that. No more gin, though. Not at this hour, as her mother might say. She opened a bottle of red wine and poured herself a big glass.

  When she had drunk half the wine she put on her long black coat, wrapped a grey and black scarf round her head and put on dark sunglasses. This get-up made her look strange but round here a great many people looked strange. Should she take the money and the clothes with her? And then what? Leave them on his doorstep? No, find some other way of returning them. She put the envelope in the drawer of her desk, the clothes inside the washing machine, and drank the rest of the wine.

  She had to wait a long time for the bus. About twenty people were waiting, mostly in silence, tired people who had been at work all day. It was very cold and a few thin flakes of snow were falling. She was glad of the scarf she had wrapped round her head. A woman stared at her as if she’d never seen dark glasses before but Polly kept them on even when the bus came. Most people inside the bus sat silent, looking gloomy, but some chattered and laughed, drank from fizzy drink bottles, ate crisps, sandwiches, chocolate. Babies cried, children climbed over people and over seats. One of the little girls was the age Polly had been when she cut up the library book. She got off a long way from Bristol Road and began to walk.

  A lot of women were dressed like her, without the glasses. No one took any notice of her. Once she had turned down a side street there were no more people. Cars were parked nose to tail all along both sides. Lights shone dimly behind coloured curtains. A long-dead Christmas tree had been thrown out on the pavement with rubbish bags. She had looked up Bristol Road in the street atlas and was sure she knew the way but it seemed a very long way. She kept thinking she would meet him coming along. Or the footsteps following her would be his. She turned round once and then again but no one was there. When she reached the corner and saw the street name, Bristol Road, she felt too afraid to go on. Her watch told her it was nearly six. Alex would be home in ten minutes.

  She clenched her icy hands, wishing she had brought gloves. She forced herself to walk, to push one foot in front of the other. Bristol Road seemed darker than the streets she had come along. The street lamps had long spaces between them. There were more trees and in front gardens there were evergreens, the kind you see in graveyards, the kind that never lose their black leaves. The sunglasses she wore made the darkness darker but she was afraid to take them off. It was a long street and she had come into it at number 188. It seemed like miles to 34 but at last she was outside its gate. Or outside the gate of 32, not daring to get too close. She held on to a fence post like an old woman afraid she might fall.

  No lights were on in the house. It was in deep darkness and its front garden was full of dark bushes. A little light from a street lamp shone on the windows so that they looked like black glass. Of all the houses on this side only number 34 had a brightly painted front door. It was hard to tell the exact colour but it seemed to be yellow, the yellow of food, an egg yolk or a piece of cheese.

  Plainly, no one was at home. She went almost on tip-toe up to the front window and tried to look inside. It was too dark to see much, just the shapes of dull heavy chairs and tables. She looked to see if there was a name under the doorbell but there was nothing. The phone book had said a T.H. Lant lived here, not that he did. It might be a Thomas or Tim Lant. She had no way of knowing. He might not even live in London but up north somewhere or in Wales or by the sea. She would have to come back in daylight. Tomorrow was Saturday and she could come then.

  What would she say to Alex? Make some excuse. You mean, tell some lie, she said to herself. But she would have to. Suppose Alex were in her position, he would have to lie. But he wouldn’t be, she told herself as she walked back to the bus stop, feeling weak and tired. He would never do the things I do . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON THE WAY HOME she thought, suppose I find the police waiting for me? I can explain, she thought. I can tell them he gave it to me. Or I can say I know nothing about it. And if they want to search the house? I’ll say it’s my money, I’ll say those are Alex’s clothes . . . Alex opened the front door to her before she got her key out.

  ‘I phoned Louise,’ he said. ‘I wanted to pick you up, take you out to dinner.’ He looked hurt. ‘There was something I was planning to ask you.’

  Polly thought, he was going to propose to me. He was going to ask me to marry him. For once, she didn’t know what to say. It was too late to go out now and she was so tired she thought she could fall asleep standing up.

  ‘You left me a note saying you’d be there.’

  ‘I know. I meant to go.’ She was so used to him trusting her, believing everything she said, that the look on his face shocked her. But she was a good liar. She had had plenty of practice. Coming up close to him, she looked him straight in the eye. ‘I got on the bus, the one that goes to Louise’s road. It’s only two stops. But I was so tired I fell asleep and when I woke up I was in Finchley.’

  He believed her. His face had cleared and he laughed, but gently. ‘You should have waited for me and I’d have taken you in the car.’

  ‘I know you would.’ She had to find out. ‘What were you planning to ask me?’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. Another time.’

  ‘I really need a drink.’

  As she said it she thought of Trevor Lant saying she drank too much. Why had she ever spoken to him? Why hadn’t she just kept silent when he spoke to her? Alex brought her a glass of wine.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t want anything. I just want to go to bed.’

  Suppose he had looked inside the washing machine? Before she went to bed, while Alex was watching the news on TV, she took out Trevor Lant’s clothes. She put them in a bag and put the bag in the bottom of her wardrobe. Tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. How to get away on her own for an hour or two in the morning? Just to go back to Bristol Road, see it in daylight, maybe talk to someone next door and find out who lived there. Alex slept beside her, still and silent as he always was. He wants to marry me, she thought. We’ve never really talked about it but I know he does. He’ll ask me sometime this weekend. I shall say yes. Of course I will. And when we’re engaged I’ll make a vow to tell no more lies and never, ever steal anything again. The wine I drink at my wedding will be the last I’ll ever drink.

  She slept badly, and woke up to find him gone. She thought, I could tell him. I could tell him now. But no, she couldn’t. Tell him she had stolen a man’s case? Taken money and clothes out of it, brought them here, hidden them and gone to find where he lived? And it’s not the first time, she would have to say. I took my aunt’s book. I took a man’s Walkman and threw it under a truck. I took Abby Robinson’s watch and smashed it and gave myself this scar. And I took other things, I took them to get back at people, a handbag from Louise once because she didn’t ask me to her party. I threw it over the bridge into the canal. Alex would tell me I’m mad. Perhaps I am mad. He wouldn’t want to be married to a woman like me.

  Alex came in with tea for her. He was smiling. ‘Had a good night?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  He seemed to have forgotten her note and the things she had said. ‘I thought we could go out this morning and buy those books I need.’

  I once stole a book and cut the pages to pieces because my aunt smacked me. Look at my finger. That’s the scar where I cut myself . . . What would he do if she said that?

  ‘You go,’ she said. ‘You won’t need me.’

  No bus this morning. He had taken the tube and left the car behind. She could say she had taken it to go shopping. On the way back from Bristol Road she could go shopping, make her lies true. She felt safer inside the car. Turning the corner into Lant’s street she saw his car on the driveway before she saw the house, it was suc
h a bright colour. A bright peacock blue, the kind of blue that hurts your eyes. And the front door, in daylight, was a sharper yellow than egg yolk.

  So it was his house. It seemed to be. He liked bright colours, orange cases, yellow door, peacock blue car. Because she was in the car she wasn’t wearing the scarf, the long coat and the sunglasses. She drove round again, slowly this time, on his side of the road. And saw just inside the rear window of his car his small carryon case. His orange carry-on case.

  That told her all she needed to know. He lived there. It was his house. All she had to do now was get it all back to him, the clothes – she would wash and iron his clothes – and the money. Driving away from Bristol Road, she thought of sending it by post. The post had been bad lately. Suppose the money got lost in the post? Find another way then, of getting it back. Someone at the wheel of a passing car hooted at her. What had she done? She didn’t know. Anyway, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t Lant. The driver who had hooted was in a black car. She drove into the Tesco car park and went in, pushing her trolley between the fruit and vegetable racks.

  If only I can get the money back to him, she thought, and not be seen, I will never take anything again. No, not ‘take’ – ‘steal’. Use the proper word, she told herself. I stole that money just as I stole Tom’s Walkman and Louise’s bag. But this has cured me. I will never do it again. It was funny how when you saw something unusual like his car, you soon saw others like it. She’d never before seen a car quite the colour of his but there was one in the Tesco car park, bright peacock blue.

  Driving home, she tried to think of ways to get the money back. If his car was there, he was in. If it wasn’t, he was out. That might not always be so. The car might be away being serviced or lent to a friend or in a lock-up garage somewhere. She would have to watch the house until she saw him go out. Put the money into small envelopes and once he was gone, put the envelopes through the letterbox in that yellow front door. And his clothes, neatly ironed, the yellow shirt and the red one and the orange T-shirt.