I tap the number into my phone in any case and then continue to eye newcomers until the bus arrives opposite Crosstown Supermarket. I make the call after crossing the road. It’s all, ‘press one for this, press two for that’, which is, presumably, to make someone lose hope in humanity before they ever get to talk to an actual person. I’m sitting on the low wall outside the staff entrance when I finally hear a real voice. It’s then that I realise I’m not sure what to ask about and find myself waffling about CCTV on buses and whether the footage is stored.
I’m suddenly part of the green-ink brigade. I can imagine the person on the other end of the line drawing a circle with his finger around his ear. The universal symbol for ‘loony’.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he replies. ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking.’
‘There are CCTV cameras on your buses,’ I reply. ‘I was wondering if you keep the footage, or if you delete it.’
There’s a pause, which somehow seems very loud. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’ he says.
‘I was on the number 24 bus on Friday and I was wondering if I could have a look at the camera footage.’
It’s only as I say the words that I realise how mad it all sounds.
There’s another pause, longer this time. The handler is probably wondering if this is some sort of wind-up.
‘I take the same bus every day,’ I add, nonsensically.
He replies with a bit of a cough and then: ‘Was there some sort of incident, ma’am…?’
It takes me a second to realise he’s asking if there was a crime.
‘There was this man,’ I say. ‘We said hello, but I didn’t ask for his number. I was hoping to run into him on the bus today, but he wasn’t there. I was hoping that you might be able to help me ID him…?’
I’m one of those people who are excellent after a crisis. When it comes to thinking on the spot, to sounding plausible when needed, I’m a joke.
There is another, far lengthier, pause. It’s agonising and I know I must sound like some sort of desperate stalker. This is what it’s come to. First there was online dating, then Tinder, now stalking people on public transport. There’s nothing lower.
‘I don’t think I can help,’ the poor man says.
‘I can pay.’
It comes from nowhere. It’s suddenly my default answer to everything – buying myself out of trouble.
There’s more silence, then a shuffling and then the voice replies much lower this time. ‘I guess I might be able to do something,’ he says. ‘It might take a day or two.’
He asks about which bus I was on, what time, roughly where I was located and whether I was sitting or standing. I answer all his questions, almost through politeness. After that, he takes my phone number and says he’ll call back if he comes up with anything.
By the time the line goes dead, my chest is hammering once more. It’s partly through embarrassment but also because I wonder if the images that might come will show whoever dropped the envelope in my bag. I suppose this is how the world really works. Money gets people what they want.
When I get into the staff changing rooms, Daff is already there. She talks about how she was bladdered on Saturday night, which is reason enough for avoiding work nights out. We don’t talk about money, but I do wonder how people afford it all. Even if I wanted to be an alkie, I couldn’t afford it.
I’m about to head towards the checkout when the manager, Jonathan, waves me across. He’s always in a suit and shuffles around the supermarket, permanently looking as if he’s lost something. Despite that, he’s also the type who’s stacked the odd shelf in his time. I’ve seen him do aisle clean-ups while still in his jacket. He’s always been fair to me, allowing me to skip shifts at short notice when Billy has been ill.
‘Can I have a word?’ he asks. His features are stony, which isn’t entirely rare.
I follow him into his office, which is a windowless room at the very back of the store, next to the toilets. I doubt anyone dreamed of this sort of thing as a boy – not that working on a checkout is the stuff of which dreams are made, either.
He sits behind his desk and cathedrals his fingers into one another to form a triangle. The room is cold and it’s hard not to shiver as I sit.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’ he says.
My stomach knots. The money from the envelope is his and now he wants it back. How can I explain everything I’ve spent?
‘Like what?’ I reply, somehow keeping my voice level.
He twists his monitor around and taps the space bar. A video starts to play and it now seems so stupid, so obvious, that I can’t believe I did it in the first place.
The dirty-haired girl from the other day steps around the security barrier at the small door by the magazines and leaves the store. She cradles her baby in one arm and the stolen shopping in the other. There’s a second in which she gazes back to the camera and then time is frozen.
‘Like this,’ Jonathan says.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s stick or twist time, I guess.
‘I don’t know what you’re asking,’ I say. I’m like a kid with chocolate around her mouth, telling her mum that she hasn’t raided the Easter Eggs hidden under the bed.
‘Three bags of nappies,’ Jonathan begins, ‘four packets of noodles, a bag of oats, a bottle of lotion, formula and rusks. That’s what she carried out of the store, and yet her receipt shows something quite different from that. Would you care to explain?’
There is no explanation, of course. There will be footage of me passing items over the scanner while covering the barcode, more still of the girl wheeling the nappies past me on her trolley and then moving them, unpaid, into her shopping bag.
‘It’s not the first time, is it?’ Jonathan adds.
He’s watching me, trying to make eye contact, but I can’t match him. I stare at the floor and my throat has swelled to such a degree that it feels like I’m trying to gulp down a whole melon. There’s no point in arguing because he knows. Of course he knows. I try to speak, but all that emerges is a croak.
‘You can continue to lie,’ he says, ‘and I’ll call the police right now.’
He reaches for the phone on his desk, but I get there first, grabbing for the receiver and accidentally knocking it off the desk. There’s a clatter of plastic and wire as it tumbles and Jonathan reaches to pick it up.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Please don’t call them.’
Jonathan spends a few seconds detangling the cord and then replaces the phone on the holder. ‘Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.’
I glance around the room, searching for anything that might help, while still trying to avoid his eyes. There are certificates on the walls showing Jonathan’s qualifications, plus more from when we won third place at the Grocer of the Year awards. It was a big upset considering all the larger companies involved and everyone got one hundred pounds as thanks. Mine went on paying off the interest on my debts.
‘She had a baby,’ I say, nodding at the girl on the monitor. ‘And she was so thin herself. I knew she couldn’t afford it, and…’ I tail off. What is there to say?
‘How many times have you done something like this?’
I was wrong. Now is the time to stick or twist.
‘Not often,’ I say quietly, still staring at the floor. ‘Now and then. The odd item. Never for me.’
It’s the truth. I’ve never once stolen food or anything else from this place for me. It’s also true that the girl with the baby wasn’t the first person for whom I’ve passed items over the scanner, or ignored the odds and ends on the bottom of a trolley. I can see the despair in people’s faces sometimes.
‘That’s not really the point,’ Jonathan says.
‘No…’
He motions for the phone but not in any serious way. ‘Tell me why.’
I look up at him, finally meeting his gaze. ‘Because I know what it’s like to budget,’ I say. ‘Things go wro
ng. I’ve missed meals because I’d rather my dog eats. He sometimes needs things at the vet, too. In the choice of him or me, I always choose him.’ I take a breath and wave a hand towards the rest of the supermarket. ‘I see it in other people, too. When they have to put back items, or when coupons don’t work. I know they’ve got kids and that they’re going to miss meals themselves.’
Jonathan turns away first. He focuses on the third-place Grocer of the Year certificate. It’s strange the things of which we are proudest. What counts as a success for one person is a chronic failure for another. Companies report billions in profit, but it’s a disaster because they made slightly more the quarter before.
‘It’s still stealing,’ Jonathan says, more quietly.
‘I know. I’ll pay you back, I’ll—’
‘How will you do that?’ He turns to me and his eyes are like ice. ‘I know what you make.’
I shrink into my seat, unable to speak.
There’s a long, awkward silence and I can only think that I seem to bring out the worst in people. I wonder if people go to prison for this, or if it’s just community service? Would there be a fine? And, if so, how does it make sense to fine a person who steals minor items from a supermarket? Surely that person is stealing because they’re short of money?
Jonathan sighs again and then turns back to me. ‘I’m not a monster,’ he says softly. ‘I know that people complain about me in the back. I’m the boss and it’s all fine.’ He bites his lip and puffs out a small breath once more. ‘But this is still a crime. I should call the police. If I don’t, I can’t make any sort of insurance claim.’
He pauses and glances to the photo of him and his wife. It’s as if time has stopped. I’m holding my breath and it feels like my life is in his hands. Turn left and the police show up; turn right and…
Jonathan shakes his head. It’s barely a movement, but it’s enough. ‘I’m not going to do any of that,’ he says – and I can finally exhale. ‘I’m going to have to fire you. I know you’ve been here two years and I don’t really want to train someone new, but I don’t have much of a choice.’
He sounds so reluctant, so sorry, that I almost reach forward to comfort him. I start nodding along, agreeing my firing is fine.
‘Of course,’ I say. Somehow, I didn’t see this coming, although it’s predictable. Who expects to steal and then not be fired?
‘I need your key,’ he says, reaching across the desk.
It’s as if I’m watching myself as I take the keys from my bag and unloop the one that opens the door to the staffroom. My thumb gets caught in the metal hoop and I give a little gasp before tugging it clear. Jonathan waits with his palm extended and I drop the key into it. It’s only then that I notice I’m shaking.
‘Is there anything in your locker?’ he asks.
‘Only clothes.’
‘I’d like you to go to the staffroom, change and leave your uniform in the locker,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you in and wait outside.’
It’s like some sort of death march as I loop around the edge of the store to get back to the changing area. I can sense Jonathan behind me, matching my pace, not letting me get too far ahead in case I do something mad like make a run for it. When we arrive, he unlocks the door and then I re-enter the area I left a short while before. Life was different then. I had a job. I wasn’t a confessed thief.
The room is empty and I take off my uniform, then hang it up. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and look at myself. Look at what I’ve become. I can see my ribs and the boniness of my hips. There are bags under my eyes and a few threads of grey around my ears. I’m only thirty.
I’m a zombie as I put my own clothes back on. It’s not the best job and I’ve never been sure if I actually liked it. It was hardly a career choice and yet, for two years, this has been my life. Sometimes, it’s felt like this is all I’ve had. It’s been regular money, regular hours. People who, if not friends, know my name. What will Daff and the rest think now?
There’s a moment in which it feels as if my legs can’t support me any longer and then I am sitting on the bench staring at myself. That’s my life changed in an instant. It’s hard to take in the enormity of it all and I reach for my bag, fingering the envelope within, wanting the comfort it gives.
When I manage to leave the changing room, I find Jonathan standing outside. He’s staring past me and motions towards the staff exit at the back. I take the hint and move past him towards it.
‘What will you tell the others?’ I ask.
He scratches his head and our roles have reversed. It’s now him who cannot look at me. ‘Just leave,’ he says.
I hover for a second – but only that – and then I’m gone. The door clangs closed behind me, echoing out into the breeze of the car park. It feels as if everything has changed.
I’ve been fired for being a thief.
There isn’t a better way to dress it up than that. What will I do now?
I set off in an aimless meander across the tarmac, which is when I spot the red anorak. I think it’s a flapping carrier bag at first; so bright against the grey that it’s impossible to miss.
There’s a figure sitting on a bench next to a taxi rank. Even from a distance, I know who it is. I knew when I saw her in the park two days ago. I drift across the car park towards her and then change my mind – because she is unquestionably watching me.
Ben’s mother, Melanie, glares across the car park and the chill that surges through me is nothing to do with the weather. I’d not seen her in years and now it’s twice in three days. Could she have set me up with Jonathan? How could she have known I’d go for the girl’s silent sob story? It’s not as if she asked for me to let her walk out with free goods. And yet, at one of my lowest moments, here Melanie is.
I stop, unsure what to do with myself, and then skirt away from the bench. I tuck my head into my jacket, clasp my bag tighter and stride to the bus stop.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m on the number 24 bus when Unknown rings my phone again. I answer but there’s nobody there. I hadn’t expected there to be. I stare at the blank screen, numb from everything that’s happened in the past hour.
I google phone hang-ups, but all the internet has to say is that call centres are probably responsible. Something about auto-dialling and then not having enough staff to take the calls. I put my phone on silent and drop it into my bag.
Billy is confused when I get home. He’s on the farthest side of the flat, apparently amusing himself with one of his cuddly toys. I like the idea of him playing while I’m away; that he’s not desperately lonely by himself. When I get home, he usually flings himself at me and is full of licks and affection. Now, he stands and stares, as if to say he was quite happy by himself, thank you very much.
He tilts his head to the side and I give him a rub, before laying down a little more of his doggy cake. He doesn’t complain at that.
As he eats, I get on the new laptop and start looking for jobs. I’m no snob, but it’s hard when everywhere wants experience, even for some of the lowliest positions. I could go for a job at a different supermarket – but how could I explain what I’ve been doing for two years? I don’t think Jonathan will be giving me much of a reference.
The KFC on the retail park wants junior cashiers, or kitchen staff – but the salary is less than I earn now. There’s also something about being surrounded by people almost half my age that I know will drive me to despair.
I search around to see if anyone is looking for bar staff, even though I’m not sure if it’s a job I could manage. There’s nothing online, but it’s not that kind of work anyway. I’d be better off going door to door and asking. I half think about doing it, but then realise the hours would mean leaving Billy by himself in the evening. We have a routine.
Had a routine.
I watch as he sniffs the plate he’s already cleared and then saunters off to the cabinet below the one in which his cake is stored. He looks between me and the close
d door mournfully and then sits. His tail flicks across the lino floor as he continues to stare.
‘Later,’ I tell him and it’s as if he understands.
He potters across the floor and then takes a spot on the other side of the room from me. His lids are half-closed, but he’s watching with treachery in his eyes. I’ve kept his cake from him; I’ve denied him his time alone – therefore I am, temporarily, the enemy.
I go back to job-hunting and look up a couple of agencies. They only seem to have factory work on offer, which specifically states ‘shift work’. It’ll mean early mornings, late nights, or overnights. That’s more disruption to the life I’ve built. If I’m on lates, how will I cope with fitting my university course into the morning? How will Billy cope?
It’s hard to understand why I did what I did at the supermarket. I felt sorry for the girl – but does that mean I should have allowed her to steal? I risked so much and now I’ve got my comeuppance. At the time, I was grateful Jonathan didn’t call the police but now it is sinking in how much I’ve lost.
My thoughts are invaded by the ringing of my phone and another call from Unknown. I should ignore it – it probably is a call centre – but I can’t stop myself.
‘Leave me alone!’ I shout into the phone. ‘Stop calling me.’
There’s a pause and then a cough from the other end. ‘Is that Lucy Denman?’ a woman’s voice asks. She’s tentative, which isn’t surprising considering I’ve just shouted at her.
‘Yes…’ I reply. ‘Sorry about that, I—’
‘This is Gloria,’ she says. ‘You probably won’t remember me, but my husband, Kevin, was on the train.’
I’m so surprised that the best I can manage is a weak, ‘Oh…’
‘Are you coming to the memorial tomorrow?’ she asks, not missing a beat.
There are a few seconds in which I have no idea how to respond. I met a lot of people in the months after Ben died. There were faceless officials, lawyers, journalists – and then the other women and men who’d also lost loved ones on the train. I was one of them at first. Then I became the fraud because they would talk of love and loss and I couldn’t see past the lies.
A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 9