Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance

by Frances Maynard

  I was grating a block of cheese for tomorrow’s sandwiches. Primrose froze it after. The cheese skidded on the metal teeth. I rasped my knuckles. My heart was beating so fast I felt faint. I leant against the table. Theft was the painting. Must be. There wasn’t anything else to steal up there. The boardroom was practically empty, except for a big table and some spindly Scanda chairs.

  Primrose was stood in front of the store cupboard, making notes with a pencil. She looked up. ‘What is that you say, TJ? What has been stolen?’

  ‘Painting! Valuable painting.’ He looked at me. ‘The one you like, Maggsie.’

  My face was on fire. Showed I’d taken it. They’d know it was me.

  Primrose frowned. ‘How could that happen?’

  I was drowning. Louise had said it would be years before anyone found out. Probably never. There’s absolutely no risk, Maggsie. Yeah, right.

  ‘It was cut from frame.’ TJ made a slashing movement with his hand.

  My head whipped up from the cheese. Wasn’t like that, I nearly said. I was careful. I didn’t want to hurt the lady.

  Primrose tutted. ‘Too many knives about these days. But why did security not see them?’

  ‘It is inside job, director said. Is someone who works here.’ TJ paused, like in EastEnders before the end music comes on. ‘One of us.’

  I swallowed. The smell of cheese was making me want to puke. How many other people working here got a record? They’d definitely know it was me.

  ‘Police are coming. They will question everyone.’ TJ was all puffed up and important with his exciting news and me and Primrose hanging on to every word. Pretty soon he was going to feel like a burst balloon. Worse. Angry. Like I’d tricked him.

  ‘Not at lunchtime, I hope.’ Primrose moved her finger along a row of jars of spices, counting. How could she be checking what she had in when I was going to be sent down for a million years? When I was never going to be able to contact Alastair? ‘I do not want them under my feet.’

  I didn’t want them ruddy anywhere. I sucked my grazed knuckles.

  ‘A lot of fuss for a painting.’ Primrose walked over to the fridge. She walked very graceful for a bigger-built woman. Held her head up high. Funny I thought of that with all the prison stuff going through my brain. ‘I do not like those splattered things. You should not steal, but . . .’ She counted the eggs on the top shelf and made a note on a piece of paper.

  ‘No, is different painting.’ TJ’s arms were still going. ‘It is the Hammershøi, Woman Reading. It is worth half a million pounds. More, perhaps.’

  I’ve stolen half a million pounds, I thought. Felt a flicker of pride. I could see, well, imagine, Enid, in a Romanian castle, her own castle, thanks to all that money. The money I’d got for her. Frisky and full of life because of a blood transfusion from a Romanian virgin. TJ had told me about Dracula.

  Then I thought, I’m going to be sent down for life.

  The painting must have been stolen a while back, TJ announced. I tried to look surprised.

  ‘Stupid I not notice myself,’ TJ banged his chest. ‘But I have not been inside room for weeks.’

  It was only today someone sitting opposite it had noticed something wrong. ‘Danish man.’ TJ nodded. ‘Had seen other Hammershøi paintings before.’

  Pity this Danish know-all hadn’t ruddy kept it to himself. Snooty git had thought the colours were too bright. Spotted a little gap between the painting and the frame. Up close he saw it was a photocopy stuck in.

  ‘Spray-mounted!’ I burst out. I done a good job. No one else had noticed. ‘Most like,’ I added quickly. I was losing it.

  TJ and Primrose stared at me. The cheese slipped out my hands again. ‘That’s what you said earlier. Spray-mounted.’ I bent my head. Kept my eyes down. Normally I’d have stared back.

  ‘Yes, you are right. Spray-mounted.’ TJ paused, went on, ‘This man, important client, slapped Mr Holstrom on the back. Said, was joke I think, Mr Holstrom could not afford real thing.’

  Mr Holstrom was the big boss. The one that had shook my hand the first day. The one that wore jeans. The one you could be stood next to, mouthing off, and you wouldn’t realize. A couple of weeks ago he’d come down to the kitchen to praise our high standard of food and cleanliness. My face had gone bright red. Primrose had pulled me to her, laughing. Said I should be proud not embarrassed. Only it was shame, as well as embarrassment.

  Primrose shook her head. Turned back to the fridge to see what she had left in there to make soup with. How could she think about soup when my whole future was going down the pan?

  Mr Holstrom called a meeting. The canteen was the only place that had room for everybody. He stood by the chilled section, next to the sandwiches. Primrose had nudged me to the front because I was smaller. Thanks, Primrose. I stuck my hands in my overall pockets. Hard to stand there in the front with your heart thumping. Like being in the headmaster’s office all over again. Worse, because Mr H was a nice bloke who’d given me a chance. Worser, because it was me that had done it.

  Mr H was disappointed a trusted employee had stolen from a company that prided itself on its good treatment of staff. A painting that was the star of Scanda’s art collection. A well-known, distinctive painting that would be difficult to sell. My blood ran cold. Why hadn’t Louise told me that?

  He spoke without looking at us. Stared over our heads. Said the police would be speaking to everybody, but his office door was always open.

  For snitching, I thought. TJ had looked at me funny when I’d said about the spray-mounting. Hadn’t guessed, had he? No, he couldn’t have. But if he had, would he tell on me? Have to, because of being a Catholic? They had to confess stuff every month even if they hadn’t done anything.

  ‘Thank you, colleagues,’ Mr Holstrom finished. I couldn’t breathe properly till I was back through the swing doors.

  At break I shot a look through the boardroom door. The far wall was empty. Frame and photocopy gone. The empty space was bare. Reminded me of a prison wall.

  Where was the Woman Reading? By rights she should be off saving Enid’s life. If it was hard to sell, what had Louise done with it? My belly was burning with the stress of it. What the hell was Louise doing?

  39

  Woman’s World, 5 December 2018

  How You Too Can Take Control!

  I woke with a start, heart racing. Two a.m. on my phone. Something had come to me while I was asleep. TJ had said they’d sent away six months’ worth of CCTV footage. A camera I’d never spotted was trained on the revolving door. So they’d find out exactly when the painting had been taken. Who’d taken it. They’d see me struggling to keep hold of it. Mike might even remember me dropping the newspaper. Might take them a couple of weeks but then . . .

  Trudie was snoring next door. Got so I couldn’t focus on anything else. I threw back the candlewick bedspread. Got up and looked out of the window. All there was to see was the pool of light under the streetlamp and the darkness all around. Not a soul about, even though this was London. I was dying for a fag. Took a couple of deep breaths, o-u-t, then got back into bed, shivering. I was going to get sent down. Knew it in my water.

  I stared into the darkness. Felt small and on my own. I was small and on my own. I still hadn’t heard from Enid. The dragging feeling of it already being too late for her came over me again. Might have risked everything for nothing.

  I’d trusted Louise – well, not trusted, put blind faith in her poshness and education. That they’d make things go right. Thought she was as fond of Enid as I was.

  I’d thought ticking off the calendar regular showed I was getting better at long-term thinking. But I’d been reckless to trust Louise.

  Lying bitch, saying her plan was foolproof. Soon as I’d handed over the painting she’d backtracked on when Enid would get her money. Might even have sold it, kept the money herself! Spent it on diving holidays, designer clothes. Or found out she couldn’t sell it and kept it stuck up on her wall. Either way s
he’d used me.

  The bedclothes got untucked with me thrashing about. Then I was freezing. I put the light on. Picked up this week’s Woman’s World. Ripped out an advert for reclining chairs. Tore it into shreds. Imagined it was Louise’s suede jacket. I was properly worked up now.

  Sod Snappy. Sod psychology.

  I picked up my phone. Sod Louise telling me not to contact her for security reasons. She’d contact me, she’d said. Yeah, right. Sod my text beeping her in the middle of the night.

  I worded it careful. No point in signposting myself:

  They know the lady is not who she shoud be. Are you helping Enid now?

  I even remembered there was a silent ‘k’ in front of ‘no’ and a silent ‘w’ at the end. Shoud didn’t look right but who cares about impressing a con artist?

  Nearly two hundred people worked for Scanda Solutions. A lot of people for the police to question. A waste of their ruddy time, seeing as it was me. They were in a room on the top floor. The door was closed but you could see a cop, with his hat off, sat behind a table through the glass bit. Every time I walked past my innards turned to water.

  Things were closing in on me.

  Scanda had given me a chance and I’d blown it. People had said I’d done all the right things, had a cool head, was amazing, very efficient, and I’d proved them wrong.

  No option but to do a runner. Nothing to stay for. The supported house felt like prison. Scruffy, noisy, all us girls squabbling over petty things. Them kicking up a stink when I woke them early, pacing about. At least I didn’t snore. Had to keep a hold of myself so I didn’t fly at them. So much for us being a team, like Ruby beamed about sometimes.

  Audrey was about the only comfort I had left. When I patted my lap now she jumped straight up. Once, when Juice’s back was turned, she’d helped herself to one of her yogurts. Hooked it out with her paw. Don’t tell me cats aren’t clever. Scarpering would mean leaving her behind.

  TJ? Running off would save him turning against me. I saw him looking puzzled, running his big hand over his bristly hair. His smile dying.

  He probably still had a thing for old Sofa anyway. He’d probably forgive her playing away. Drop his divorce thing. Go back to Poland. When he found out what I’d done he wouldn’t want anything more to do with me.

  He’d thought I was like he was, someone going onwards and upwards. He’d thought I was improving myself. Seizing opportunities left, right and centre.

  I was. Well, I had been. Been doing it for Alastair. But what was the point now? Never going to be able to contact him now, was I? Not from prison. That was another thing to run away from. That was the worst thing.

  What had been the point of all that struggling? Avoiding booze? I might as well have been out of it every ruddy day. My calendar, all those wasted ticks I’d been so pleased about? All those packed tube journeys to Scanda, the hours on my feet, the baggy overall. The hours I’d spent looking up words, writing them down. Even taming Audrey had been for nothing now I was going to abandon her. All of it a bloody waste of time.

  I was on edge the whole time. Smoking like a chimney. Trying not to snap at people, or to murder anybody who knocked into me or walked too slow. Even Aud’s miaowing got on my nerves. She put a lot of expression into it. Mostly it was to do with demanding a pilchard, but I could hear, Oh no! and What now? as well.

  When I wasn’t tetchy, I was a zombie through not sleeping. I didn’t have much to say to TJ. Wasn’t interested in the Metro. Couldn’t concentrate.

  Friday fag break he put down the sports pages. Breathed out his fruity-flavoured steam. Rested his e-cig on the bench-arm.

  ‘You so quiet, Maggsie. You have problem? Family problem? Your friend Enid is bad, yes?’

  ‘Enid is good,’ I snapped. ‘A good person. If you mean, is she ill, she’s got cancer, remember.’

  ‘Yes. It is worry for you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sucked in a great lungful of smoke. Breathed it out over London. Fogged over its opportunities. My only one was prison.

  Booze was calling to me. An ice-cold pack of Stella would take away all my worries. I’d looked round the drinks aisle in the Co-op yesterday. I’d avoided it all year, practically. Stopped thinking about it. Now I was drawn to it again. Let’s face it, drink was all I had left.

  The police had interviewed the managers and the arty types. They were on the first floor now. Then it was the ground floor: Reception, the furniture showroom and security.

  Next floor down was the basement. My floor.

  I only had a couple of days of freedom left. And not exactly freedom, seeing as I was stuck with the same old brain. It went over and over what Louise had done. Got me worked up. Told me how stupid I’d been. Bet you’re thinking the same.

  Saturday morning Ruby brought in the post. All smiles, rosy face, bright eyes. Just come in on her bike. She’d done a really good time, she said. Who ruddy cared?

  ‘Don’t give me no bills.’ Big Shirl heaved herself up from the only kitchen chair with arms.

  ‘There’s a postcard for you, Maggsie. Pretty stamp.’

  Ruby handed me a card with a picture of a lake surrounded by pine trees. I turned it over. Enid’s writing. Enid’s name at the bottom. I stared at it.

  Enid was still alive.

  Hello dear, I’m here, in Romania.

  Enid was well. Enid was out. Enid was doing the thing she’d dreamt of doing all these years.

  I’m all clear now, ducks. No further treatment. Just a yearly check-up.

  I sat down. Enid was OK. She’d got better. She’d got better without those special drugs you couldn’t get on the NHS. The drugs I’d stolen the painting to buy.

  It had all been one big con.

  I’d thought Louise was taking her time, might be keeping the money for herself. Or keeping the painting. Never thought she’d use Enid’s cancer to trick me.

  I’d put everything on the line. For nothing. No: much, much worse than nothing. I was heading for prison. Alastair was just a pipe dream now.

  Now you’re definitely thinking how stupid I’ve been. I know you are. Why didn’t she ask Ruby about breast cancer drugs, google it herself? Check the whole thing out with Enid? Why did she let herself get taken for a mug by an ex-con? Just because she got a posh voice and a stately home and a degree stuck up on the wall?

  I should have. Of course I should. I do know that. Yeah, Louise had been rushing me and I was worried about Enid, but I still should have questioned things.

  Don’t say you’ve never got anything wrong, though, because I bet you have. Maybe stuff you don’t even know about yet. Could happen to anybody. Didn’t mean I was thick. Meant I was gullible, like I said before. I’d put gullible in my personal spelling dictionary. Too late now. I remembered a seagull snatching a chip off me in Skeggie. Years ago. Easily tricked or fooled, gullible means. Yeah, that was me. My mind flashed back to another time, another ‘friend’. A night when I’d been hoisted through a skylight. And that dog flap. Yeah, I was hard as nails, gave as good as I got, but none of that protected you against being conned.

  I sat there holding Enid’s postcard. Felt a flash of guilt because the first thing I’d thought wasn’t, Thank God, Enid’s OK, but, F–ing hell, that bitch has done me over!

  Ruby breezed off to the office.

  ‘What’s up with you, gel?’ Big Shirl got up to rinse out her mug. The ink from her ‘Shirley’ label had smudged and run. ‘Bad news?’

  I shook my head. Couldn’t get no words out.

  Soon as I got to my room it hit me.

  Rage.

  I grabbed my phone. Texted Louise again. You c–, you conned me. Where’s the f–cking painting? F–cking giv it bak or ill hunt you down till my dyeing day. I didn’t use dashes. I put in the actual swear words. The phone jumped in with red lines everywhere like it was a teacher. I didn’t do what it said. I threw it down on the bed.

  No reply. I snatched up the phone again. Texted her four more times. Never goi
ng to reply, was she? She’d have ditched her phone soon as she got her scabby hands on the painting. She was clever. She’d planned all this.

  I stomped around my room. Not much room for stomping. How did you keep going when your life was in ruins, when a poxy great lying cow has ruined it for you, tell me that?

  I thought about what I could do to Louise. Tear her highlighted hair out in clumps, scratch her face to ribbons, shave off her bloody eyebrows – only that would improve her. Smash up her stately home, set fire to it. Except I didn’t know where it was.

  And none of it would be enough for what she done to me. My heart was jumping out my chest. Red mist all around. Snappy cowering in my holdall.

  Being conned makes you angrier than anything else. Take it from me, because you might not have experienced it yourself. Yet. When you think about it, use psychology, it’s treating you like you don’t matter, like you’re nothing.

  Yeah, psychology was good up to a point. Couldn’t exactly ask Louise nicely to give me back the painting, though, could I? Take the blame for me at Scanda? That’s where it was limited, see.

  Yeah, she’d taken me for a mug. But I was never going to be made a mug of again.

  Seeing as she’d lost me everything, I didn’t have nothing left to lose.

  I was going to do that runner.

  Head down south.

  Kill her.

  40

  Woman’s World, 5 December 2018

  Ten Top Tips for Travelling Light

  Monday. The police had spoken to everyone on the ground floor. Tomorrow was our turn. My life had already gone for a burton. I was going to make ruddy sure Louise’s did too.

  I couldn’t go without telling TJ.

  I wrote him a letter. Harder than the ones I’d done to Enid. Even since knowing she had cancer. I poured out my heart in the letter, much as I could with the words I knew. Couldn’t concentrate on looking anything up in the dictionary. I was like a Catholic. TJ said you could do that, get stuff off your chest and the priest wasn’t allowed to tell the police.