by Tom Trott
To be clear, they didn’t ever tell me they knew, they were just keen to get me out of their place, and then they never let me stay there again. They were always busy.
So soon I needed my own place to live, and the only skill I had to pay the rent with was housebreaking. So I started in proper, and I sold my haul to a bloke known as Big Dave; because he was called Dave and he was a fat son of a bitch. I really got good at it; soon I was one of his regulars.
But one day a policeman came knocking. One of my victims had a very nosey neighbour who had seen me turn up on my moped and disappear round the back of the house. The sharp old crone had taken down the plate, and by chance a PCSO had spotted it round the back of my flat. The neighbour identified me. They fingerprinted me, and it was a match for prints found on the gate and window frame, from before I had put my gloves on. Call me stupid, but I didn’t think they’d bother to check the outside.
So I was charged, and it went to court. But at that point my legal aid lawyer managed to convince the magistrate that because my prints were only found on the outside of the house, there was really no evidence to support a charge of breaking and entering, and therefore nothing to demonstrate that I was the one who had nicked all their stuff. I had already fenced it, thank god. Once she had painted a picture of the long and costly trial this would precipitate, I was let off. I remember flinching in anticipation of the charging DI’s protestations, but he said nothing. As I was marched out of the court I watched him watching me. He was as calm as ever, his marble face regarding me as placidly as the statues in the lobby.
I had got away with my tail burnt, and I made a solemn vow to never return to that world. Never. I tried for three whole weeks to find myself a job, an honest job, but no one wanted to hire me. And I was lazy. And I didn’t really know how to do anything else.
Since having it searched by police, I had lost my flat. The landlord, who I’m pretty sure was running rent boys, didn’t want that kind of attention. I was squatting in a boarded-up shop, and I had to dig a little deeper every night to survive the creeping cold of an autumn that was far too eager to be winter. So when I heard from Juliet Camfield that her parents were spending a fortnight at their Spanish villa, I found myself riding over to theirs.
The Camfields had been one of my many foster parents, and as you can guess from anyone with a daughter named Juliet, they were quite well off. They had a house on Osborne Road, and the place looked like a fairy tale to me as the cold November rain made it through my charity shop clothes. My lazy beard was tighter knit than my scarf, and both were drenched, icy droplets clinging to my neck, making me shiver so violently I almost lost control of the bike. I really wanted to use their shower once I’d broken in, but that would leave prints everywhere, and I couldn’t do that again. Although, at least in prison they would clothe me and feed me. I would even have a mattress.
I parked my moped at the end of the road this time and ran as fast as I could to the house, soaking my thin shoes in deep puddles. The living room curtains were drawn, which I thought was odd if they were away, so I kept quiet and careful as I tiptoed down the side alley.
Peering in through the kitchen window, I could hardly see anything, but there didn’t appear to be anyone home. Everything was tidy and put away. No crumbs on the side.
Standing at the back door I pulled off my sodden fingerless gloves and pulled on a pair of cheap latex ones, then I slipped the fingerless ones back over the top. That’s how horribly affected I was. The door was just a flimsy wooden one, I could bow the frame enough to pop the bolt out just by slipping my flick knife into the gap and twisting it. There was a click, and the door popped open an inch. But I froze.
The rain pattered on the tin lid of a compost bin. The occasional car sluiced down the road. But the only sound I could hear was my better instincts echoing at the back of my skull: I shouldn’t be doing this.
Something jingled behind me. I turned and watched a ginger cat shoot out of next door’s fence, dart across the garden, and disappear again. It was so damn middle class here. Nothing bad could ever happen in this neighbourhood. I had a lot of happy memories here. Happy for me, at least, maybe not for the Camfields.
When I turned back to the house, two wide green eyes were staring at me! It was Poppy, the Camfields’ cat, her black body hidden in the reflection on the glass. Her face disappeared, then reappeared poking out the gap of the open door, cautiously studying the rain.
My better instincts were still there, but I was able to shout them down, I’d had a lot of experience at that. So I pushed Poppy back with my leg as I slipped in and shut the door behind me.
The door rattled. It probably did that before but it leant the empty house an eerie atmosphere. Still, what I wouldn’t give for a house like this. It almost made me want to cry, that longing for domesticity, for something I could never have. Not my own longing, but a longing that had been planted there by a thousand adverts and a thousand happy families. At least, happy in the windows that face the street.
Poppy curled her way between my legs, I wondered if she remembered me. I hadn’t been here since I was eight, or nine-ish, I think. Wait a minute… Poppy was ten back then, that would make her twenty-two or twenty-three? That’s not impossible for a cat, but this one didn’t look that old.
She jumped up onto the kitchen surface to try and claw at my face for attention. Then she sniffed at the butter dish on the side. She pawed at the glass lid, trying to get it off, so I picked up whatever new cat this was and put her back on the floor.
I kneeled down and stroked her. She was fussing over me like mad, I wondered who was feeding her whilst the Camfields were away. And whether they would suddenly come in the door.
As it was at the moment, the cat didn’t have any food, so I asked it, ‘Where’s your food?’
It meowed.
‘Where is it?’ I cooed in a voice that was fast becoming silly.
Amazingly it seemed to understand me and scratched at the cupboard under the sink.
I found sachets inside and squeezed one into a bowl. A thick slab of jelly and meat slopped out and the cat went to town. She tried to get her head in front of my hands whilst I was still squeezing out the last chunks, which meant she ended up with some on her head, but she didn’t seem to care.
I stood up and in the process spotted the butter again. It should really be in a cupboard at least. It should be, shouldn’t it?
I instinctively washed my fingers, which just reminded me I was wearing the latex gloves. I was here to rob the place, not feed the cat. So, I headed into the living room to see what the situation was.
I stepped into the dark, curtains-drawn living room half thinking about the butter, about why it was left on the side, but I stopped thinking the second I switched the lights on.
‘Thanks for feeding Mishka.’
The house certainly wasn’t empty. Not by a long shot. Sitting in the living room, in a semi-circle, all staring at me, were women I recognised. And one I didn’t. It was like a dream. It was difficult to place them out of context, who were these women that I knew so well? Then after what seemed like ages, but was probably only a couple of seconds, my memory dredged up the names Elaine Sweet, Shalini Navaratnam, Debra Steinicke, and the list went on. Every foster mum I had ever had. Practically. And the one other woman I didn’t recognise. This all flashed through my head in about five seconds, and then I turned back by instinct, but Rita Tiernan had shut the door behind me.
I looked to the middle of them, where Theresa Camfield was sitting on a sofa that was effectively the head of the table. It was her who had spoken.
‘There’s no need to be scared, Joe. Take a seat.’
There didn’t seem anything else to do, so I did what she suggested, sinking into a corner armchair, but all the time desperately trying to think of another way to escape. What the fuck is going on?
The living room was as tasteful as ever. A deep blue feature wall, and the rest neutral tones. A white painted firep
lace, with a pile of logs ready to be lit. On the mantelpiece various ethnic-knacks collected from travels to poorer parts of the world in a form of postmodern colonialism. And there was art on the walls. Not photographs, art. That’s how you knew they were posh.
Theresa was a stocky woman, very outdoorsy. They owned a horse that was stabled up near Steyning. That sort of family. City jobs, but if you met them on holiday you’d think they lived in a country village somewhere. She was the sort of woman who could break a finger, strap it up, and not visit the doctor for three days. She had a ruddy complexion, and a big hearty laugh. But she wasn’t laughing now. Everyone was very serious.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
‘A beer would great,’ I said.
She was momentarily motionless, she hadn’t been offering alcohol. She didn’t approve of alcohol outside of a special occasion. Not even on a wet evening like this. But then she nodded to Rita who headed into the kitchen.
My earliest memory is Rita picking me up under my arms and carrying me to the toilet. I had shit my pants, which was all I was wearing, and she calmly carried me to the loo. I was about three or four. When I remember it, I remember seeing myself, seeing her carry me, as though I was someone else. Maybe I didn’t remember it, maybe it was just my imagined version of something I was told. But in my imagined memory she was always lovely. She was my first mother, everything that had defined a mother for me, and therefore perfect. I think I loved her. But then her husband developed Parkinson’s, and she had made a vow to look after him first, so I was jettisoned. He died a few years later. It was a traumatic time, but I was lucky to learn at five something that a lot of people only learn when it’s too late: when things get tough, the only person who puts me first is me.
I heard the sound of a bottle being opened, and then it arrived in my left hand. I kept my eyes on Theresa even whilst I took a swig.
‘I guess you’re wondering what all this is about?’ she asked.
I didn’t answer. I don’t like games.
‘We have obviously set this up.’
‘You mean this isn’t your book club?’ I joked.
They weren’t amused, they were too tense. Plus it wasn’t that witty, but I was younger then and I hadn’t developed my best material yet.
‘I told Juliet to tell you we were going away,’ she continued. I had figured that out already.
‘Did you tell her to fuck me?’ All their eyes shot open. ‘Or was that just a perk.’ It was a horrible thing to say, I know that. But like I said: eleven years ago I was a dickhead.
Theresa bit her lip, thrown off by my vulgarity, so I decided to move us on myself:
‘This is about her.’ I nodded my head in the direction of the one I didn’t recognise.
‘What makes you think that?’ Theresa asked.
‘The only thing that connects you all is me, and I don’t know who she is.’
The other mothers shared an impressed look.
Theresa just nodded. ‘I said you were the man for the job.’
The woman I didn’t recognise was middle-aged and South Asian, and she had her hair and neck covered. I had lived with the Navaratnams, but they were Sri Lankan, and were Christian, so I didn’t have much to go on, but I guessed she was Muslim, and to my very untrained eye she looked Pakistani. Brighton has an even higher proportion of white people than the country as a whole, so unfortunately she rather stuck out in the room, despite Mrs Navaratnam being there; after all, as one of my foster mums she had become part of life’s furniture.
I addressed her directly: ‘I don’t remember burgling you.’
They were less impressed now. The woman just looked to Theresa.
She shifted in her seat. ‘Funny you should mention that. You went to court a few weeks ago, didn’t you? How did that go?’
I raised my arms in some sort of shrug. ‘I’m a free man, aren’t I?’
‘I’m glad to see that. Where are you living at the moment?’
I didn’t answer, and just took a swig of my beer instead. It was generic. The sort that comes in big crates for dads and husbands who aren’t allowed off down the pub anymore.
Theresa had taken off her watch and was slapping her hand with it. Out of frustration, I guess.
‘Fine, let’s get the point, shall we? You’ve always been a bit too smart for your own good, Joe.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t mean clever. I don’t mean intelligent either, or knowledgeable. Just smart.’
‘Cheers,’ I drawled.
‘Add to that, breaking into places. Asking awkward questions. Saying awkward things. Knowing all the wrong people. That makes you the person we need right now. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t true.’
‘I believe you.’
I took out a cigarette, one of my thin roll-ups, and lit it. I kept a Zippo lighter rather than using the cheap disposable ones. I guess I thought it was cool. It was a bit cool.
‘I don’t like people smoking in my house,’ Theresa blurted.
‘It’s my very subtle way of telling you to hurry up. If you’re quick your house won’t smell of smoke and I won’t drop ash on your cream carpet.’
‘Fine. There’s not a subtle way of putting this—’
‘Good,’ I interrupted.
‘Krishma here, helps with Juliet and me in the Children’s Parade—’
‘Lovely.’
‘Her daughter’s been kidnapped!’ she shouted. Then she calmed down a bit.
I just took a drag on my cigarette.
‘Ok?’ She brandished her eyebrows at me. ‘Do you understand what we want you to do?’
I took a moment to look at them all. What did they think I was, a P.I.?
‘I thought you were going to ask me to break in somewhere.’
‘What would we want with that?’ she asked witheringly.
‘I wouldn’t want to know.’
I took in some more carcinogens and then I looked between them all. What did they want? This woman’s daughter had been abducted. So call the police. I didn’t remember reading about a missing girl, and I saw a lot of newspapers. Often they were my bed linen.
I studied Theresa, her tough face like an overcooked ham. She was the only mother who had ever smacked me. And only once. I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, just outside this room, refusing to put my shoes on. She was stressed, I was insufferable. And she smacked me. It was wrong, but I put my shoes on. It took all my strength not to cry as I laced them up. Good practice. Another lesson learnt. I saw this one from outside as well, I could watch it happen, no longer happening to me.
Apart from that, Theresa had always been lovely. She became even more lovely after that, because of the guilt no doubt. But it was no good. I was trapped in that moment, the split second after the slap. As the red mark spread on my skin and my nerves fired. The shock. The pain. The betrayal. It was permanent.
This was a dream. My mothers sitting in judgement of me, of the things I had done. As though it was my fault! I was everything they had made me.
What the hell was going on? I could get by without being thrown random errands by this lot.
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘We’ll pay you,’ Theresa said.
‘I should hope so. But I’ll still pass, thanks.’
I downed the end of the bottle and stood up, cigarette stuck to my lip. ‘Thanks for the beer,’ then I nodded to them all, ‘mothers.’
‘If you leave I’ll call the police.’
They seemed as shocked as I was. I stared at Theresa with a patronising expression, but it slowly faded. She wasn’t bluffing. I had come here to rob her. I had broken in. Second time, how lucky could I be?
I slumped back down into the chair.
She didn’t say anything, she just raised her eyebrows at me. At the stuck cigarette.
I posted the lit rollup into the empty bottle where it hissed and died, and locked onto her gaze.
‘Tell me about this fucki
ng girl.’
4
Good People, Bad Habits
after the press conference I headed back to my flat. Half of my mind was trying to figure out what angle to take, the other half was writing cheques I couldn’t cash. About a hundred thousand pounds worth.
The money would be great, there was no point in denying it, but I had better reasons. Clarence was right: the whole situation was bad. And now her parents had turned their little girl into a golden ticket.
I re-read the papers to try and pick out the facts beneath the noise, but no one gets their news from the newspapers anymore so they’ve stopped printing it. They’re nothing but speculation and provocative opinions, which not even the writer believes. It was all offal when I needed meat.
The only lead I had was the one everyone had: a blue van. If that was the way she was going to be found, it would be the police that found her. They had the manpower, ranks of men at their command. I had one tired, grouchy one, who didn’t want to wear out his shoes or spend all his petrol money traipsing from address to address checking every blue van in the city.
No, if fate wanted me to find her, I would find her a different way.
There were still a couple of panda cars sitting outside, if pandas are silver with blue and yellow checks now. I guessed there would be a permanent presence inside the house, some sympathetic female officer to reassure them that everything would be ok. Or if things looked bad, just that they were doing everything they could. There were also a couple of other cars loitering, I guessed they were hacks. In some ways I was surprised there weren’t more, but that said there was nowhere to park, and the places you could park were extortion.
Their house was opposite a block of flats and it had a little bit of tarmac out the front. I planted my Honda there and sat down next to it. Occasionally I would kneel down to make it look like I was servicing it, or cleaning it, or something, keeping my helmet on.
I studied their house, now I could see it without a crowd in front. There was nothing on the outside to say what kind of family they were; no “beware of the dog”, no pile of wellies in the porch, no scummy tricycle in the front garden. Nothing in the front garden but shingle and a few smart, well behaved plants. It looked like a set, a studio backlot. Everything except the “#VoteRemain” poster forgotten about, or not forgotten about, in an upstairs window.