Something Wicked Page 14

  “Just make me a promise, Ritchie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This really will be our last job ever.”

  “It will be,” he said.

  “Because after the trouble at the golf club, I didn’t feel good, Ritchie. The wrong people got hurt. I want to stop it, stop taxing.”

  “So do I.” Then he reached out and stroked my hair. He said. “I love you, Anna.”

  “I love you too,” I replied.

  “And all I want is for us to have a normal life, and just be together, and after all this, we will. Just you and me. And I’ll come here and you can introduce me to your mum. And we’ll just go and see films and stuff, and we can go to college. We’ll have a life, a proper life.”

  I nodded furiously.

  “Just one more job,” he said. “Our last one. Ever.”

  And so, fast-forward to the next Friday – it’s hard to believe all this happened just a few weeks ago. But like I said, I had a bad feeling about what Ritchie wanted to do, right from when he first mentioned it at my house until that Friday morning, when I was walking down St Edward’s Close. It’s a new estate in Burnham. I can remember them building it. All the houses have double garages and the further down the cul-de-sac you get, the larger the houses become.

  I had to remind myself why I had agreed to come in on this. It was only because I thought Ritchie needed me. I even had the idea that once we had got inside I could dissuade him from taking anything, and we could go away with our hands clean and start afresh. Our hands clean. That’s funny. I was dressed as a cleaner. I chose some cheap jeans specially and I borrowed a sweater from Mum. I thought cleaners dressed like that. I don’t really know as we’ve never had a cleaner.

  Maybe the bad feelings came from the fact I didn’t sleep much the night before. I was tossing and turning and having those dreams when you actually think you’re awake and then something bizarre happens, and you still think it’s real. Even when you wake up you still think it could have happened, and you have to work out bit by bit that you dreamed it.

  But I’m going off the subject. I was heading for Number Thirteen. Thirteen, St Edward’s Close. It turned out to be right at the end of the street, a brand-new house built of honey-coloured bricks with white paintwork. It was massive. A semi-circular flight of steps led up to the front door. But I knew to go round the side, as that was the way the cleaner came in every other day.

  Ritchie and I had been through this over and over again. In my pocket I had a copy of the keys. Ritchie was vague about how he’d got them, but it was through this friend of his mum’s. Apparently Wendy knew nothing about it. I also had the digits 2387 etched in my brain – that was the security code for the burglar alarm. I was to let myself in, making out as if I was the regular cleaner. Once inside, I was to turn the radio on in the kitchen as that was what the normal cleaner always did.

  It was lucky it was half term and Mum was back at work. Obviously this was a job we had to do on a weekday. Then once I was in, I would have to wait until Ritchie arrived in a van he’d borrowed from Woodsy’s dad. He would pretend to deliver a big box of something; I was to let him in, and we were going to fill it with stuff. Ritchie was going to take it back to the van and drive off. I was to wait a little longer, then let myself out. It sounded simple, and the more we went over it, the more foolproof it seemed.

  But I still had bad feelings, although I tried to hide them from Ritchie. The truth was, I just couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm I used to have for taxing. It had gone sour on me. Maybe I’d taxed just to get close to Ritchie, and now he was mine, I didn’t need to do it any more. Or maybe … that time when we taxed the bloke with the BMW, that felt final to me – as if that should have been the last time. Today felt wrong, as if we were pushing our luck. But please don’t think I’d changed overnight, and had become a goody-goody. It was more that my appetite for crime had gone. It had sickened and almost died. I made my way round the side of the house and stood there for a moment, summoning my nerve. The ordinariness of the morning struck me. The sky was blue but cloud-flecked, a plane droned above me, all was normal. I tried to pretend I was just a new cleaner, going to do my first job of the day. But it was no use. A black band of pain gripped my temple. The effort was almost too much for me.

  I tried the keys in the glass-panelled side door. In a moment I had unlocked it, and stepped into the kitchen. An insistent tone reminded me to see to the alarm. I found the panel and keyed in the numbers, then looked around me. I swore under my breath. It was magnificent. The kitchen was huge, with a free-standing cooking range in the middle. There were more units and stuff all around the perimeter, a marbled work surface and a breakfast bar with trendy little black leather stools. It was like the sort of kitchen you’d see in a magazine. The window over the sink gave a view of a huge garden with a swimming pool, covered over now. The sheer opulence of it affected me. If this all belonged to the man who’d ruined Ritchie’s life, then it didn’t seem fair. If he had the front to deny his own son, then there was some justice in our coming in and taking things.

  I remembered to look for the radio. I noticed a small TV and video player. (I thought we could take them – old habits die hard.) I saw a couple of empty wine bottles standing on a partly open dishwasher. I guessed it might be the cleaner’s job to switch it on. I located the radio – a digital radio – and played around with it until I got Funk FM. It was the “Something Old, Something New” hour. They played something contemporary and then a cheesy oldie.

  And now what? It occurred to me that while I was waiting I could actually do some cleaning, but I didn’t feel like it. It was odd, standing there in somebody else’s house without an invitation. I took off my anorak and scarf, putting them over one of the stools. I left my gloves on – Ritchie’s instructions.

  Well, I couldn’t just stand there like a lemon, so I made my way out of the kitchen to have a look around the rest of the house. I came out into the hallway. Amazing. It was like one of those houses in the movies. The hall was big enough to be a room all by itself. A door to my right was open and revealed a massive living room, and on one wall was a huge flat-screen TV like a mini-cinema. To my left was a smaller living room, with toys scattered around it, and the dining room kitted out with a long table and tall chairs with curvy backs.

  But what really got me were the stairs. They actually came down in the centre of the hall. The upstairs rooms were along a sort of gallery, with an ornamental balustrade. The staircase curved round at the bottom, echoing the shape of the staircase outside the house. I tried to imagine what it would be like, sweeping down that staircase. I didn’t know people actually lived like that.

  I made my way up the stairs, and when I got to the top, I looked down. From the kitchen I could hear that old song, Lady in Red. I tried to imagine myself in a red ball gown, or one of those slinky dresses that hug your hips but have a train at the back. So I slowly made my way back down the staircase, shimmying just a little. I imagined Ritchie waiting below to meet me, in a tuxedo, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He would whisk me off somewhere dead romantic.

  In my dreams. Because Ritch and I were just a couple of thieves. The thought was an uncomfortable one. Again I wished I was out of there. Or just that Ritchie would hurry up. I stood in the hall, willing Ritchie to ring at the door. He was going to give two short rings and then a long one. All was silent. I was far too nervous, too jumpy to keep still. Adrenaline forced me to keep moving.

  I wandered into the little living room, where the toys were. This was cosier, on a more intimate scale. There was a TV in here too, a cabinet full of ornaments, and I made a mental note that some of those would be worth a bob or two. Also, on the windowsill, was a row of framed photos. Since the window was only at the side of the house, I imagined I’d be safe going over to take a closer look.

  I picked one up. This was Ritchie’s dad, Peter, but dressed for a posh dinner, in a penguin suit. He was grinning, his hand on the shoulder of the woman i
n the picture with him – his wife. She wasn’t unlike Ritchie’s mum, Wendy. She was also blonde, thin, fragile-looking, but there the resemblance ended. She looked like she’d stepped off the pages of a magazine. Her make-up was immaculate, her dress screamed money, she looked preserved by her wealth, as if she’d bought eternal youth. I wondered how much of it was plastic surgery.

  The next picture was more informal. Here was Peter again, sitting on a long leather sofa. Snuggled up to him was a girl who looked about ten, hair in a high ponytail, clutching a Barbie doll. Next to her was a little boy, scruffy blond hair, cheeky grin. Ritchie’s half-brother. The lucky one. He had a look of Ritchie about him, but you could tell he was pampered. And there they all were again in the next picture, on some foreign-looking beach, mum in an embarrassingly tiny bikini, kids building a sandcastle, yachts moored in the distance. Then I thought of Ritchie and the flat he shared with his mum.

  Now, you’re thinking that I was beginning to come round to Ritchie’s point of view, that this crime was justified. But somehow the pictures had the opposite effect. Yes, it was all totally unfair. Ritchie was cheated. I felt more sorry for him than I can say. But I couldn’t see how what we were going to do would make things any better. Rather than proving he deserved better, by robbing his dad Ritchie was going to prove he was as worthless as his father thought.

  I jumped out of my skin as there was a thump and a pile of letters landed on the mat inside the door. I found myself retching with fear. I hadn’t realised till that point quite how scared I was. I took lots of deep breaths to calm myself. I heard the manic voice of the Funk FM DJ from the kitchen. I picked up the letters to put them on the table by the door. I looked at them. Most were for Mr Duff, some to his wife. A couple looked like birthday cards.

  My hands were hot inside my gloves: red woollen gloves that were one of last year’s Christmas presents. More than anything I wanted to take them off and wash my hands. I noticed a cloakroom off the hall and thought I would probably be safe going in there, turning on the taps with my gloved hands, waiting until the water was running nice and hot, then taking off my gloves and washing thoroughly. It would be a relief to feel the water running through my fingers, taking away the heat of fear and panic, cleansing me, purifying me. As I moved towards the cloakroom I thought I heard the doorbell ring. It was hard to tell over the music. So I darted back into the kitchen and saw someone’s outline against the frosted glass. As I got closer I could see that it was Ritchie.

  The first thing I noticed about him when I opened the door was that he’d had his head shaved again. And that he was wearing a huge grey-green parka with a hood. Also that he was carrying a large box and had a holdall dangling from one arm. He looked for all the world like someone delivering a TV. He took the box into the kitchen and I shut the door.

  “Why have you had your head shaved again?” I asked. Daft question, but it was all I could think of to say.

  “I just felt like it,” he said. He put the box down by the door and I watched his eyes stray across the room. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking earlier. Here was serious money. I followed him out into the hall to the strains of a Dido song.

  “Ritch,” I said. “What are we going to do now?”

  “Look around. Take what we want.”

  “We could just look around, and then go. It’s not too late to change our minds.” My voice was urgent.

  Ritch wasn’t looking at me. He seemed paler than usual. He shivered in his parka. Maybe he had the same bad feelings I did. I hoped so.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “No.” It was definite, final.

  I went to put my hand on his arm, and when I did, I could feel his arm tense like steel. “Leave me alone,” he said.

  I had a problem here. Ritchie was already so worked up I didn’t think he would listen to me. My instinct told me confrontation would be the worst thing right now. Instead I thought I’d normalise things, lighten up. Then maybe he would come to his senses.

  “This is some place,” I said.

  “It makes me sick,” he replied.

  “I know. That he should be so wealthy, after what you told me. I didn’t realise builders could become so wealthy. Did he build the house?”

  Ritchie wasn’t listening. He left me and went to look in the living room. I saw him focus on the pool outside the French windows. Having had his fill of that, he moved back into the hall. He began to climb the stairs. I followed him, not letting him out of my sight. Once on the landing we both saw a huge painting of Ritchie’s dad with that woman. Next to it was the master bedroom. A king-size bed was unmade, a pale pink bedspread lying on the floor. An elaborate dressing table was loaded with bottles and brushes. Ritchie walked over to it and picked up a small box, which looked like it contained jewellery. I thought he was going to put it in his pocket, but instead he lifted it as if to throw it.

  “No! Don’t!” I screamed. He stopped and regarded me. “Because if you cause damage, you’ll leave clues. Just take what you want and we’ll go. Please.”

  Ritchie sat down on the bed and looked around. I wondered why he wasn’t in more of a hurry. Usually when we taxed we were as quick as lightning. I was getting more and more nervous. Then the bedside phone began to ring. We both jumped. It trilled a couple of times, then a gruff voice said, “If you want to leave a message for Pete or Janice, speak after the tone.” Then the caller put the phone down.

  “Let’s start,” I urged. “I want to get out of here. It spooks me.”

  “Soon,” he said. “Look. There’s a bathroom through there?”

  “Yeah. An en-suite. They’ve left it in a mess.”

  Ritchie began to fiddle with the bedside radio. It was set to Classic FM. A piano concerto was playing.

  “Ritchie! Take something and go, for goodness sake!”

  “Sshhhh,” he said.

  I was thinking, he’s crazy, wanting to listen to music at a time like this. But then I could hear what he had heard. A door banging. A man’s voice.

  “Janice?”

  I was paralysed with fear. Then I wanted to run, but couldn’t think where to run to. I glanced at Ritchie. He was listening attentively, then slowly got to his feet.

  “Janice?” went the voice. A gruff voice I recognised immediately as Pete’s. “Where are you? Are you OK?”

  My skin was icy with terror. We would be caught red-handed. Could I pretend I really was the cleaner? I might just get away with it, except for the presence of Ritchie. And why had Pete come back? Either this was a terrible coincidence, or – God forbid – Ritchie had planned it. He could have left a message at his dad’s work, saying Pete had to come home, Janice wasn’t well, or something like that.

  Footsteps. “Janice?” More footsteps, ascending the stairs, becoming louder. I could not think of one plausible thing to say. Ritchie had his hands in the pockets of his parka. Pete came into view then, and walked through the doorway. His face was a picture of astonishment and terror.

  I turned to look at Ritchie, seeking guidance.

  And then I saw the gun in his hand, pointing directly at his father.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. It was metallic with a black trigger. Ritchie’s hand only shook slightly as he held it pointed towards his dad. I’d never seen a real gun before. I wondered how Ritchie had got hold of it, and then remembered Loz, and his brother who’d been in the army.

  “Shut the door, Anna,” Ritchie said.

  I did because I thought the best thing for now would be to play along with him. And although half of me was shocked rigid, the other half could not believe that Ritchie would actually shoot that thing. He must have felt uneasy about having it as he hadn’t mentioned it to me. I had to walk round his father to get to the door, and I could have run for it, but I wouldn’t leave Ritchie. I returned to where I was before, in front of a half-open wardrobe. Ritchie was standing by the head of the bed, facing his father. And apart from Ritch telling me to close the door, no one had
spoken a word.

  I was trying to piece together what was going on here. If Ritchie had lured his father back to the house, then he never intended to rob him at all. If he came with a gun, then his plan was to … My mind shied away from the inevitable conclusion. He was going to shoot his dad. No! Those kind of things only happened in films, in gangsta lyrics. Ritch and I taxed, sure, but we never harmed anyone. He never harmed anyone. Then I remembered how he tried to mug me in town all those weeks ago, and I went cold. I thought I knew Ritchie. I thought I loved him. Only there wasn’t time to reflect on any of that now. At any moment, that gun might go off.

  I looked at Ritchie’s dad’s face. It’s funny how you can tell someone is more terrified than they have ever been in their life, and yet there are hardly any signs. He wasn’t screaming, he said nothing, in fact, but he was drawn and deadly pale. I noticed then that Ritchie’s hand – the one that had the gun – was trembling more than ever. Ritchie sat down on the bed, but he still had the barrel of the gun trained on his dad.

  “Don’t try to get away,” Ritchie said. “If you move, I’ll shoot.”

  His voice trembled, and I think that gave his dad courage. He put out a hand to the wall to steady himself, and swallowed before he spoke.

  “Craig? Please.”

  Ritchie had his eyes and the gun locked on to his father. Maybe, I hoped, all he wanted to do was frighten his dad. Or get him to agree to give him money. Yeah, that would be it. This was only a sort of blackmail attempt, or getting money by extortion – it was taxing, of a sort.

  Still no one said a word. An impassioned female voice began an aria in a foreign language. I wondered if I should turn the radio off.