Uncle Tony’s on remand as we can’t afford the bail, so he’ll be inside until the court case, which should be really interesting. The police have already interviewed my mum about Uncle Tony, but they haven’t got round to me yet. I’m not sure whether to tell them what I know, or to keep quiet about it. I’ll write to Dad and ask him what he thinks.
Our substitute teacher isn’t very good, but she’s told us to finish these assignments so the school can send them to you to mark while you recover. I’m sure that when you read this, Sir, you’ll realise why you were attacked that night. Together with how much I now know about you that you’d rather other people didn’t.
In conclusion, I say that whether or not Hamlet was faking his madness is irrelevant. How sane are any of us, anyway? And isn’t the very idea of faking madness a bit mad in the first place? Maybe you should know, Sir, the amount of faking you’ve done in the last few years.
I look forward to receiving an A for this essay. After all, I really did my homework on you.
Laptop
Cath Staincliffe
I’d been boosting laptops for a couple of years but never with such bloody disastrous consequences. Up until then it’d been easy money. Two or three a week kept body and soul together and was a damn sight more conducive to the good life than temping in some god-awful office with all the crap about diets and botox and endless squabbles over the state of the kitchen. Shorter working week, too. Eight maybe ten hours, the rest of the time my own.
I always dressed well for work — part of the scam, isn’t it? People are much less guarded if I’m in a designer suit: something smart, fully lined along with good shoes, hair and make-up. Helps me mingle. Looking like an executive, some high-flying businesswoman, gives me access to the most fertile picking grounds: conference centres, business parks, commuter trains, the best restaurants and coffee bars. And, after all, if someone nicks your laptop who’s going spring to mind? Me with my crisp clothes, my detached air, snag-free tights or some lad in a beanie hat and dirty fingernails?
So, that fateful day, as I came to think of it, I was working at Manchester Airport. I do it four or five times a year; the train service is handy and with all the business flights I’ve plenty of targets to choose from.
As with any type of thieving, opportunity is all. The aim being to get the goods and get away with it. When I started working for Danny, he came out with me but I was quick on the uptake and after a few runs he left me to it. I’m one of his best operators but he reckons I’m lazy. You could make more, he tells me near enough every time I swap the merchandise for cash, a bit of ambition you could be clearing fifty a year, higher tax bracket. The last bit’s a joke. No one in the business pays any tax. But I’m not greedy. I enjoy the time I have. Gives me chance to indulge my passion. I paint watercolours. Surprised? So was I when I first drifted into it. Then it became the centre of my life. It was what got me out of bed and kept me up late.
That day when I spotted the mark I dubbed him The Wolf. He had a large head, the coarse brown hair brushed straight back from his face, a long, sharp nose and lips that didn’t quite meet; too many teeth for his mouth. Like a kid with those vampire fangs stuffed in their gob. I assumed he was meeting someone as he made no move to check in and we were near the arrivals hall. He had the laptop on the floor, to his right, at the side of his feet. He was in prime position at the end of a row of seats, in the lounge where people have coffee while they wait for the information boards to change or for a disembodied voice to make hard-to-hear announcements.
After walking about a bit, checking my exit routes and getting a feel for the atmosphere that day and the people hanging around (no nutters, drunks or a surfeit of security guards) I settled myself on the end seat of the row adjoining his. He and I were back to back. I put my large bag down beside me at my left. My bag and his laptop were maybe five inches apart. On the seat next to me I put my own laptop and handbag. When I turned to my left I could see us both reflected in the plain glass of the offices that ran along the edge of the concourse. There were coloured screens behind the glass to mask the work areas so no danger of my being seen from in there.
Timing is crucial. I watched his reflection as he glanced down to check his laptop and I moved a few seconds after, just as a large family with raucous kids and two trolley-loads of bags hoved into view, squabbling about where to wait. Keeping my upper body straight, I reached my left arm back and grasped the handle of his laptop, pulled it forward and lifted it up and into my big bag. I grabbed the handles of that, hitched it onto my shoulder, collected my other things, stood and walked steadily away. Belly clamped, mouth dry, senses singing.
Twice I’ve been rumbled at that very moment, before I’m out of range. Both in the early days. Turning, I look confused. “Sorry?”
“My laptop!” They are incandescent with outrage, ready to thump me. Except I don’t run or resist. I gawp at them, look completely befuddled, furrowed brow. Mouth the word ‘laptop?’ My hand flies to my mouth, I stare in my bag. “Oh, my god.” Both hands to my mouth. I blush furiously. Wrestle the shopper from my shoulder. “God, I am so sorry.” Withdraw the offending article, hand it back, talking all the time, on the brink of tears. “It’s exactly like mine.” I hold up my own laptop (case only: I’m not lugging around something that heavy all day — besides someone might nick it). “I was miles away, oh, god, I feel awful. You must think, oh, please I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Deliberately making a scene, drawing attention, flustered woman in a state. Their expressions morph: rage, distrust, exasperation, embarrassment and eventually relief tinged with discomfort. They just want me to shut up and disappear. Which I do. With The Wolf, though, all goes smooth as silk.
Until I get the bastard thing home and open it.
I generally check to see if they’re password protected. Danny has a little code that cracks about fifty per cent of them, the rest he passes on to a geek who sorts them out. Danny appreciates it if I let him know which ones need further attention when I hand them over.
So I got home, changed into something more comfortable, had lunch on my little balcony. On a clear day to the east I can see the hills beyond the City of Manchester stadium and the velodrome and to the west the city centre: a jumble of Victorian gothic punctuated by modern glass and steel, wood and funny angles, strong colours. It’s a vista I love to paint. But that day was damp, hazy, shrouding the skyline. I polished off a smoked salmon salad, some green tea, then got down to business.
Danny’s code didn’t work. And I could have left it at that. I should have. But there was a memory stick there: small, black, inoffensive looking. I picked it up and slotted it into the USB port on my own machine. There wasn’t much on it, that’s what I thought at the time, just one file, called Accounts. I opened it expecting credits and debits, loss carried forward or whatever. Perhaps bank details that Danny could milk. Overseas accounts, savings.
Not those sort of accounts.
June 12th 2010
She was very drunk when she left the club. Falling into a taxi, falling out at her place. I let her get inside and waited for a while before I went in the back. She was stumbling about for long enough. When I judged she was asleep I crept upstairs. I had everything ready. She woke. But I’d done it by then. The colour flooded her face and she tried to get up, jerking, but couldn’t, then the flush drained away and her eyes glazed over. I closed her eyes. She looked more peaceful that way. It was wonderful. Better than I’d imagined. A pure rush. Cleaner, brighter than drugs or religion or sex. On a different plane. I wish I’d stayed there longer now. I didn’t want to leave her but I was being cautious. Everything meticulously done. Precise, tidy. I’ve waited all my life for this. I wasn’t going to ruin it by being clumsy and leaving anything they could trace back to me.