“But you didn’t even go to Camp Windylake!”
“They don’t have to know that,” she laughs. “It’s been such a long time, I doubt anyone will notice.”
“Do you really think it could work?”
“I don’t see why not. I do this kind of thing all time for work.”
“Well, I suppose,” I say.
But I still feel uneasy.
Sonya sends me home for the afternoon, so I can get some sleep before I come back for the night shift. I arrive back at Robertson’s just as the afternoon shift is streaming out and hide in my car until they are all out the door. According to the roster, Alicia was scheduled to work this afternoon, and I really don’t feel like running into her.
Once I’m sure the coast is clear, I walk inside.
“Oh, there you are!” says Sonya. “I was a bit worried you’d overslept.”
“No, I’m here,” I reassure her. “Let me just go and grab my cardy.”
I head to the staff room and punch in the combination for my locker. The door swings open with a loud creak.
“What on earth?”
I rub my eyes in disbelief, because there, right in front of me, taking up my entire locker, is a huge can of petrol.
Chapter Eighteen
Someone’s coming!
I slam the door shut and lean against it just as Sonya walks in. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my brow as she turns and looks at me.
“Thanks for doing this, Isabel. I really appreciate it.”
She pauses in front of the mirror to check her make-up.
“That’s fine.”
My mind is transfixed with horror. I can feel the huge can of petrol wedged against the closed locker door. If I move so much as an inch from this position, I feel certain it will tumble out and spill its guilty contents all over the staff room floor.
“Isabel?” Sonya has noticed I’m not paying the least bit of attention to her. “Are you OK?”
“Of course I am.” My voice comes out in an unnaturally high pitch.
What the hell am I going to do?
Oh god, I wish she would just leave. I’m amazed she doesn’t smell the petrol fumes.
“Hey, can I borrow some perfume?” she asks.
“Sorry, I haven’t got any.”
“Are you sure?” She eyes me with suspicion. “I thought you kept a bottle in your locker?”
“Er… yeah, I ran out.”
She looks put out. “Couldn’t you just check? I don’t want to go out smelling like old boot.”
I press my back against my locker. There’s no way I’m letting her see inside.
“Sorry, I just had a clear-out. Why don’t you use one of the testers from the cosmetics aisle?”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” she says, a little huffily. She must think I’m holding out on her, but I can’t worry about that now.
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I shove the petrol can further into the locker and lock it again quickly, before anyone else walks in.
How did Alicia know I’d be here tonight? My covering this shift was unscheduled. It wouldn’t have been on the roster.
I walk out onto the shop floor. Whatever I’m going to do about the petrol can, it’ll have to wait until Sonya’s gone. Not that she seems in any particular hurry to leave.
“Can you make sure the rosters are printed out for the morning?” she asks. “I was going to do it earlier, but the printer was getting overheated.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, and another thing, don’t forget to get the baked bean aisle re-stacked. We should be getting a shipment in later tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, in the calmest voice I can muster. “I’ve got it all under control. You go and enjoy your evening.”
“Yes,” she smiles, the perfume incident temporarily forgotten. “I suppose I am worrying for nothing. I know Robertson’s is in safe hands with you.”
Once I’m sure she’s gone, I go back to the staffroom and carefully reopen my locker. A crazy little part of me is hoping that it’s all been a figment of my imagination, that there isn’t really a massive can of petrol in there after all. But as the door swings back, there is no denying its existence. It has a strong, pungent odour. The cap is loose, the seal broken. I screw it back on, tightly.
What in god’s name am I going to do with it? Pour it down the sink? But I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. This is a lot of petrol. I don’t know what effect it might have. It would reek the place out if nothing else, and I’d still have to get rid of the empty can, somehow.
I long to shove the thing in Alicia’s locker. But I don’t know the combination and even if I did, would I really want to put it back in the hands of a crazed pyromaniac? Instead, I grab a roll of large, reinforced gardening bags from the shop floor.
“Hey, that’s £4.99,” calls out the checkout girl as I walk past.
“Here,” I slap some coins down in front of her.
“This is too much.”
“Keep the change.”
My heart thumps noisily as I pull the can of petrol out of my locker and shove it into the bag. I could not feel more guilty if there were a body in the bag. A body, which I’m about to haul through the store.
I feel like all eyes are on me as I heave my burden out through the shop, but if anybody wonders what I’ve got in the huge sack, they keep it to themselves. I am almost out the door, when the bloody checkout girl waves for my attention again.
“I need the loo.”
“You’ll have to wait a minute.”
“But I’m bursting.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I drag the bag outside, silently cursing myself for parking so far away from the building. I stagger to my car and dump the petrol can in the boot. Once it’s done, I slump down, exhausted. It is only then that I consider the real significance of the petrol.
What does it mean?
Is this just another of Alicia and Jody’s sick jokes or are they planning a real fire this time? The thought builds and builds in my head. What if they are? Shouldn’t I warn someone? But how can I without incriminating myself? If I go to the police, after everything that’s happened, they’ll either laugh in my face, or else lock me up.
There must be some way to stop them!
I choose the public pay phone at the shabby precinct just behind the store. Three of the phones have been vandalised beyond repair, but luckily, the fourth is working. I pull DS Penney’s business card out of my wallet and check the number. My hand trembles as I dial. I don’t use Penney’s direct line in case he recognises my voice, but even going through the switchboard is nerve wracking. The words tumble from my mouth the moment someone answers:
“I think someone might be planning to start a fire at Robertson’s tonight…”
I hang up before anyone can ask me for my name or address.
“Cigarette?” Jon, the security guard, offers a little later, when I walk outside on my break.
“Um, better not.”
Even after washing my hands about twelve times, I’m a little nervous there may still be a trace of petrol on them.
“You giving up?”
“Sort of.” I take a sip of my coffee. “So you’re on the night shift now?” I ask, keen to change the subject. “I thought I hadn’t seen you for a while.”
“I switched to nights a few weeks ago,” he tells me. “It’s an easy gig most of the time. Not many customers to deal with, just a few drunks. Although…” he looks out at the road behind the car park. “I think something’s up tonight.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s the third time I’ve seen a police patrol drive through here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and there were a couple of community support officers in here just a minute ago.”
“Maybe they were on their break.”