Committed

As a matter of principle, Maureen and I don’t burgle friends’ homes. But Wesley and Barbara weren’t friends anymore. I never liked Wesley much, but Barbara had been ok. Good looks and great fun at the regular company parties. She and Maureen were fairly close colleagues, each managing a team and occupying a tiny but private 2nd-floor office – just above the ground floor in any sense of the word.

They stopped being friends after Barbara sacked Esmee, an old friend of Maureen. Esmee may not have been the ideal productive malleable wage slave the company was looking for. But then, what did they expect of a single mom with a degree in arts? Maureen stood up for her friend, of course, but Barbara had been inflexible.

Their alarm system was called YoTech or something. Cheap crap, easy to hack. We picked the 24-bit code up from across the street. Programming it into a remote took Maureen an hour or so. People with an alarm tend to lock their doors and windows but not reinforce them. A good kick, while Maureen dropped a trashcan lid, was all it took.

I find it hard to explain how it all started. Maureen’s brother Robin was a start. He spent large chunks of his life in prison, honing his skills. Whenever he was paroled, he would come to Maureen, looking for food and a bed to sleep in until he found some job. Never a real job, he wasn’t like that. Always, “some job.” Until the itch came again. He’d leave when he started so as not to implicate us. And then we’d see him again during visiting hours, a month or a year later. But the truth is, we were bored with our crappy jobs and a crappier outlook. And so, one day, we did it. Slightly drunk, probably making every mistake Robin ever warned us against. But we did it without being caught. The feeling afterward was indescribable. Better than sex. Except for the sex afterward, of course. That was something else.

–

Maureen tut-tutted over Barbara’s wardrobe. She was one-dimensional that way. Once you were past your best-before date, nothing was right.

The desk in the living was disappointing. I could see they had some stocks and stuff, but there was so little, it was clear they used the internet. There was no cash, no art, no antiques, a decent laptop, and a first print that might or might not have been worth anything. But judging by the rest, it wouldn’t fetch the mother lode: these people were stingy. And then I found it. Who’d have thought boring old Wesley was doing drugs? Or was it Barb, escaping the guilt of sacking people? Maybe they sold them: it was an awful lot.

We wouldn’t take the drugs, of course. I went to find Maureen.

She was sitting at Barbara’s desk, scrutinizing a photograph. “Care to explain this?”

It took my mind some time to switch. A company party, with … me and … Oh shit. How the hell did …? It was a photograph of me at a Christmas party, with my tongue stuck rather deep into Claire, another colleague of Maureen and Barbara.

“I was drunk, Maureen. What can I say? It meant nothing. I mean, it was a mistake, and I was drunk. I don’t know the woman. It’s nothing.”

“What’s it doing here, Jeff. This is last year’s Christmas party. Barbara wasn’t there. What’s the picture doing here?”

How would I know?

“I don’t know. Maybe Claire gave it to Barbara. You know they’re friends.”

“You don’t know Claire, Jeff. How come you know she’s Barbara’s friend?”

Ah. How indeed.

“Let’s not talk about this here, Jeff. Let’s finish the job and go home. You do the loft, and I’ll do the cellar.”

You’d be surprised how many people still hide stuff in their attic, presuming burglars are pressed for time. But I wasn’t pressed at all: I needed to come up with prize-winning fiction, so I took my time. No luck, of course. It all sounded like someone trying to weasel out of a tight spot, which was precisely what I was doing. The loft proved utterly void of collectibles, so, finally, I decided to face the storm.

As I descended the stairs, I idly wished to be in some other place, some other time, would you believe it. Stepping on the landing, I was cuffed before I knew something was wrong. An officer on either side of the door, each taking an arm, turning my wrist, and click. That was it. Where the hell did they come from? And where was Maureen?

Robin’s rule was as straightforward as it was simple. Don’t say anything, whatever they throw at you, until you’ve seen a lawyer. It may have saved Maureen because I didn’t see her then, nor was she mentioned later.

–

I met my lawyer only once, before hearing from Maureen even. He told me she was fine and had hired and prepped him. And would I enter a plea-bargain and testify to finding the drugs, leaving me looking at three years with the possibility of parole after two instead of five to seven. Tough on Wesley and Barbara: they would be indicted for trafficking, even though it was clear they weren’t dealers. They were just stingy and stupid enough to buy wholesale. But there was no alternative, of course.

Their trial was all over the papers. Pathetic, each pointing at the other. But that wouldn’t stick. Traces had been found all over the place.

–

I’ve been wracking my brain about three things: where that photo came from, where the cops came from, and why Maureen didn’t come to visit. Shows you how dumb I am. I got her letter today.

Jeff,

I hope you agree two years is appropriate. I was told anything between one and four, so I guess you came off light. Do not fret about the picture: I didn’t. I’ve had it since Christmas. And girls do talk, especially in the washroom. I couldn’t help overhearing the latest on Claire’s affair with “a married man.” All the details fit perfectly, you bastard. And the look on your face when I showed you the photo told the rest. I have no qualms whatsoever about calling the cops.

I’ve decided to look after your savings for you. Getting hold of your inheritance was a bit of a hassle, but all is well now. As long as I do not hear from you, it’s safe. Don’t try to find me when you get out. If you do, it’s goodbye to your money. As long as you don’t, I will be sending you small chunks. Ok?

Best,