All of this is sloppy. I do appreciate that.
As I sit there – like a fool, not even twisting around to look – I finally notice the only other object on the table.
Sitting before me, quiet and demure, is a passport, an old-school post-Brexit dark blue set of Her Britannic Majesties.
This feels relevant.
Our two timelines – which I was really hoping would remain parallel – are about to converge.
11.27 a.m.Even as I turn, the gate to the drive is swinging open and I can see the car waiting on the lane. In the driver’s seat sits Dev, who has clearly been subjected to some uranium-tipped swearing on the way back from the airport.
Stepping through the gate in an incredibly bad mood is Paul Lethbridge, who has managed over the last forty minutes of illegally fast driving to blame anyone but himself for the stupidity he has shown this morning.
Mr L, all I can say is that I know exactly how you feel.
Shit, shit, shit, shit,shit.
OK. So now you’re about to see what I call a ‘crash exit’. Despite how amateur I’m sure I appear right now, I haven’t actually had to do one of these for eighteen months. They’re not a lot of fun at the best of times. And right now, I’ve got a cup of tea in my hand and a twist in my ankle.
Pick up the tea and the peas. Move to the orangery. The good news is that there’s a wall between the orangery and the front hall – his footsteps are coming closer across the graveland they sound seriously pissed off – so assuming he remembers where he left his passport (living room, left off the hall), I’ll be fine. Of course, there’s a risk he’ll go right, to the kitchen, and then pass through the orangery as he runs around the ground floor looking for it.
So: time to leave.
I take two agonised steps into the kitchen, jam the pedal bin open, shove the peas in, hobble back into the orangery. Next, I ease the window open – do the noisy bits first, before he gets in – and then, as I hear his key in the front door, I drop my single kitbag outside, scramble out after it, and stick my head back in to listen. God, it’s exposed here. Once he’s in the hall, he’ll have only a few strides before he’s overlooking the garden. It’s twenty metres to the far end. And I won’t have time to get to the fence without him seeing me.
Wait. I can’t move without working out which way he’s going. If I know he’s going to his left (living room), then I can run to the right of the house, around past the kitchen window, and he won’t see me there. Or if he goes right to the kitchen first, I can runleft, and take shelter in the green of the garden. I’ll be camouflaged enough. Glad I’m not wearing my hi-vis today. (Must tweak Rule 34:Hi-vis jackets help you blend in.)
Actually, hang on, Mr L is only going to be in the house thirty seconds with any luck, and then I’ll be back in possession. He’s going to run in, grab his passport, run out again. OK. This can work. I haven’t left anything behind he’s likely to look at – no debris in the hall, nothing but the milk in the fridge. My bag’s by my side out here. OK. Breathe, Al.
Why isn’t he in yet? Oh, wait, I know – he’s been trying to open the deadlock on the door, which I’ve already unlocked. He’ll think it’s jammed or something. I can practically hear how angry he is just from the way he’s struggling with it. As he’s doing that, I look down, and observe with faint amusement that I’m still holding theWORLD’S BEST DADDY. I pop it on the ground, outside, below the window. He won’t see it there, unless he decides he left his passport in the garden.
Eventually, he stops attacking the deadlock – is he thinking? Is he getting suspicious? – and goes for the main lock instead. Now he’s coming through the front door. All I have to do is listen out for his direction of travel,easemy head out, shut this last window, go the opposite way, and shelter until he’s off the premises. Simple. I look up. Good, I shut the skylight window. Even now, I find the time to congratulate myself on sticking to my rules.
Too late, I realise I should have just thrown the passport into the front hall, so he thought he’d dropped it on his way out, and hidden behind the curtains until he left. Well, we are where we are, as they often say in Shit Creek.
He’s moving right, towards the kitchen. I think so, anyway. This is a hell of a way to test my directional hearing.
No, he’sdefinitelyheading into the kitchen; I can hear his footsteps change as they hit tiles. I pull my head out, slide the window shut, grab the bag and the mug from the ground, and run like hell towards the left-hand side of the house, where the shrubs will hide me. I’m in among them. His shadow breezes through the orangery – he’s glancing around as he goes – andthen he’s in the living room. Did I leave anything in there? I’m sure I didn’t. Almost sure. If my heart keeps beating this fast, he’ll think there’s a cat purring in the garden. Breathe, Al, breathe. He won’t be able to see me, not from here.
He’s spotted his passport. Phew. He’s picking it up, pocketing it, then he moves towards the door. My three-week holiday is back on. Oh, I owe the god of blaggers a sacrifice tonight.
He turns around.
He’s standing in the living room, looking down at the coffee table in front of the sofa. I want to scream at him: what are you doing, Mr L? Catch that plane! Earn some money! Visit Petra on your day off!
He takes a step towards the table. I can’t see what he’s looking at. And then I remember it.
The coaster.
He’s wondering why, when he left his coasters neatly stacked in the middle of the table, one of them is out now.
He leans down and puts his hand on it, curled into a fist so the backs of his hairy fingers touch it. Then I realise the really bad thing. I only took the mug away about thirty seconds ago.The coaster will still be warm.
He picks it up and looks around the room, and then – this is when I know things are about to get spicy – he pretends he hasn’t noticed anything. He draws his phone from his pocket, acting nonchalant, and it doesn’t take too much wit to guess the three digits he’s about to dial.
If I had known then that this was the most relaxed I’d feelfor the next several weeks, I might have lightened up a bit, or possibly just handed myself in then.
But as I don’t know any of that, I reason that the most important thing is to stop him ringing the police. There are enough fingerprints in that house to identify me, and they’ll go on file, and although that wouldn’t mean instant arrest, because nobody’s caught me yet, they would create an awful precedent.
