The air thickens to the point that you could cut it even with a blunt letter-opener. I’m looking at three distinctly angry faces.
The photocopy asks: ‘What do we do with him?’
Letter-Opener has a bright idea. ‘Knock him out then drive him up to Hampstead Heath and leave him there. By the time he wakes up we’ll be gone. We were about to shift to the new gaff anyway.’
The guy speaks. ‘I’m not knocking anyone out, Em.’
Photocopy adds, ‘Also, if we knock him out we’ll need a bigger car. We won’t all fit in the Mini with one of us unconscious.’
‘We can’t just let him go, guys. We don’t know what he wants from us. And Jonny, in life sometimes you have to knock people out.’
‘I’m just saying, acts of violence are nothing but moments of short-term moral failure, which only ever breed new cycles of pain. I read that in my course.’
‘Jonny, please shut up about your course.’
Photocopy says, ‘We could go through his pockets. Or just keep asking him. Legally, I think they have to tell you if you ask three times.’
‘I don’t think the Met operate under that sort of honour system, El.’
At the risk of making things worse, I raise a hand.
‘Hello? Can I contribute here?’
All three of them are looking at me. It’s time to do what I do best: talk my way out.
‘I think I’ve picked up that there’s something going on here. I just want to reassure you that if you think I’m in the police, I’m not. I also won’t gotothe police. You … uh, Em, was it?’ – Letter-Opener scowls assent – ‘it sounds like you’re worried about me talking to anyone about this. Rest assured I just want to get out of this house conscious and with all my organs in the same place. We can leave it at that.’
The tension in the room slackens a bit. Then Em says,‘Bullshit,’ and it tightens again. I try hard not to sigh too obviously.
‘Right. Well, if you don’t believe me, let’s just remember that I’m also clearly not a vicar, as you’ve worked out. I …’
What am I, actually? I didn’t have a secondary cover set up after the vicar. Dammit. This place was meant to be empty; why would I need a primary story, let alone a secondary one? Faced with Em’s eyebrow, I completely fall apart, and for the first time in a while, I give someone an approximation of the truth.
‘… I thought this place was empty and that I might be able to stay here for a few nights. Clearly it’s not empty, and you were here first, so I can just—’
Photocopy interrupts me. ‘Sorry? Are you saying that you do this too?’
Half an hour has passed.
We’re in the principal drawing room (baby grand piano, gold brocade curtains with foot-long tassels, tatty Louis Quatorze sofas left by previous owner). We’ve all got a cuppa, in this arrangement: Al – builder’s tea, two sugars; Em – some disgustingly sharp gunpowder concoction; Elle – Sleepytime herbal mix; Jonny – isotonic rehydration drink in ancient Sports Direct mug. Things are much jollier than before, even if Em still has the letter-opener within shanking distance.
‘How long did you say you’ve been doing this?’ I ask.
‘Six months. We’re pretty pleased with how it’s been goingso far.’ That’s Elle, who turns out to be – knew it – Em’s younger sister.
‘And you call it …’
‘Piscining.’
‘Why was that again?’
Em sighs. ‘BecauseEl and I found out about it in France last year. Millions of places in France have their own swimming pools, way more than here. But there’s almost no way of enforcing the security of your own pool. Owners keep getting home to find strangers have been enjoying their pools all day. The police can’t do anything about it. We started doing that and just, you know, worked our way up to the homes themselves.’
‘Via the pool house?’ I must have let a bit of scorn into my tone because Em bristles as she answers.
‘A lot of pool houses have bedrooms, bathrooms and food supplies. So yes, since you ask, we started in the pool houses before trading up. What about you?’
There’s no way I’m going to tell them anything more about myself than I already have. Frankly, I don’t even like them knowing my fake name, never mind my real one. Questions about people always deflect their attention back onto themselves, where they feel it naturally belongs, so I turn my focus: ‘And, sorry, how did you enter the scene, Jonny?’
