M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

Without meaning to she found herself driving towards Aldershot. Strange how the pull was so strong, even though Robert Stonehill had no concept of her existence. A voice inside her urged her to think twice, to turn around, but she shouted it down, cranking up her speed.

She snuck into town under the cover of darkness. She knew Robert wouldn’t be at home today, so she drove straight to the Tesco Metro where he worked. Parking her bike nearby, she took up a vantage point in the internet café opposite. Here she had a good view of him as he re-stacked the fridge with booze in expectation of the evening rush. He wasn’t the most diligent worker, getting away with doing the minimum and always finding time to chat to his colleagues. There was one – Alice? Anna? – a pretty nineteen-year-old brunette, who seemed to pass by quite often. Helen made a note to keep an eye on that.

The hours ticked by. 8 p.m., 9 p.m., 10 p.m. Helen’s attention started to wander, as her tiredness and hunger grew. Was she wasting her time here? What was she hoping to achieve? Was she going to be a voyeur for the rest of her life, furtively exploiting a connection that didn’t really exist?

Robert hurried out of the shop and down the street. As usual Helen counted to fifteen then left her hiding place, casually and quietly keeping pace with him. A couple of times Robert shot glances to his left and right, as if expecting or fearing to meet someone, but he never looked directly behind him so Helen continued her progress undetected.

They had reached the city centre now. Without warning, Robert dived into the Red Lion, a cavernous drinking hole that he had visited on previous excursions. Helen waited a moment and then entered, her smartphone clamped to her ear as if she were in conversation. There was no immediate sign of him, so Helen gave up the pretence. She searched the whole of the ground floor, then headed up to the mezzanine level. Still nothing. Had he noticed her and used the pub to shake her off? She hurried down to the basement snug and predictably he was in the very last place she looked, a booth hidden away in the bowels of the pub. He was packed into it with his mates and the mood was sombre. Helen was intrigued but couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were talking about, so bought a drink and settled down to wait. It was well past eleven o’clock, but the boys showed no signs of moving. The pub had a late licence and could serve until two, but the group were oddly restrained in their drinking tonight. They looked tense. Helen wondered what had spooked them.

‘Been stood up?’

Helen’s daydreaming was abruptly ended by the intrusion of an overweight businessman who had obviously been quenching his thirst since leaving work.

‘I’m just waiting for my husband,’ Helen lied.

‘He always this late, is he? I wouldn’t be if you were my wife.’

‘He was competing tonight. The traffic coming out of London is always terrible.’

‘Competing?’

‘Cagefighting. There’s a big show on at the Docklands. Stick around and have a chat with him if you like. He always likes to talk to punters and he should be here any second.’

‘That’s very kind…’

But he was already retreating. Helen suppressed a smile and returned her attention to Robert. Only to find him staring right at her. Immediately she dropped her gaze, busying herself with her phone. Had he caught her? Better to be safe than sorry, so after a decent pause Helen feigned a phone call and went on her way, decamping to a discreet vantage point on the ground floor.

Twenty minutes later, Robert and his friends brushed past and left the pub, seemingly unaware of her existence. It was pushing midnight now and the streets were empty. As she followed them, Helen was suddenly aware of the stupidity and vulnerability of her position, alone in the darkened streets so late at night. She could handle herself in most situations, but not against a gang of men. What if they spotted her following them and took issue with it?

She hung back now and contemplated giving up altogether, but suddenly the gang came to a stop. They paused, darting looks here and there, then dragged a wheelie bin out from a nearby alleyway. Then Davey, the leader, clambered onto it. It brought him level with a small window at shoulder height. He pulled a crowbar out of his backpack and immediately started working on the window, whilst the others kept watch.

Helen flattened herself against the wall. She was furious – why had she put herself in this position? Now the window was open and Davey was levering himself inside. Robert was next. Skipping up onto the bin, he swung himself through the window with the practised grace of a gymnast. The others stayed outside, looking around anxiously for any passers-by.

A noise made them look up, but it was just a woman walking away – clearly she hadn’t seen them. Helen picked up her pace. Now that it had all gone so wrong, she just wanted to be away from here. With each step, she berated herself. An innocent person was being robbed right now and it was her duty to call it in and stop this thing now.

But of course she wouldn’t and she hated herself for it. She hurried away, swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

It had been a mistake to come here.

The house was an empty shell. A bare, functional space that like most rented properties never received much love. Jason Robins, sitting alone at the IKEA dinner table, felt much the same way. His ex, Samantha, had taken their daughter, Emily, to Disneyland for two weeks – with new man Sean in tow. And though he tried to block it out – by focusing on work, watching football, looking up old mates – in reality he thought about it all the time. The three of them having fun – eating candyfloss, screaming on the rollercoasters, snuggling up at bedtime after a busy day’s fun – fun from which he was utterly excluded. He had never called the shots in his marriage and now that it was over he was still on the back foot. He had put all his energies into bringing up Emily and providing Samantha with everything she needed, so much so that he had neglected his mates and family. When Samantha admitted her affair and ended the marriage, he had no one to fall back on, no one genuine at least. People looked sympathetic and asked a few questions, but their hearts weren’t in it. He could tell no one blamed Samantha for her choice. Jason wasn’t much to look at and was hardly scintillating conversation, but even so he had worked bloody hard to make Samantha happy. And what was his reward? A lonely flat and a custody battle.

Jason scraped the remains of his ready meal into the bin and walked into what the letting agent called the study, but he called a cupboard. There was barely room to swing a cat in here, but it was his favourite room in the house – the only room that didn’t seem empty. He liked its warm embrace and he settled down into his chair, firing up his computer.

He looked at the BBC News site, then the sport, then checked Facebook. A quick glance, then he shut it down – he didn’t want to see pictures of other people’s happy lives. He checked his email – spam, spam and another lawyer’s bill. He exhaled, bored. He should go to bed really. He debated whether he could face an early night when he knew he wouldn’t sleep, but it was a false debate. He had no intention of going to bed. Opening Safari, he clicked on his bookmarks. Dozens of online porn sites presented themselves. Once they had been exciting, now they were just familiar.

He sat at his desk, bored and disconsolate. Time ticked by slowly, taunting him. God, it was only 11 p.m. Another nine hours at least before he could turn up at work. The night stretched out in front of him, a long blank vista.