Ruth Rendell: The Thief

He had to leave for work almost at once. She wanted him to go so that she could open her case. Wanting Alex to go was new. She had never felt like that before but now she was longing to open her case. Alex took it upstairs into their bedroom and put it on the bed. He kissed her good-bye and said he’d be home by six. From the window she watched him get back into the car and reverse it out of the driveway.

All the way home she had looked forward to opening it. But now it was there and she was alone a strange thing happened. Opening it no longer seemed a good idea. She went up to it and put her hands on its lid. The scar on her left hand showed up more than usual. It looked red against her pale skin. Her hands rested there for a moment and then she took them away. She told herself that she wasn’t exactly afraid of what she might see. It was just that there was no need to know now, at once, at this minute, what was in those plastic bags she had taken out of the orange case. Later would do. Put it off till later.

She took the case off the bed and laid it on the seat of a chair. Then she lay down on the bed, on top of the quilt. The sunshine was very bright. Should she draw the curtains? She got up and drew them. The curtains were the colour of a cornflower and now the room was full of a blue glow. She got back on the bed and turned to face the other way. In front of her eyes was the chair and on the seat was the case. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep but the room was too light. It was hard to keep her eyes shut but when she opened them all she saw was the case. She got up again and put it on the floor where she couldn’t see it.

The triumph she had felt when she first took the orange case was gone now. Already she was wishing she hadn’t taken it. Tired as she was, she knew it was no use lying there. She wouldn’t sleep. After a few more minutes of lying there in the soft blue light, she got up, drew back the curtains and went downstairs. She made herself a sandwich but she couldn’t eat it. What she needed was a drink to help her open that case.

She poured gin into a glass, put in an ice cube and orange juice. That made her think of how Lant had called her an alcoholic. She felt better about taking his case. He had asked for it. He had asked for what she had done, talking to her like that. The gin was a good idea. Drinking it made her think she’d be able to open the case quite soon, though she still couldn’t eat her sandwich. I had my revenge, she said to herself, going upstairs again, I had my revenge. I got back at him. She didn’t feel excited and happy the way she had when she took Auntie Pauline’s book. When she cut up the pages with her mother’s scissors. Or when she took Abby Robinson’s watch, smashed it with her father’s hammer, pushed the bits down the drain and made that scar.

Maybe she didn’t feel happy because she hadn’t yet destroyed what had been in his case. Breaking or burning or cutting up the things she took always seemed to take a load off her mind. That was how she got to feel better. Those plastic bags would hold only dirty clothes and maybe things he had bought. Cheap things, not worth much, but burning them or stamping on them and putting them in the rubbish would help her. She lifted up the case and put it back on the bed.

I have to get my own clothes out, she said to herself. I have to take his things out. Don’t put it off any longer. Time is passing. It’s already nearly three and Alex will be home again at six. But she did put it off. It was so long since she had taken anything of someone else’s, destroyed anything. Because I didn’t need to, she thought. Because I met Alex and I was happy. Was that it? I didn’t tell so many lies too because I was happy. She walked to the window and looked down into the street below. Someone parked a red car on the other side. A woman came along with a small brown dog on a lead. Go back, she said to herself. Go back and open that case.

Suppose there was something dreadful inside. But what could there be? Body parts, she thought, drugs. But no, those things would have been found. Porn? Well, if that was what it was, she would burn it. The best thing would be to burn everything. But where could she burn it? No one had open fires any more except maybe in the country. There was a metal bucket outside in the shed. She could make a fire in that. But she had never in all her life made a fire. It was something people used to do, when her mother was young.

Count to ten, she said aloud, and when you get to ten open the case. She counted to ten but she didn’t open it. This was mad, this was no way to go on. She put her hands on the lid of the case and saw the scar again. She shut her eyes so that she couldn’t see it, held her breath, and flung the lid open.

Lant’s plastic bags lay jumbled up inside. She couldn’t see what was inside them. Slowly, she took them out, laid them on the bed, feeling paper inside. She knew what was in them before she looked and she began to feel sick. One after another she opened the packets. Nothing dirty, nothing horrible. The packets were full of money, fifty-pound notes in one, US dollars in the next, euros in the third, hundreds if not thousands.

She ran into the bathroom and threw up into the basin.

MONEY WAS THE ONE thing she couldn’t destroy. No matter how much she might want to. She couldn’t. Things, yes. A book, a watch, a Walkman. That hadn’t felt like stealing but like revenge, like a trick, like getting her own back. A man her father knew had been caught stealing money from the firm he worked for. Her mother and father had been shocked, upset, and so had she when they told her. Now she was as bad as that man, she had stolen money. She could go to prison or, because it was a first offence, get a fine and a criminal record for the rest of her life.

Telling herself that she must know, there must be no more putting off, she counted the money. Five thousand pounds, a bit less than ten thousand dollars, a bit under ten thousand euros. Yet he had flown economy class. Because he got the money in New York and he already had his return ticket? Perhaps. What did it matter? The big thing, the awful thing, was that she had stolen it.

She couldn’t leave it there on the bed. Time was passing and it was nearly four. At this time of year the sun had set, the light was going. She couldn’t leave Lant’s dirty clothes there either. Those she stuffed into one of the plastic bags, took it downstairs and put it outside into the wastebin. The afternoon felt cold now it was getting dark. A sharp wind was blowing.

Back in the bedroom, she counted the money again. Five thousand pounds doesn’t take up much room. She went to the desk she called hers, though everything in this house was really Alex’s, found a large brown envelope and put the money inside. The envelope could have held twice the amount. It wasn’t so bad when she couldn’t see the money. When it was hidden. She took her own clothes out of the case, set some aside for washing, some for dry-cleaning.

The phone rang. She jumped and caught her breath. It would be him. It would be Trevor Lant. What could she say? Very afraid, she picked up the phone, her hand shaking.

Her voice came, breathy and shrill. ‘Hello?’

It was her mother. ‘I said I’d phone. Give you a chance to get home and unpack. How did the wedding go?’

‘It was fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine. Have you got a cold?’

Polly longed to tell her. She couldn’t. She knew what her mother would say: tell Alex, tell the police, say what you’ve done and make it all right. But first she would say, Polly, how could you? What’s wrong with you? ‘I’m just tired,’ she said, and making an effort, ‘How’s Dad?’

‘Better, I’m glad to say. He thought you might both come over for a meal tonight. Save you cooking.’