Born Free

by Laura Hird

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ANGIE

  I CAN’T LIVE like this. I’ve not left for work yet and already I’m dreading coming home. Home – the place where Raymond fucked me the other night, that’s all it is to me now. I have more affection for the bed he buggered me in than I do for my family. He was right on Saturday. We need to get away from here, away from fucking Britain. There must be bookies all over the world crying out for people like us.

  I shower and dress in the bathroom. Vague recollections of an apocalyptic barney about my drinking last night render the rest of the house a no-go-without-aggro zone. Whatever might have been said, though, I know my boring, fucking husband will still be through there on the settee. A bulldozer couldn’t get that cunt out of here. My emergency vodka’s in the kitchen, but I don’t want a confrontation before work or my face’ll run. If I leave now, I can have a little settler in the pub before Raymond arrives. I love drinking but it feels like I’ve got cancer in between times. The subsequent incentive of alcohol gets me to the pub 15 minutes early. The blonde barmaid from hell gives the manageress an is-she-barred look as I walk in. As if, the fucking fortune they make out us. Subduing fantasies of glassing the bitch, I smile and ask for a double. It galls me, but as long as this place is the unfortunate centre of our universe, I have to kiss ass.

  I go over to our usual seat. It seems busy for nine-thirty – four young postmen playing pool, a simple guy who seems to live here, getting a heat by the fire, the usual sprinkling of old men with nowhere else to go. Every time the door opens, my head swings round Exorcist-like. The bitchy barmaid notices and sniggers something to the postmen, after which a roar of laughter goes up every time someone comes in. When I go up for a another drink, she sneers at me,

  ‘Husband not joining you this morning?’

  Accomplished grin-and-bearer that I am, I ignore her. Fuck, it’s ten to ten. We’ll have to go straight to work if he doesn’t hurry. What if he’s had an accident? Why did I let him drive home so pissed the other night? He could be dead for all I know, nobody would bother to tell me. It makes me feel worthless.

  Why didn’t I buy a paper? I keep drifting off and coming to, with old men leering at me. They’ll think I’m on the game. Even watching The Big Breakfast would be better than this.

  By ten I’m too tense for another drink. Sweetening my breath with chewing gum, I try the shop but there’s nobody there. Alternately pacing and standing aimlessly, I wait for his mucky silver Astra to appear. It doesn’t. Maybe he got stopped on Saturday. I check the faces of people getting off a bus. The next one drives straight past, overstuffed with Riccarton-bound foreign students. Hearing the purring crescendo of an approaching taxi, I get a rush like a pishy-panted teenager at a boy-band concert till it drives past too.

  We should have opened 15 minutes ago. I’d phone and see if he’s slept in but I don’t know his number. There’s no note of it in the shop, so they can’t bother him on his days off. I’ll top myself if he’s sick. Waiting another ten minutes, I reluctantly call Base Office. Raymond’ll think I’m a grass, but I have to at least let them know I’m here. They put me through to Ian Dawson, of all people.

  ‘Sure you didn’t swallow him on Saturday?’

  Brilliant. Stage II warning here I come. He tells me to give him five minutes to call Raymond, then phone back. I take another hopeful walk up the street in the meantime.

  Bollocks, if they send someone from Base Office to open up, they’ll notice the two grand we’ve not returned to the other shop. Raymond’ll go spare at me for dropping him in it. When I call back, the phone’s swallowed 23 pence credit before they put me through. There’s no reply from Raymond’s, so Ian’s coming over to sort out a relief manager. That bastard could sniff out truffles in a field of shite, he’ll notice the extra money immediately. I get enough grief about cash differences as it is. They’ll sack me and get Raymond a new cashier. He’ll dump me and start shagging the replacement. What if they give him Debbie? Maybe I should just go back to the pub.

  Instead, I just stand there sucking mints, getting in a right state. It doesn’t help when Ian turns up and opens the shop without even acknowledging me. We’re behind the counter before he speaks.

  ‘I needed to come down and have a talk with you today, anyway.’

  Without elaborating, he pulls a sheet of staff phone numbers out his pocket and tells me to try Raymond again. I’ll vomit if his wife answers but, God, there it is, his fucking number. Weh hey. I memorise as I dial. It rings five times, there’s the whir of an answering machine and Raymond’s tinny voice saying something incomprehensible. Not wanting to alarm him by leaving a message, I hang up.

  ‘Still no joy,’ I smile, but the humourless bastard just scowls and demands the pay-in book. Digging it out, I escape to put up the Racing Post. I’m still trying to open my box of pins when he comes storming through on the verge of cardiac arrest.

  ‘Who’s responsible for the banking here?’

  Oh, Christ, he’s found the two grand. Here we go.

  ‘Me … usually.’

  He squints through the pay-in book.

  ‘What about last week?’

  I have to think about it. I’ve been on autopilot at work for the last fortnight.

  ‘Erm … hang on … no, actually, Raymond did it last week.’

  I’m so amazed I’ve managed to remember, I start grinning.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to give me a bit of a break, y’know?’

  To sneak to the pub between the dogs and the horses, angel that he is.

  ‘So you can explain why no banking’s been done since last Monday?’

  ‘Yes, there has. We banked money every day last week, twice on Friday.’

  It was Aintree, we were going like a fair. Ian slaps the pay-in book on the counter. I check the stubs. The last recorded pay-in was on 30th March. It’s in my handwriting.

  ‘I don’t understand. Maybe he filled in slips at the bank.’

  ‘And where would they be, if he’d done that?’

  ‘In the safe.’

  My whole body starts shaking as he goes through to the kitchen. I hear the keys jangling, the metal door squeaking open, then Ian roars my name. Staring into the very empty safe, my first impulse is to search his pockets. I drop to my knees, and pull up the square of lino that covers the floor safe.

  ‘Maybe he’s put it in here, since it was the weekend.’

  He watches me tremble and fuck about trying to unlock it before pushing me out the way and doing it himself. Sticking his hand into the hole, he fumbles about. Pulling the secret side panels off, he fumbles some more.

  ‘How unexpected.’

  As I gawp at the second empty space, I think about Debbie sloping off early. But the money we made after she left is missing as well. Even the bags of change are away. Ian taps his mobile.

  ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

  Wanker, I bet he’s waited his entire career for this. Isn’t he jumping the gun a bit, anyway? Raymond’s maybe come in early to take the money to the other shop and do the banking. I keep checking the two safes, thinking it’s some kind of illusion.

  Ian bleeps his phone off.

  ‘Did you leave here together on Saturday?’

  There’s not enough time to contemplate lying.

  ‘Aye, the relief went sick. We didn’t get away till about half-six.’

  Inexplicably, this makes him go King Kong ape-shit – cursing, banging his fists, ears purple, really going for his little moment of uncorroboratable power. If my employment wasn’t already teetering on the brink, I’d have him done for bullying.

  ‘So what the fuck were the pair of you doing at the function? Gloating? Trying to rub our fucking noses in it?’

  ‘Look, Ian, I know nothing about this.’

  ‘Save your breath,’ he spits, ‘Base Office are phoning down south for last week’s figures. We’re probably talking about 15 grand here, though. I hope your boyfriend to
ld you what to tell the police before he fucked off.’

  ‘Police!’

  A smile at last.

  ‘I can only go by what I saw the other night, Angela, but for your sake, I hope it wasn’t what it looked like.’

  I say nothing, scared to open my mouth till I know what’s going on. Claustrophobic from him towering over me like Moses, I go and lean on the counter.

  ‘D’you want to open up?’ I ask, for the sake of saying something.

  ‘Are you blind or just fucking stupid? We don’t even have a float. The fucking till rolls are gone. He’s probably taken the fucking tea bags as well. I’ve been back my holidays three days and I have to fucking deal with this.’

  I go back to the kitchen, to hide.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘If I do, I’ll make it myself.’

  What? Does the ridiculous wanker think I’m going to poison him and make a run for it? His mobile parps. Making a point of standing in the doorway so I can see him, he turns his back to me before speaking. Area Managers live for moments like this. It’s the nearest they ever get to 15 minutes of fame.

  ‘… there’s nothing left to tamper with … she’s still here. All right … see you shortly.’

  Leading me through the shop floor, he locks the counter behind us.

  ‘I’m going to get these figures for the police. Stay here,’ he says, rather gratuitously, since he’s holding me captive anyway.

  As soon as he leaves, the phone behind the counter starts ringing. I convince myself it’s Raymond. He’s waiting for me in the pub with a double Stoli and two plane tickets. I want to kick the door down, answer it, warn him off. He can’t do a runner till he speaks to me. Staring at the pay phone opposite, I repeat his number to myself. The one behind the counter stops ringing. I dig two ten-pence pieces out my pocket.

  His garbled message comes on before I realise they could trace the call, and chicken out. So fucking what, though? I try again but it’s engaged. He must be doing a 1471. He’s fucking there. I try again. Five rings, voice, click…

  ‘Raymond, please answer. It’s me.’

  This’ll end up as evidence if he doesn’t pick up.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’

  It’s a woman’s voice. I’d hang up, but how else can I get in touch with him?

  ‘It’s Angie from the shop. Is Raymond there?’ There’s a silence, ‘… hello … please.’

  ‘He’s not here.’ Her voice is empty, like she’s reading it off a page.

  ‘Please, I’ve no more money. Where can I contact him. It’s very important.’

  There’s a muffled noise, like she’s put her hand over the receiver.

  ‘Please … hello, is he there? Please …’

  ‘Can I give him a message?’

  The display’s flashing and I’ve no more change. Mumbling something about missing money and police, she seems to get the gist and hangs up. Fucking bitch. I hate her for answering his phone. I hate her for breathing.

  It starts to sink in, how bad things are looking for me, but I still can’t believe he’d implicate me like this. Surely he wasn’t that confident I’d bugger off with him on Saturday night that he didn’t even consider it. Did he do this all for us, only to have me knock him back?

  The shop door opens. Ian comes in with two policemen. They all look at me like I’m a child molester, then lock themselves behind the counter. One of them’s the Irish cop that came round when the guy threw the wobbly. He’ll have told Ian we were stinking of drink. As I cherish my last few moments of employment, I think about all the lassies who’ve topped themselves in Cornton Vale over the past few years.

  They talk, they laugh, they stare at me, they go through and look at the safes. Ian shows them the pay-in book. They all look at me again. Their walkie-talkies keep squawking, though, so I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m left stewing for half an hour before the two cops finally emerge and lead me to the far side of the shop. ‘Angela Scott, isn’t it? We met the other day. No more trouble there?’

  He didn’t think it was trouble then. His tone’s so chummy, it’s disconcerting. I only manage a nod.

  ‘… well, we have to take a statement off you about this. Your boss is closing the shop to get some figures for us, so if you’d like to come down the station.’

  ‘But I don’t know what happened either. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you won’t mind answering a few questions?’

  How can I? I can’t grass Raymond up, I’m in love with him.

  ‘But I told you, I’ve nothing to say.’

  The younger copper pulls out his notebook. The Irish one looks irritated. His tone confirms this.

  ‘Let me put it this way. You usually do the banking for this shop. Don’t you?’

  This being common knowledge, I figure I can’t implicate anyone by admitting it.

  ‘… so last week, completely out the blue, your manager decides he’s going to do it. And now both him and that money have disappeared. I’ll ask you again. Will you voluntarily come down the station to clarify a few things for us?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’d really rather not, not if I have an option.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to caution you. We have enough to detain you under Section 14(95) of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act.’

  What happened to the fifth amendment? This is blackmail.

  ‘If you take me in forcibly… y’know, do I have to say anything?’

  He laughs. The other policeman laughs. I despise the police.

  ‘That’s entirely up to you but, if you’re not involved, it might be a good idea.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I squeak.

  ‘That’s a new one,’ smirks the younger cop, springing into action. ‘You’re being cautioned with regards to the offence of theft. You are not obliged to say anything …’ It’s like a thousand cheesy crime dramas I’ve seen on the telly. Please let there be a commercial break soon. When he finishes his recitation, they let me get my bag from behind the counter.

  ‘We’ll be in touch with your P45,’ whispers Ian through his little brown teeth.

  As we drive past our pub in the panda car, I half expect the barmaids to come out and give me the finger. Please make Raymond already be at the station. Will they put us in the same cell if he is?

  Two hours alone in a bleak, tiny room without so much as a cup of tea helps reality to sink in. Where the fuck are you, Raymond? Will I ever see you again, outside the Sheriff Court? I hear the loud clunk of the door being unlocked and a ten-year-old boy in a uniform leads me to a room down the hall. A grey-haired mean-looking bitch in a two-piece suit comes in and introduces herself as DS Duffy. Typical, I get the only cop in Scotland that isn’t a Mason. She switches on the tape recorder (tape recorder? Who do they think I am? Rosemary West?).

  The first few questions aren’t too bad – formalities, like, name, address, work history and responsibilities – so I answer them. Then it starts to get a bit hairy and I wish I’d kept my gob shut.

  ‘Did you go anywhere with Mr Ramage after the function on Saturday night?’

  ‘No comment.’

  She raises her eyebrows at the ten-year-old.

  ‘Was Mr Ramage carrying anything when you left the shop that evening?’

  Fuck, the hold-all.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you having a relationship with Mr Ramage?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Squeaking her chair back, she stares at the ceiling. In her head she’s Helen Mirren, except her chin’s not as hairy.

  ‘Look Angela, I don’t know what you’ve been watching on telly but, if you continue being evasive, you’re going to end up in a lot of trouble. Personally, I think it’s unlikely you’d have turned up for work this morning if you knew your boyfriend had taken the money. I’d say he’d done a runner and left you in the shit. You know what I’m saying? If you want to keep answering no comment to defend someone who’d do that to you, go
ahead. Just bear in mind he’s not in the next room trying to defend you.’

  We have a break to give me time to mull this over whilst weeping uncontrollably. What does he expect me to do? Why didn’t he tell me? I’ll do or say whatever means I’ll see him soonest. At least if they put him in jail, I’d know where he was, he wouldn’t be with his wife. I could visit him, sort my life out for him being released. If they lock me up, though, I’ll never see him. He could be trying to get in touch with me at this very moment. Just talk, get out, find him. Let him explain, then fuck me senseless, or fuck me senseless, then explain. I decide to co-operate.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  JONI

  FIRST DAY OF the holidays and I’m bored already. Rosie’s at the doctor’s with her mum, getting referred to a shrink, so she’ll talk about John. I wasn’t aware she had any other topic of conversation. It’s stupid, anyway. Royalty shag their uncles. Is it just wrong when poor folk do it? And the Asian lassies I know have arranged marriages at 14, but they’re supposed to be religious fanatics.

  I’ve decided to leave school, rather than waste the next fortnight worrying about exams. I got an application form from the video shop yesterday. Exams are pointless. The only subject I failed last year was business studies but still the careers officer thought office work was my only option. He suggested I start as a filing clerk, then work my way up to the typing pool, through night classes. Aye, right, I’d sooner get meningitis.

  To reward myself for filling the form in, I decide to try John again. Besides, my period’s stopped for five minutes so I want to make the most of it. I’m wearing the black platform ankle boots I stole from Clark’s last week. I was going to pay, but the assistant took so long I got pissed off. I’ve also got on these fab purple bell-bottoms I pinched out a posh shop in Stockbridge. They were supposed to be £65. The black ribbed top I bought myself but, naturally, with money stolen from Mum. I’m ready as I’ll ever be.