Art
Art
Art said goodbye to Lydia, who was going to take Maggie home for a well-deserved rest before her big day tomorrow. He suddenly felt unbearably, unimaginably tired. Was all this effort a terrible waste of time?
He picked up the bags containing the costumes and props, and carried them to the storage cupboard in the hall. The hall was filled with parents and carers, collecting the children from the nursery. He felt an overwhelming urge to be alone, just for a moment. He quietly pushed the door to the cupboard open, slipping into the gloom behind it and placing his bags down in the corner. The room was filled with spare chairs and tables, so he groped for the nearest chair and sat down heavily, burying his head in his hands.
He needed a few minutes alone to breathe and pull himself together.
“Hello,” said a familiar voice from the corner.
Art started so violently that he nearly tipped his chair over.
“Daphne!” he said. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“I could ask you the same,” she replied.
“I was putting the costumes away,” said Art. “And I just needed to escape for a few minutes.”
“Ah. Well, I also need to escape,” said Daphne. “But rather more permanently.”
Art wasn’t at all sure where to start with this extraordinary statement.
“Why?” he said.
“I’ve been hiding for so long, Art,” she said. “I don’t mean here, in this cupboard; I mean for the past fifteen years. I’ve done some terrible things, and now it’s all catching up with me.”
“Hey,” said Art, reaching through the dark to hold her hand. It felt softer than he’d imagined. Fragile. And he had a strange urge—which he resisted, of course—to stroke it. “I’ve done some awful things, too, as you know. You don’t get to our age with a completely unblemished record. Not unless you’ve not lived. The trick is just to try to ensure the balance falls on the side of the good.”
“That’s kind of you, old man,” said Daphne. “But you really don’t know me. You don’t even know my name. And your part-time shoplifting hobby is nothing like what I’ve done. Not that it’s a competition.”
“What is your name, then?” said Art.
“Delilah,” said Daphne. “Delilah Jones.”
The hallway outside had gone quiet. They heard a voice say, “Come along, Maggie, let’s get you home,” and the sound of the heavy outer door closing. And a key turning in the lock.
“Oh, bollocks,” said Art as the implications hit him. “She’s locked us in. How on earth are we going to get out? We could be here all night!”
Daphne just shrugged, as if that were the very least of her problems.
“Do you want to tell me about it, Daffy,” said Art, “as it looks like we’re both stuck here together for a while?”
“I guess there’s no harm in telling the story now,” said Daphne. “Since in a day or two I’ll either be arrested or dead, or, if I’m lucky, I’ll be somewhere else, pretending to be someone else.”
“This sounds like a story that needs to be accompanied by tea and cake. Why don’t you stay there, and I’ll see what Lydia’s left in the fridge?” said Art.
By the time Art returned with two steaming mugs of tea and generous slabs of cake, Daphne had uncovered a portable electric heater and found a couple of abandoned coats, one of which she’d spread over her knees.
“I found some of Jeremy’s wine, too,” said Art, pulling a bottle out of his coat pocket. “Right, talk. I guess this all has to do with your husband? Jack, wasn’t it? You told me that he wasn’t what he seemed.”
“Yes. It turned out he was a thief, too. But on a much more impressive scale than you. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Art.
“It was impossible to be married to Jack and not get involved. I convinced myself that our crimes were victimless. The only people who suffered from our scams and robberies were the insurance companies and the very rich, who should have been spreading their wealth around more fairly, in any case. They’d inherited their money and their jewels, in most instances. We, on the other hand, had worked for them.”
Daphne, who wasn’t Daphne, paused to sip her tea. Art, who was completely au fait with this type of self-justification, nodded, but stayed silent, not wanting to break the spell.
“And I was good at it, too,” said Daphne. “I was better than Jack, or any of his men, at the strategizing, the delegating, the contingency planning. And I made sure everyone stuck to a strict moral code: no killing, play fair, look after each other.”
This, Art realized, would explain Daphne’s seamless planning and execution of Lydia’s Revenge.
“But I didn’t realize that there was a whole other side to Jack’s business that he kept from me. Drugs, mainly. And that game wasn’t being played fairly. People were being killed—both directly and indirectly. But by the time I found out, I couldn’t leave. I was too deeply embedded. Jack would never have let me go. His pride wouldn’t have allowed it and, besides, I knew all the secrets.”
Art wasn’t sure if he was expected to say anything. And he didn’t know what to say, in any case. So he settled for, “Are you going to eat that cake?” Daphne shook her head and gestured for him to take it.
“So, as soon as our last job was finished—a huge jewelry heist—I gave the police an anonymous tip-off. Where to find them all, along with enough evidence to put them inside for years, to stop them ruining more lives. And I ran away. And became Daphne,” said Daphne, looking as wrung-out as he felt.
“OK. You win,” said Art, after a long silence. “Definitely more impressive than my shoplifting hobby.”
Daphne smiled. “I thought I told you it wasn’t a competition,” she said. “I always win competitions.”
“This needs wine,” said Art. “But we don’t have a bottle opener.”
“That’s what you think,” said Daphne as she pulled a slim corkscrew from her bun. How did she always manage to produce exactly what was needed? The woman really was a witch. Although an impressively useful one.
“Why didn’t you ask for police protection in exchange for information?” said Art as he poured the wine into the two empty mugs.
“Because Jack had friends everywhere ,” said Daphne. “Including in the police. I’d never have been safe. At least this way, I thought, maybe they’d not know for sure it was me who’d given the tip-off. And the police weren’t looking for me. I told you about making the stereotypes work to your advantage?”
Art nodded.
“Well, they didn’t believe that a woman could have planned all of that. A fifty-five-year-old woman. They thought they had their men all bang to rights. And the gang wouldn’t have given me up. Even if they’d suspected I was a grass, they’d have dealt with me themselves, not let the police do it. Honor among thieves, and all that,” said Daphne.
“So what’s changed?” said Art.
“Well, I came across a small article in a newspaper, a few months ago. It said Jack had died, in the prison infirmary. Lung cancer. So, when my seventieth birthday came around, I thought, Why not try living again? You see, I’d created my own prison, which was what I thought I deserved. I’d hardly left my apartment for fifteen years. I thought maybe now I’d done my time, paid my dues. I thought perhaps I’d finally be safe, that the ravages of age could provide the best disguise,” said Daphne.
“But I’d stupidly kept hold of the jewelry. And now the police have one of the necklaces. It won’t be long before they put two and two together. Also, that awful meme of me must have been noticed by one of the men I’d put away, because someone’s been round here, asking after Delilah Jones. I don’t expect they’re looking for a chat and a cup of tea.”
“What are you going to do?” said Art.
“I have a bag packed ready in a locker at St. Pancras, the Eurostar terminal,” said Daphne. “I was just waiting for the talent show. And I need another new name, and a passport. But I no longer have the contacts for that kind of thing.”
Art put his arm around Daphne, or Delilah, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. They sat in silence, her head growing heavier and heavier, and her breathing deeper, until eventually she fell asleep.
Art’s arm started going numb, but he didn’t dare move it. Daphne looked like she badly needed a few hours of oblivion.
Art had realized some time ago that it would be easy for them to get out of the hall. All they had to do was phone Lydia and ask her to come back and unlock the door. But Daphne, for all her clever strategizing, obviously hadn’t thought of that.
Or perhaps she, like him, preferred to be right here, right now, than anywhere else.