Chapter Twenty-Seven Jade
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jade
After work, I slip out the back door of The Oak, avoiding the kitchen crew’s litany of shared complaints, and duck into the alley behind the pub.
It’s freezing – my breath comes out in dragon puffs, wreathed in the sickly glow of the security lamp – and my backpack is so overstuffed it’s threatening to split at the seams. The adrenaline buzz that powered me through my shift is ebbing, replaced by the prickling tingle of nerves, like static running up my arms.
I pace in tight circles, boot soles crunching on frost, and try to keep my hands busy.
Every few seconds I check my phone, skipping from eBay and Marketplace to Gumtree, Depop, and Vinted, checking my listings and balances.
It’s all mounting up nicely. After my initial credit-card spree at Westquay last week, I managed to sell almost nine hundred quid’s worth of stuff.
It was such a buzz. But I’m going to need a hell of a lot more than that.
Maybe even ten times that amount. I still have Bella’s taupe Mulberry bag that retails for just under a grand, but every time I went to photograph it, I got the creeping fear that she’d reported it stolen and that some hidden algorithm would trace it back to me.
Luckily, I came up with another idea for how to get rid of it.
I also decided my only option to get the money I need quickly was to return to Bella’s flat, while she was at work, for one last rummage. So that’s what I did, fully prepared with a backpack this time.
Instead of hitting the obvious stuff – the showpiece heels and the brand-name items I know she’s worn on Insta – I went straight for the back of the closet, the dead zone where even Bella’s compulsive tidiness couldn’t quite reach.
There, bunched between garment bags and vacuum-sealed puffer coats, I found a treasure trove – half a dozen silk tops with the tags still attached, a couple of boxed purses, even a pair of sunglasses so expensive they came with their own authenticity certificate.
I got that shivery, over-caffeinated feeling as I unzipped a battered overnight bag and found it stuffed with old receipts, spiral-bound planners, and more than a few loose tenners and twenties.
I took those, too. My guess was that Bella didn’t even know they were there.
On my way out, I paused at her dressing table, which looked like it belonged in a movie star’s dressing room – glass perfume bottles, facial rollers, a lipstick in every possible shade.
I’d ignored it on my first visit, but this time I paid more attention.
Nestled in the middle was a large, pink, velvet jewellery box.
I opened it, half expecting a tinkly ballerina.
Instead, there were layers of chains, bracelets, rings, and earrings that I’m fairly certain cost more than Mum’s flat.
I picked out a few of the shinier bits and dropped them into my pocket.
I also got lucky when I pulled open a couple of drawers and found gift bags of unopened make-up.
I stuffed a few in my rucksack, then carefully shuffled the remaining contents so it wouldn’t look like anything had been disturbed.
Stealing, it turns out, is only the first chapter. Fencing the spoils is a completely different operation, and that’s where things get complicated.
Getting the jewellery appraised was a non-starter.
The man behind the glass at Cash Converters took one look at me, then at the gold, and handed it back without even squinting through his magnifying glass thingy.
I left the place shaking, convinced I’d already been reported to the police.
That experience made me too nervous to try the local pawn shops in case they did the same.
I guess online reselling is simple enough if you’re a normal punter flogging your ex-boyfriend’s hoodie, but when you have a stash of ill-gotten handbags, designer clothes, and enough high-end make-up to paint a mural, you need to be a touch more creative.
So I started small, listing the least eye-catching items first – the silk tops, the boxed purses, the unopened make-up.
It was a slow trickle of sales to begin with, but every completed transaction made me feel a little more invincible, like I was levelling up in a video game.
Still, even with everything combined, I’ve barely scraped together ￡1,300.
So now here I am, huddled in the alley, watching my breath fog in the lamplight, until I spot Dodgy Steve loping towards me in his usual uniform of anorak and Saints scarf, rolling a spliff with the kind of efficiency that can only be achieved through a lifetime of total dedication to his art.
I have to admit, I like Steve. He’s funny, but not in a way that’s performative; he’s not trying to be charming, he just is, more often by accident.
The moment he spots me, the corners of his mouth twitch up, and he stashes the unlit spliff behind his ear. His eyes flicker with interest as I swing the heavy backpack off my shoulder. ‘What you got for me, then, Jadey?’
I unzip the bag that’s crammed to the brim, and let him take a look.
For the briefest instant, I catch a micro-smirk – eyebrows arched, eyes hungry – but he quickly schools his features back to lazy indifference, as if he’s doing me a favour just by looking.
He picks up a pair of Balenciaga trainers, turning them over to inspect the soles, like he’s weighing fruit at a market.
‘Hmm, might be able to shift these,’ he says, but his face has already betrayed him.
He knows their value. Knows someone will bite his arm off for them at the right price. ‘Where d’you get these? Off a corpse?’
‘No corpses. Just an heiress with poor impulse control.’ I keep it breezy. ‘You can offload them then?’
‘I can give it a go,’ Steve replies, tucking one shoe under his arm and rummaging deeper. He finds the jewellery next, and his eyebrows shoot up. ‘And what’s this little treasure trove, eh? Planning to open your own Argos?’
I shrug, but my heart’s in my throat. ‘I figured you might have an outlet for this kind of stuff.’
‘Where’d you get it?’ He immediately mimes zipping his lips.
‘No, best not tell me. I don’t want to know, right?
’ He glances around, less for the police and more for rivals, then drops the gold back into my bag.
‘You’re a dangerous one, Jade.’ He pulls out boxed purses and brand-new designer perfumes, nodding at each new discovery.
Every time he finds something he likes, he gives a little grunt – sometimes a whistle, sometimes a grunt–whistle hybrid.
‘That’s all of it?’ he asks when he reaches the bottom of the bag.
‘Yep,’ I confirm.
He nods. ‘I’ll take it all off your hands, but some of that stuff might be too recognisable, if you know what I mean?’
We spend the next ten minutes haggling. Steve starts off with a number so insulting I nearly walk away on the spot, but I can tell he’s just posturing. When he sees I’m in no mood for games, he relents, and we settle on a figure that at least gets me nearer my target.
Money changes hands and, even here, away from prying eyes, it’s a furtive, ritualistic gesture, like passing a note in class. I don’t check the cash until I’m back home, but I know instinctively it’ll all be there. Steve has his own code of honour, warped though it is.
I pass him the backpack. ‘Bring me the bag back next time you’re in, yeah?’
He nods. ‘Planning on any more like this?’ he asks airily. But I’m not fooled by his nonchalant attitude.
‘Maybe, not sure.’ I shrug. I don’t think I can risk going back to the flat. Not unless I really have to.
‘If you do, I’ll take a look,’ he adds. ‘Not promising anything though. Have to see how I get on with this lot first.’
I nod, although I’m hoping to put this new life of debt and petty crime behind me. I need to focus on the future. On my new life of ease and comfort.
We stand awkwardly for a moment, like two kids who’ve just swapped Pokémon cards in the playground.
After a beat, Steve reaches up to his ear and removes the spliff.
He lights up, takes a deep drag, and spits a flake of tobacco from his tongue.
He grins at me with a kind of lopsided affection, and I see the gold crown on his canine flashing in the yellow streetlight.
He doesn’t smile like he’s happy; more like he’s making a bet with me about whether either of us are going to get out of this alley alive.
He offers it to me, and I hesitate just long enough to be cool, then take it. I’ve only ever smoked weed when someone handed it to me, and always with the same feeling, like it’s a ritual you’re not sure you believe in but you don’t want to offend the other person.
I inhale and it scrapes at my throat in a way that makes me think of hospital disinfectant.
I blow the smoke out slowly, watching it curl like a ribbon into the darkness.
For a heartbeat, it looks like I’m breathing fire.
Our quiet camaraderie takes the edge off the cold and the fact that I have basically become a member of Southampton’s criminal underclass.
Steve looks me up and down, not creepily, more curious. ‘This new side-hustle suits you, Jadey. You look good with your hair and whatnot.’ He gestures to my overall appearance.
‘Thanks. Gone back to my natural colour and started working out a bit.’ I toke on the spliff again, and this time it hits pure in the back of my throat. I pass it back.
He takes it with a nod and, for a few breaths, we just stand here, passing it back and forth.
The night is chilly enough to make my nose run, and I have to keep sniffing, like a kid in an unheated classroom.
The city sounds different at this hour, the normal traffic and shouting replaced by the distant wail of sirens and the scuttle of foxes.