Home and Dry

Venezuela: Present Day

Reaching into the far corner of the cupboard, Daniela slides a box out of the way and wiggles her fingers until they hook the delicate metal chain. She plucks the pendant free and smiles as she lets it swing back and forth, the violet blue stones glinting in the sunlight.

She’s about to slip the necklace into her jeans pocket when she notices the old lady sitting beside her. Daniela jumps, her hand flying to her throat. How long’s she been there? She didn’t hear the telltale click of the patio doors or the woman’s slippers shuffling along the tiled hallway. And yet here she is, perched in the armchair, pretending to read.

“Mrs. Carmichael. You startled me,” says Daniela. “I thought you were outside on the balcony.”

“I’m sure you did,” says the old lady, narrowing her eyes and nodding. “I’m sure you did.”

Daniela shivers as Mrs. Carmichael sets down her book and reclines in the chair. There’s something unnerving about the woman. Maybe it’s the chilly smile that never quite reaches her pale blue eyes. Or perhaps it’s her cold, clipped accent. There’s got to be a reason why the baddies in films are always English.

“I’ve finished all the cleaning and I’ve emptied the cupboard for you,” stammers Daniela, waving her arm at the pile of boxes behind her. “I’ll be back on Friday to put everything away once you’ve had chance to sort through it.”

As she takes a step backwards, she knocks one of the packages, its contents spilling across the carpet. Daniela gasps. Surely not. It can’t be. Why would Mrs. Carmichael have a…

“That’ll be all for today, thank you Daniela,” says Mrs. Carmichael, springing from the chair and kicking the object out of sight. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

Daniela’s snatches her bag and scurries from the room. Shaking her head, she takes one last look at the woman before slamming the front door closed.

* **

Stella chuckles as she leans on the arm of the chair and lowers herself onto the rug. Daniela had almost tripped over her own feet in her haste to flee the house. Perhaps now she’ll think twice about helping herself to my jewelry.

As she scoops up the scattered paperwork, a passport tumbles to the floor. Pulling herself into the seat, Stella opens the stiff blue cover and stares at the smiling face in the photograph. The blue eyes look familiar, but it’s been years since she’s thought about the woman.

Margaret Stapleton, she says out loud, closing her eyes.

* **

England: 1967

Maggie fidgets in her seat, elbowing her Uncle John in the ribs as she wrenches the flaps of her coat free. “Watch out,” he tuts, looking up from his newspaper and glaring at her. She returns his scowl and slumps against the passenger door.

She’s desperate to stretch out her legs, but the driver’s seat is pushed way back, her brother Gareth sprawled out in front. Next to him, her dad drums his fingers on his knees, his feet tapping up and down making the entire car shake.

She rubs her coat sleeve across the fogged-up window, clearing a patch in the condensation. As the water dribbles down the glass, she stares at the distorted clockface on the building opposite. It’s quarter to five. Fifteen minutes to go.

Gareth rips open another packet of pickled onion flavor crisps, shoveling a handful into his mouth. She curls her lip as he licks the bright orange crumbs from his fingers and wipes his hands on his black trousers.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Gareth twists round in his seat and offers her the bag. She shakes her head. “Suit yourself,” he says, tipping the last of the crisps into his mouth.

Maggie stares out of the window and wishes she was at home. Or anywhere else. She’s got an essay due in the morning and so far, she hasn’t written a single word.

I’ll never pass my bloody law course. I don’t know why they drag me along with them. It’s not like I’m any help or…

She stiffens in her seat when her dad glances over his shoulder and says: “Showtime. Let’s go.”

With his hand on the car door, he pulls the balaclava down over his face.

* **

The clock strikes five as they race up the steps to the bank. The female employee drops the keys and staggers back into the lobby as a sawn-off shotgun is thrust in her face.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she stutters, raising her hands in the air, her eyes wild and darting from side to side.

Her dad seizes the woman’s arm and pushes her towards the back office, her feet slipping on the marbled floor. Gareth kicks open the door, and three faces pop up from behind their desks, switching from irritation to shock and fear. Maggie feels immune to their terror. She’s seen it all before.

Her Uncle John perches on the one of the desks, his legs swinging back and forth, his fingers spinning the barrel of the revolver.

“I’m sure everyone has things they’d rather be doing tonight, so let’s not muck about,” he says. “Open the safe and we’ll be on our way.”

Beside her Gareth sniggers, the balaclava muffling his laugh. They really enjoy this, Maggie thinks, clamping her eyes shut.

When she opens them again, Maggie sees the man with steel grey hair rise out of his chair and trudge to the vault in the corner. He pulls a set of keys out of his waistcoat pocket and pauses. Taking a deep breath, he cranks the lever on the front of the safe and opens the door.

* **

“Get in! Get in!” her dad yells as they run towards the filthy gold Ford Cortina. They’ve already ripped off their balaclavas as Gareth rams the key into the ignition. Maggie lurches to her left, her head cracking against the window as their car screeches away from the curb.

Over the noise of the engine, she hears the alarm from the bank followed by the unmistakable wail of police sirens. Her uncle laughs and pounds his seat: “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

Gareth accelerates into a side road before slowing down at the junction and merging into traffic on the bypass. Her dad grips the dashboard, his head swiveling left and right.

Nothing. There isn’t a police car in sight.

Her dad whoops, punching the air: “We’re home and dry. I told you this one would be easy. They might as well have left the safe door open.”

“We should celebrate,” says Uncle John leaning between the front seats. “All this excitement has given me an appetite. Stop by the chippy at the end of Westwood Road, Gareth. I’m starving.”

* **

Maggie keeps her head down, trying to blend in with the pale green kitchen walls. With any luck they’ll be too engrossed in the footy match to notice her. Maybe.

Fat chance.

“Get us the ketchup Mags,” says Gareth, rocking on two chair legs, grease oozing down his chin.

“Get it yourself,” she says, kicking the back chair leg, sending her brother crashing forward, the beer bottles tottering on the table.

“Where are you off to?” says her dad, scrunching up his leftovers in the newspaper wrapper. “And why aren’t you eating your dinner?”

“I’m not hungry. And I need to finish my essay before class tomorrow.”

“You’re wasting your time. We’re not going to be here much longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here and finishing my course.”

Her dad bashes his fist down and glares at her, his eyes glittery and dangerous: “We’ve got one more job and then that’s it. We’re moving to Spain. You included.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she yells, flinching as her dad leaps up, his chair clattering to the tiled floor.

She ducks underneath his outstretched arm and pounds upstairs to her room. The house quivers as the door slams shut. She grips the handle and presses her weight against the wooden panels, fearing her dad will come crashing through and give her something to cry about.

She holds her breath and listens, expecting to hear his feet thundering up the stairs.

Nothing. Just a low hum from footy game on the television.

She waits a few moments, her heart thumping in her chest. She trudges across to the window and wrenches the net curtain to one side. The streetlamps form small circles of light in the gloom, the shadows from the tree branches shifting in the breeze, making the road look menacing and unfamiliar. Mrs. Armstrong’s ratty little dog pokes its head through the gap in the fence, yapping at the boys from next door as they hammer their football against the metal bin.

Maggie lowers her eyes as she catches sight of her reflection in the glass. She doesn’t belong here. With them. Her dad and his loathsome brother.

And I can’t believe that Gareth and I are related either. He’s such a waste of…

She freezes as the chanting from downstairs grows more boisterous, her Uncle John’s obnoxious honking laugh filtering through the floorboards. Ipswich must be winning. Crossing to her bed, she yanks the sheets and blanket back and throws herself down onto the mattress.

Why did her mum have to leave her here with them. She doesn’t blame her for wanting to get away from her dad, but…

Why didn’t you take me with you?

It seemed like one minute her mum was there and the next she’d vanished. No word. No letter. Nothing. Her dad said they were better off without her. Good riddance to bad rubbish he said.

Maggie’s eyes prickle as she watches the headlights from passing cars sweep across her ceiling. She won’t cry. She won’t.

All she knows is that she’s got to get away from them.

* **

She hears them bickering in the lounge as she throws her coat over the hook and kicks her shoes into the downstairs cupboard.

“There she is,” says her dad, appearing in the entryway, sucking on a bottle of beer. “Where’ve you been?”

“At college. I told you.”

“And I told you there was no point.”

She tries to brush past him, but her bag strap snags on the handle, jerking her backwards. She cowers against the doorframe as her dad lunges for her, snatching her arm and shoving her onto the sofa next to her uncle. She bunches her hands into fists as she hears Gareth snickering from the armchair.

“Now shut up and listen,” says her dad, pausing in front of her. “We’ve got one more job and then we’re off to Spain. All of us.”

Maggie refuses to look at him. At any of them. Of all the places they could go in the world, and they choose Spain. How unoriginal.

“Oi. Are you listening,” asks her uncle poking her in the side. “You’re as bad as your mother.”

“What do you mean?”

Her uncle stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately lights another. Maggie’s eyes follow the plume of smoke as it curls upwards, circling the light fitting and snaking along the yellowed ceiling.

“Well?” she asks, flinching as her uncle blows a smoke ring in her face.

“Always thinking she was better than us,” he says between puffs. “Saying we should find proper jobs rather than, well…. Anyway, your dad sorted her out.”

“I thought she left.”

“Something like that,” says her uncle smirking and winking at her dad.

Maggie sits quite still, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling the heat blister inside her body. What did he do to her mum? She knew she wouldn’t have just left.

Why did I ever doubt her?

“Pipe down,” says her dad, adjusting the sound on the television set and lounging on the arm of the chair.

They stare at the screen as a gaunt looking policeman is grilled by some reporter about the gang of armed bank robbers wreaking havoc across Suffolk.

The man coughs, adjusting his tie: “We’re chasing several possible leads. It’s only a matter of time before we catch the men behind these frightening and…”

“You couldn’t catch a cold,” laughs her dad, reaching over and swiping a cigarette from the packet.

Maggie inches forward in her seat, hoping she can sneak upstairs when another younger, much more handsome, policeman appears on the screen.

“Pretty boy,” calls her uncle.

She rests her elbows on her knees, craning her head forward and struggling to hear what he’s saying over the catcalls and jeers.

“… Just been speaking to the staff member who was threatened with a sawn-off shotgun, and I promised her we’d bring the men to justice…”

Maggie likes his strong jaw and the way his brown eyes sparkle. Oh, and the dimples in his cheeks. What was he called again? Detective Sergeant James Murphy. She says his name over and over in her head.

“Jesus. Earth to Margaret,” says her dad, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “Pin your ears back. We’re going through the plan for Worthington’s Bank.”

She only half listens as they bicker about who’s driving and whether it’s best to hit the bank at closing time or in the middle of the day. They could be discussing the weather or what groceries they needed from the shop.

“Sounds good to me,” says her dad, perching on the window ledge. “Do something useful and grab us a beer Maggie.”

She stomps through to the kitchen, clicking the radio on and grabbing a beer from the fridge. Maggie wrinkles her nose as she takes in the milk bottle left on the side and greasy fingerprints on the kettle. She can’t take this anymore. What’s the point in…

She spins round when she hears the song on the radio. Elvis Presley belting out Jailhouse Rock. She closes her eyes and smiles. She remembers how her mum would grab her hand and they’d sing and dance around the kitchen together. They’d have so much fun when her dad wasn’t at home. Or her shifty Uncle John.

Maggie leans against the doorframe. The song must be a sign. Her mum is telling her what she needs to do.

* **

She hesitates, lingering by the brick wall, watching the door open and close, a steady stream of people filing in and out of the building. Maggie clamps her eyes shut and thinks about her mum. Is this really what she would have done? There’ll be no turning back if she goes through with it.

Taking a deep breath, she hurtles up the concrete steps and into the police station before she has chance to change her mind. She slams her hands down on the front desk and asks to speak to Detective Sergeant James Murphy.

“What’s it about love?” asks the man, looking her up and down, uncoiling the phone cord between his finger and thumb.

“The bank robberies.”

The man raises one bushy eyebrow: “Okay love. If you say so. I’ll call him now.”

She runs her hand through her hair, cringing as she listens to the man say: “Yep, young lady at the front desk, Sarge, reckons she can help you with the robberies.”

He points to a wooden bench in the corner, telling her to take a seat and wait. She’s only just sat down, is still fumbling with the strap of her bag, when the door opens and there he is, standing just a few feet away. He’s even better looking than she remembered.

Maggie feels her cheeks flush as he shakes her hand and leads her through the maze of corridors behind the front desk. She peeps inside the rooms as they stride by; men hunched over desks, huge maps on the wall. Telephones ringing and ringing. The smell of stale cigarettes makes her think of home. And her dad. Best not. She doesn’t want to think about him right now. He’d kill her if he knew where she was.

“I meant to say, you can call me Jim,” he says sliding into the chair opposite her and pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee?”

She shakes her head. She just wants to get this over and done with. Besides she’s shaking so much, she’d spill the drink all over the place.

“Okay then Margaret,” he says. “What’s all this about you knowing the bank robbers?”

And so, she tells him, about the bank robberies and the guns and the final job before they clear off to Spain. Her voice wobbles when she tells him about her mum disappearing and how she’s positive her dad and uncle had something to do with it.

“That’s quite a tale Margaret,” says Jim, sinking back in his chair, stroking his mustache. “Why now? Why give them up?”

“I don’t want this anymore. I never have,” she says, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. “It’s why I decided to study law.”

“Alright Margaret, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, tearing a sheet of paper from his notebook and writing down a number. “Call me the minute you know anything about the next job. They’ll be someone at the office round the clock and they’ll be able to get hold of me. Okay?”

She nods and folds the piece of paper in half, tucking it inside her pocket. Her cheeks flush again when he tells her he’s proud of her for doing the right thing and he looks forward to hearing from her.

Maggie’s still thinking about the Jim’s kind, brown eyes, and the way he stroked his mustache, when she pushes open the front door. Her dad whips into the hallway before she’s even taken off her coat.

“You look shifty Maggie. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” she says, turning to hang her jacket on the peg so he can't see her face.

“Better had be nothing,” he mutters. “You need to get your head out of the bloody clouds before Wednesday. One last job and then on Thursday it’s Spain here we come.”

Wednesday? So soon? That’s the day after tomorrow.

Maggie pauses in the doorway peering through the fug of cigarette smoke as her uncle shuffles a pack of cards and suggests a game of poker.

“Only if we’re going to play by the rules,” says Gareth, huffing. “You guys’ always cheat.”

Their squabbling becomes more heated, and she hears the tinkle of breaking glass as she slips out of the house. She creeps along the path until she reaches the pavement, glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody’s following her. She’s clear.

Maggie sprints to the phone box at the end of the street, her hands shaking as she fumbles for the change in her pocket. Her hands are still trembling after she’s made the call.

“Leave it to us now Margaret,” Jim had told her after she shared all she knew about the next bank robbery. “You’ve done the right thing.”

Later as she lies on her bed listening to the raised voices downstairs, she wonders if she really has done the right thing. Should she have snitched on her own family?

Too late now, she whispers, closing her eyes.

***

Maggie rests her head against the cold glass. She feels quite sick. The tension in the car is feverish, making it hard to breathe. Her dad paws at his face, his legs jolting up and down.

“I don’t know,” says her dad, raking his hands through his hair. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

“What? Just because you couldn’t find your lucky socks,” scoffs Gareth.

“And I didn’t realize you were so superstitious about seeing a single magpie,” says her uncle, folding his newspaper in half and jamming it in the side pocket.

“I don’t know. I think we should leave it.”

Maggie’s throat tightens. Oh no. They can’t. What will Jim think if the robbery doesn’t go ahead. He’ll never believe anything she tells him. She looks out of the window and smiles when she thinks about his voice. It had sounded so warm and gravelly when they’d spoken on the phone. He really is rather lovely and…

“… The plane tickets are booked. We’ve got to do this,” snaps her uncle. “We said we would. Now stop being so bloody wet. You’re acting like a girl.”

“Fine,” hisses her dad, pushing the car door open. “Let’s go.”

The male cashier takes one look at their guns and takes a step back, his hands in the air. Gareth sniggers and pushes him to the floor, kicking the door open. Her dad and uncle scramble in behind him and Maggie sees the confusion on her dad’s face as they’re met by a group of armed cops.

Gareth raises his gun and is walloped by one of the officers. “Not today, sunshine,” he says, snapping cuffs on her brother’s hands.

She shivers as she watches her dad, squirming and yelling as he’s dragged to the police van. Jim appears at her side and drapes his coat around her shoulders.

“You?” yells her dad, dropping to his knees. “You were the one who told the cops?”

“I did it for mum.”

“You’ll regret it,” he hisses. “I’ll do the same thing to you. You might be seeing your mum sooner than you think.”

The policeman bundles her dad into the back of the van and slams the door closed, sparing her from listening to any more of his threats. She doesn’t take her eyes off the police van as it pulls out of the bank car park.

Adios losers. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

“Are you sure you’re going to be, okay?” Jim asks, pulling up at her house and turning off the car’s ignition.

She nods. She’s going to be okay; she knows it.

“And you don’t have any idea about where they’ve stashed the money and jewelry?

“No, not a clue,” says Maggie. “I never paid any attention. I didn’t want to be involved at all.”

“Not to worry. We’ll just have to wait and see what your dad and uncle have to say. Apparently, your brother was singing like a canary before we even got him in the van.”

“They’re all as bad as each other,” she says, shaking her head. “Everyone in my family is a criminal.”

As she undoes her seatbelt, Jim reaches across and clasps her hand: “I’d really like to thank you for what you did. Maybe once this is all over, we could go out for a drink, or dinner?”

“Maybe,” says Maggie blushing. “I’d like that.”

She watches his car glide away from the curb and doesn’t let herself into the house until his taillights disappear round the corner of her road.

* **

Venezuela: present day:

Stella smooths the newspaper cutting on her lap, her fingers tracing the headline: ‘Margaret Stapleton and the Mystery of the Missing Millions’.

It’s true. She couldn’t believe how much money was stuffed behind the false wall in her dad’s bedroom cupboard. Literally millions. Enough money to start a new life in South America anyway. And Venezuela was certainly more imaginative than Spain.

Although Spain is probably better than prison, she smirks. Judging by the photographs snapped at the time, her dad was just as surprised as she was by the sentence – life behind bars with no option for parole.

Harsh but fair, she thinks. A life for a life. She wishes her mum could have been there to see justice done.

Stella’s eyes scan the rest of the article, although she’s read it so many times, she knows it by heart.

Heart. Her hand clutches her chest. She still feels bad about running out on Jim, but not bad enough to have stayed. If only she could have spoken to him, perhaps explained. Confessed?

“We haven’t given up,” says Detective Sergeant James Murphy. “We’re still hunting for Margaret Stapleton and the money. It’s like they both vanished into thin air, but one day we’ll find them.”

I don’t think so, laughs Stella, reaching underneath her chair and removing the revolver that had sent Daniela scuttling from the house earlier.

She’s still chuckling when the bell rings. She flinches. Who’s that? Stella jams the gun into her apron pocket and shuffles along the hallway, inching the door open.

She rubs at her eyes, not trusting what she sees. It’s Daniela and a man. A man with dark brown eyes and a strong jaw. Oh, and those dimples. It can’t be. It’s not possible. It must be a…

“I’m not a ghost, if that’s what you’re thinking Stella, or should I call you Margaret,” he says, catching her elbow as she slumps against the door frame. “I’m Detective Inspector Jack Murphy. Jim was my dad.”

Stella runs her hand across her forehead and nods: “I was very fond of your dad.”

Jack drops his eyes, staring at his feet: “He died a few months back. Cancer. Very quick, but even on his deathbed he talked about you. The one that got away.”

Stella folds her arms across her chest. Gone. She can’t believe Jim is dead. He always seemed so strong, so handsome and…

“… And of course, you know Daniela,” says Jack, gesturing at the woman beside him. “You’ve probably guessed she’s not your cleaning lady. She works for Interpol and has been comparing your jewelry collection with items stolen in England back in the 60s. It’s a direct match as I’m sure you know.”

Stella raises her eyes: “I should have pawned those along with the rest, but I was always partial to sapphires. They’re my birthstone you see. And my late husband always used to say they matched my eyes.”

Jack sighs and removes a set of handcuffs from his pocket: “I’m taking you back to the UK Stella. You’re going to face trial and…”

“Let’s not get into that now,” says Stella, interrupting him, shooing him away with her hands. “Why don’t you come in? I just want a final cup of tea and then I’ll go wherever you want.”

She steps to one side, allowing Jack and Daniela to squeeze past her into the hallway. Before following them, Stella peers round the doorframe and looks across to the neighboring houses, just to make sure there isn’t anyone about.

Their backs are turned and they’re whispering when she pulls the door closed, the rattle of the lock almost masking the click of the revolver. Almost. The pair spin round as Stella smiles and points the gun.

“Please give my love to your dad,” she says.