Disappearing Act

By

Elizabeth Phillips

By the time Mick Bates was 38 years old, he had a long criminal career behind him. He was as familiar with life in prison as he was with his own family home and  accepted prison as a risk of his trade, to be avoided if at all possible, but faced stoically if necessary.   Prison had its upside – it was there, from old hands, that he’d learned most of what he knew about his trade.  But in any case, the benefits far outweighed the risks, especially if he was careful and thought things through before a job.  He and his wife Debbie lived in a comfortable home and their three children always had all the latest gear.  Debbie was fully aware of where Mick went every day and sometimes asked him to look out for things for her.  She had plenty of jewellery, every single item stolen from other women, but Debbie saw nothing wrong in that and enjoyed picking through Mick’s haul on his return from a job.  Debbie reasoned that her husband’s victims had plenty and probably wouldn’t miss what he took, and in any case, they would certainly be insured. 

Mick and Debbie had only been burgled once, when they were on holiday with the children in DisneyWorld.  Even the children’s toys and money boxes were taken.  Debbie thought it was disgusting.  Who could do such a thing?

Mick was not an opportunist thief.  He only “did” a couple of houses a week but he watched the occupiers for several days before breaking in when they were out.  He knew some of his colleagues didn’t mind if the occupants were at home, but he preferred to work in private. 

Today was the day he’d chosen to break into his latest selection, where a lady lived  alone. He’d watched her leave every morning about 8am, returning  about 4pm.  That gave him ample time to look through her belongings and take what he wanted.  He rarely took large items because he didn’t want to draw attention by parking a van outside.  He’d been caught like that once – the neighbour, who had been feeding the family’s cats during their absence, knew very well they were on holiday and not moving out.  Mick touched his jaw gingerly.  The neighbour, who most unfortunately had turned out to be a boxer, had laid him out with a powerful punch before calling the police.  He went to the side gate and felt at the top for the bolt, which he’d oiled the previous day to ensure a quiet entry.  Silently he padded up the side path and round to the patio doors.   The lady had obviously forgotten to lock them, and he slid them open, as wide as they would go.  A sudden high-pitched yowl made his heart flip over as a cat dashed past him into the garden, and he suppressed an exclamation of annoyance as he stepped into the dining room. 

An expensive upright piano and a beautiful dining suite stood on its polished oak floor.  Mick was tempted to come back later with a van, knowing Deb would love these things.  He was proud of his wife’s impeccable taste, but his last spell in prison was still fresh in his mind and he didn’t fancy going back just yet.  He decided to start upstairs, and went swiftly into the hall.

He was brought up short by the arresting sight of the lady owner, standing at the foot of the stairs.  In her small, manicured hands, unbecomingly calm, she held a rifle to the end of which was affixed a silencer.  It was this disturbing detail that kept him quite still for a moment.  Abandoning the fruitless mental search for some plausible excuse for his uninvited presence in her house, he began to apologise.  She said nothing but when he looked behind him, half-poised to flee, she spoke in a soft but surprisingly menacing voice: “Don’t think I won’t shoot you if you run.”  He looked at her.  She looked normal, a little on the short side, rather fluffy blonde hair, square little chin, and small green eyes that were looking at him coldly, with a hard, unwavering expression, like a snake.  He decided not to risk it.  She couldn’t keep him here forever and if she called the police, he knew she’d be arrested for threatening him with the gun.  He relaxed for a moment, confident that whatever happened, she’d have to let him go.  And he’d be back.

 “Go over there and open that door,” she said, gesturing with the gun towards a smallish door in the hall.   It looked like a cupboard and he shuddered for a moment; he hated small, closed spaces.  But it opened onto a flight of steps, curving down into a basement. 

“Go down the steps slowly and keep your hands above your head,” she instructed, “If you try anything I will shoot you.”  Mick looked down the steps, then back at the gun.  He decided to obey her, and began to descend with slow deliberation, anxious not to alarm the woman, who was obviously unbalanced.  There was no way past that gun and he didn’t want to risk getting shot.  She might go to prison, but he’d still be dead. 

She followed him carefully from a distance, the barrel of the gun levelled steadily at his chest.  As he waited for her in the spot where she had ordered him to stand, he glanced round the basement.  It had a few longish, rectangular boxes stacked up in it,  but otherwise it was surprisingly bare.  He could see a door that might lead to the outside somehow, but the expression on her face was beginning to worry him and he said “Please don’t kill me, love.  I’ve got a wife and kids.”  She shook her head, with a grim little smile, “I’m not going to kill you.”

She indicated the door that he’d noticed and to his surprise and relief she said, “You can get out through there. Don’t ever come back.” 

Overwhelmed with relief he thanked her effusively for letting him go, promising never to come back.   But he knew he would be back, and soon - within a few months. He’d just be more careful next time, make sure she was definitely out, and he’d strip the place, just to teach her not to play with the big boys.  Still thanking her insincerely, he backed through the heavy iron door, not taking his eyes off the gun for a second. 

As the door banged shut, he was left in a gloomy half-darkness.  He realised he was in another room.  Putting his hands out, he felt the walls.  This room was small, very small.  The sounds of the heavy door being locked and bolted ceased.  It was too late to try to fight his way out and in any case, he really believed she would have killed him if he had tried anything. 

In the dim light of the windowless room he made out what looked like another door.  In two strides he was there, searching for a handle, devastated to find its surface smooth, devoid of any handle or lock.  He scrabbled pathetically at its edges but couldn’t move it.

Faintly he heard the woman’s voice say “I’m not going to kill you.  But I’m not going to feed you.  And I’m not going to let you out.  Ever.” 

Unable to believe what was happening, he banged with his fists on the door, sobbing to be let out, promising never to tell anyone if she would just let him go home to his family.  His pleading voice echoed in the dark silence and he called “If you let me die, how will you get rid of my body? You haven’t thought of that, have you?”

Soft as a whisper the answer came back, receding as she climbed the basement stairs. Then he was alone, with nothing left to do but wait to see if she really was going to leave him to die, here in the dark.

He tried to call for help on his mobile, but there was no signal down here.  He wondered if the woman had known that, or if she just hadn’t thought to make him hand it over.  Its illumination was his only light, and its clock kept pace with him for the first day or two, until its battery died and he was left alone in the darkness, straining to hear sounds from outside, anything that might indicate the woman had relented.  Hunger and thirst gnawed at his gut with increasing insistence as the days crept by and her last words to him kept whispering in his horrified mind, haunting his sleep.