The Thief

Somewhere, outside, a cat stirs.

I sit in my chair quietly. Head bowed, hands clasped in my lap. The only indication that I’m not praying is that my eyes are still open. I stare down at those hands and wonder why they’re not trembling. It might be the pills. It might be the hollowness in my stomach. I’m done caring anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m done wondering.

Around me the air is thick with silence. Someone coughs occasionally, someone sneezes. The light streaming in from the outside coruscates with many-hued diffraction upon the tiled floor. Overhead, a fan beats steadily and completely ineffectually.

Next to me, John sits as I do. Suit sharply ironed, hair impeccable, shoes polished. But despite the formal appearance, the laughter lines against his mouth stand out. John’s a doctor, but has never let it go to his head. He toils all day to help other without helping himself, and his wife loves him for it. At dinner the other night, she cooed over her Jesus of a husband. The ultimate giver, right? Better to give than to receive.

On my other side, Harriet is equally silent. I think it’s because she’s done her share of crying. John must have told her to let it all out before she came today. That’s why today, her makeup isn’t streaked with ugly black lines, her hair isn’t frizzled from pulling, and her dress is neatly ironed. Strange how I notice these things about another man’s wife.

The rest of the room is faceless strangers. Some have names, some have titles, none mean anything. At some point in the past the judicial system must have decided that no one in the courthouse would give a rat’s arse about titles when someone’s fate hung in the balance. Only thirteen people mattered anymore – the jury and the defendant. All members of the public. Except for one criminal. Innocent until proven guilty, of course.

A bellow cuts the silence. ‘All rise!’

A scraping of chairs, and every person in the room stands quickly. John and Harriet find it necessary to steady my shoulders. Maybe the pills are wearing off earlier this morning.

The judge enters, that ridiculous wig atop his head. Why did the Brits ever decide to make their enactors of the law wear something that would get them laughed out of every occupance except a costume party? Gravitas doesn’t seem to be lost on this judge, though, as he slowly and imperiously makes his way to the judgement seat, lowers himself, and regally waves his hand. Everyone sits.

‘I call to order today’s session, for the trial of the State against Jeffrey Bucks. Would the defendant please rise.’

One lonely kid stands. He edges a glance at me, sitting diagonally behind him, as he does. The guilt is still etched on his face, but I ignore it this time. Today, I can’t focus on anything.

‘The charge of manslaughter will be decided today, for the death of Tiffany Mead. Does the defendant have any final words?’

***

I wake that morning and the bed is rumpled on one side. Creases dot the entire mattress, though. No matter how long I sleep on the same side of the bed, the creases will stay on her side too. So will her books. Her reading glasses, her perfumes, her pills. Hell, I haven’t even touched her underwear drawer. It still stands there on her side of the bed, the wood cracked, the handle slanted. But I won’t move it. It’s somewhat reassuring, having that imprint of her physical self there.

I toss the blanket aside and pull my socks on. I used to laugh at her about her socks, childish multicoloured fabric seemingly sown together at random. She would ask if the children working in sweatshops ever felt the need for artistic integrity, and that would shut me right up. Only she could do that – shut me down without losing her sense of humour. I’d see the twist to her lips, that lighted those dimples at the side of her mouth, as she fired off her comebacks.

The insects outside the window hum incessantly. I fix my breakfast in silence, grating the coffee beans while frying the eggs. A stray hem of her fuzzy pink sweater now stuck to the stove tugs at the memory strings. That morning over a year ago, when she first taught me how to fry the eggs ‘properly’. In the process she had bent too close to the frying pan, and her hand was reprimanded. What a scalding. She had jerked her arm away, and her sweater caught against the stove and left its mark. She scowled at my laughter, then reluctantly joined in as she ran her hand under the kitchen tap.

Now I am supposed to gain distance from the event by remembering, but it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. I think the problem may be that I remember too clearly. It’s always that way when the couple was recently married, I’ve been told. She becomes idealised. The perfect woman. You forget the flaws and magnify the virtues. After all, you’ve just been robbed of your whole life. Why shouldn’t you cling to the perfect memory?

***

The kid is trembling as he reads out his final defence. It’s a moving plea, about all the life he’s got to live, and bucketloads of shame and regret for being drunk that night. And who knows, maybe he’s telling the truth. But it’s all hollow to me.

I saw their reassuring smiles at the intervention, muttering their empty words. Words about moving on, about getting over it. I realised that those smiles were actually of self-satisfaction, to tell themselves that I’ve done my part, I’ve tried to help him. Now I can be guilt free. And I wanted to yell at them, to shake those smiles that had become smirks off their damned faces. To scream, Have you ever dealt with a loss? Did your wife die after five years of marriage? Did they never catch her killer?

What is it, this boiling in my brain, this colossal and unreasoning anger building up? Faceless strangers, drifting about me; family members, consoling me - all have the same objective: to perform their part in a meaningless play designed to remove me from their guilty consciences. I could provide them that reassurance, but for some reason I don’t want to. It isn’t sadism; I’m not torturing them for my own pleasure. I’m not even sure why I have friends anymore. They can’t stand to be around me.

I still crack the same jokes, but get artificial laughter in response. I hear the whispers as they try to explain to each other why I’m not grieving. Perhaps it's compartmentalisation; more likely he can't accept it until they catch the guy who did it.

And it was pure luck that Jeffrey came forward. He had laid low at a mate’s place for weeks after running her over, but eventually he couldn’t take it. He’d turned himself in, and earned himself a fair trial because of it. Only problem was, the trial was never going to be fair. Not when it had taken weeks, rather than hours, to feel guilty about robbing a life.

So here it is. Time heals all wounds. Time soothes the wounded heart. Time is a fickle beast. Wait, they don’t say that last one. Time helps you get over your wife’s death.

The problem is, they never say how much time.

Maybe if they had, I wouldn’t be sitting here at a kid’s trial for manslaughter, for an action he never wanted to perform, against a woman he’d never met. Maybe I wouldn’t be feeling this odd mixture of vicious joy and empathetic despair, as a life is robbed from one person and kept from another.

The jury come back in, and hand the paper to the judge. He reads out the words, but I don’t hear them. I don’t have to.

Jeffrey is put in handcuffs, sobbing, and led out of the chamber. His mum and girlfriend are crying hysterically and calling out for him. Jeff! Babe! It’ll be okay! I’ll come tomorrow! Don’t lose hope!

They say justice has been served, but it’s a cold platter. There’s no rest for the wicked, no cure for the cold, no respite from the curse.

Wonder where they came up with all these sayings, anyway.

Somewhere, outside, a cat stirs.