Suspicious mind

Who the second, third, and fourth victim of the Smith’s toy store thief was, I don’t recall, other than one of them was Meera, but I do remember who the first victim was, not his name, but him. He was an utterly obnoxious six former, who refused to eat anything but beans on toast for breakfast, yet complained he didn’t have enough time to get ready in the morning, which was his excuse for being late every day, even though his mum drove him. He looked down on us all, due to his opinion that we weren’t as smart or as accomplished as him, even though he was still living with his parents, he had never had a job before, and he was literally a schoolboy, as well as being so dim he badmouthed us all to each other, including me, Meera, Michael and Alex, the tightest friend group in the store. Obviously, we immediately told each other what he said.

If I could bring myself to believe the only reason I remember that he was the first victim of the thief was his tantrum, and the aftermath, that would be great…

To say he lost it wouldn’t touch the edges of the event. This child in a huge man’s body (he was at least four times the size of me) tore apart the staff room that evening. That’s where we were having to leave our coats and bags, unattended for the majority of the day, in a pile on the table in the corner, because the staff lockers hadn’t arrived and wouldn’t for a few more weeks. Screaming about being robbed, he picked up other peoples coats and bags and began throwing them around, before picking up a couple of chairs and smashing them into pieces against the wall. It was home time, so the staff room was full, almost all of us were there, when his tantrum began. We all froze. Then one of the women, pulled the other woman around her towards the door. Even the men cowered. That is, until he tried to pick up the table the coats had been on, and several of the men sprung into action, all of them around my age, or slightly younger, I was twenty one, restraining him until he calmed down.

Afterwards he looked embarrassed, but I couldn’t work out if he was embarrassed that he lost it in front of us mere mortals, or if he was ashamed one of the stupid people had bested him.

… The truth is though, that I was terribly afraid.

Not of him.

But, of these people who I considered to be my friends.

Though this event took place prior to the incident with the damaged bra and the robotic, mindless, xenophobic Topshop staff, I had lived in London long enough, sort of almost two years, to know that people automatically didn’t trust me, purely due to my accent.

Honestly, I had been shocked I even got the job in the first place, not just because of my accent, but also because I had insisted I would only work shopfloor. That’s the role I applied for, and it was the only role I would accept.

I was baffled that I still had a job after going missing on the day we were meant to start setting up the new store, and resurfacing a week later, fresh from a medium security psychiatric hospital. So I’m sure you can imagine how I felt when I was promoted to department manager, during the same conversation I looked my manager dead in the eye and informed him that his angry persistent phone calls had saved my life less than two weeks earlier, as I lay in a half full bath, my hands and feet black from the cold, in a state of semiconsciousness, still somehow awake after downing several boxes of Lorazepam, with the chain of the bathtub tangled around my toes.

“Leave me to die. I want to die,” I had mumbled to the paramedics as they joked about me.

“You don’t look like that type of girl,” Andrew, the store manager had replied.

That had been my first taste of what stigma felt like. At the time, it shook me. Now, it feels like a glancing blow.

This is all to explain where exactly my unwell mind was as I watch the episode play out, as I listened to my colleagues joke about how he was so idiotic and steroid fuelled he probably lost the money, and speculated on how long it would be until he was fired, over the following couple of days.

Regardless of the reality that everybody believed his money hadn’t been stolen, to me, they were sizing me up, testing my reactions, seeing how I responded. To me, they all suspected me.

So, when Meera and two other people reported having money stolen from them, and nobody had reported any money being stolen while I was sectioned, I became convinced it was only a matter of time before I was both accused, and punished for the crimes.

Then, it’s happened to me.

It happened after a spectacularly bad shift. I had handed Andrew his arse, and somehow come out on top. Following a particularly stressful opening week, and fourteen shifts in a row, on a day I am sure I only had five pounds to my name (we got paid the next day).

However, I didn’t realise the five pound note that I that had been in my bag was missing until I reached Arnos Grove tube station, and went to top up my oyster card.

A wave of emotion rolled over me.

Self loathing, I’d lost the last of my money, I was a fucking idiot, incompetent at life, and as a human being.

Regret, I shouldn’t have insisted on staying in London this summer, to make it my home, and make it completely on my own.

Fear. If there really was a thief, sooner or later I was going to be the one who got blamed.

Despair and dread. How was I getting home? I had no money and no idea of how to get there by foot, and this was before you could ask your phone to show you the way, before your phone could even pull up a map.

That is when my memory cut out.

The next memory I have, is of me sobbing on the floor of my room.

Even then, I had no idea how I had gotten home, I still don’t to this day, but I am certain I never found that five pound note, as the reason I was crying was because I had accepted that I had been robbed, yet I couldn’t tell anybody in case they suspected I was lying in attempt to cover up that I was the thief.

Although I didn’t want to go back to work, as everything just felt like too much to deal with, I decided that it would make me look guilty if I didn’t. It never occurred to me that those who knew about my suicide attempt would understand I was struggling.

The next day, aware I had five more very tiring and stressful days to get through before I could have a day off finally, I returned to work.

For the full five days, I went about the motions of work, not really there, buried deep in my own mind. Terrified, I listened as a sixth and seventh person claimed they had been robbed, saying nothing.

My weekend wasn’t restful either, I spent it the same way I spent my week, so when I returned to work on the Monday, I was convinced the police would be there to arrest me.

“Rachel,” Meera called excitedly, as I entered the store an hour after opening. I was working the closing shift, and Meera the opening shift. “J. has been fired.”

Sliding behind the counter, wanting to know what has happened before I spoke to Andrew, as J. was one of my nursery department staff, I scanned the empty store to check nobody was within earshot. “What did she do?”

“Andrew caught her in the staff room, going through my purse. She’s the thief.”

I said nothing to Meera about how I had been robbed.

I told nobody.

Until today.