I briefly had notions of flying back to my London life first class. One of those flatbeds with hot meals served on bone china. Crystal glasses. Privacy and personal space. I witnessed that other class of flying when I walked through to economy just a few days ago on my way here. But a first-class ticket would be foolish. Business class would be stupid, too. Even premium economy might raise suspicions, if anyone were to ever probe into my affairs and finances. No, it’ll be economy class for me. The grey woman of Camden.
On the walk back round I double-check camera orientations and infra-red garden security systems. This would be more difficult at night. You might think it would be smarter, but not only would it not work with my narrow window of opportunity, as calculated from Eugene Groot’s public class schedule and from Jane Groot Esq.’s ‘work from home’ Friday afternoon routine – but also it wouldn’t work with neighbourhood watch vehicles or security lights.
I settle back down on the public bench adjacent to the property. My observation base. I’m wearing a grey wig I bought for ten dollars in the Garment District. I made sure to combine it with a few other items so the cashier wouldn’t notice. On its own the wig would barely work, but under my beret it looks just fine. I look seventy years old. Eighty, even. Disguise works best by layering, that’s what the CIA’s finest minds taught me through several well-produced YouTube videos. Let’s talk posture: I’m walking more slowly and more hunched than normal. Clothes: I’m wearing an unfashionable dress than ends just below the knee thanks to some rough alterations this morning with my complimentary Ritz-Carlton sewing kit. Socks and plain black sneakers. A fifteen-dollar handbag I bought from a street vendor with cash. A freebie magazine I took from the hotel.
I look like I’m reading the magazine, but really I’m watching his house.
If there is one thing I know, it’s that retribution is essential for moving forward with your life. There is a primal need to cleanse. You are responsible for your own survival and your own happiness. You cannot rely on anyone else – any government organisation or family member. Take responsibility. Act, don’t just think. Form a plan and execute it perfectly.
Groot leaves in his dark green Mercedes and I stay seated. I have between nineteen and twenty-five minutes.
After five minutes I check for neighbours then walk part-way past his house. The good thing about an expensive neighbourhood like this, one with historically important houses and strict landscaping codes, is that there are no new walls or chain-link fences. Residents want you to see their beautiful rose beds and their well-clipped box bushes.
I step on to the lawn in an area not covered by any CCTV cameras. I sidestep around a compost area to a small lawn shielded by a dense privet hedge. The clock is ticking. I remove my wig and fix my hair, and then I take out my Polaroid camera and make sure the house fa?ade will be in the frame of my selfie shot. I hold the camera at arm’s length and take the photo. It develops. I put it down on the ground and take another, this time pulling down my bra, which is stuffed with fifty-dollar bills. I move the cash and expose my nipple. The picture develops. Groot’s front door canopy and my breast in one shot. I take more, some with half my smile and the roof of the house, others with my tongue sticking out. One photo with my hand over my breast: the background a beautiful Georgian style window with old glass. I use my Ritz-Carlton pen to write a heart on the back of the photo together with a date: Sept 19th. And then one final photo. I may be wearing an old lady dress hemmed at the shin but I am not wearing any underwear. I take an upskirt photo and it develops but I can’t bring myself to look at it. I collect wet sticks from the compost area and take lighter fluid from my bag and stack the sticks and photos to form a pyramid and set the whole thing alight. The one photo of my face, breast and the Georgian window, I leave to one side. When the other photos are mostly burned, I put out the fire, leaving just charred glimpses of what they showed.
And then I put the wig back on and walk away.
Towards the beach and then back to the bench, my pace slow and stiff, the sea air blowing my thighs through the material of my skirt.
I sit down and watch Mrs Groot arrive home right on schedule. An immaculately dressed black woman in an ankle-length cashmere coat. She notices the smoking embers and runs into the garden. And that’s my cue to depart the neighbourhood. Part of me wants to stay to watch her reaction, but that is the undisciplined part, the part that could get me into trouble. I have no wish to get into trouble. Besides, I have no real issue with Jane Groot Esq., attorney-at-law. None whatsoever. It’s her lowlife husband who seduced my twin sister and then dumped her, claiming he couldn’t hurt his family – that’s who I have an issue with. More like he couldn’t afford to live this kind of life without the earnings of his successful wife or the validation of their social contacts. If I hadn’t taken this action today, then she’d have suffered on. I’m righting a wrong. He slimed his way into the beds of his students, impressing them with his Harvard Club membership. Let Jane Groot free herself from this swine. Better still, let her take the Polaroid to the police. A photo has more impact than an email or a witness statement. Let them reach their own conclusions about respectable Professor Groot and his rule-breaking relationship with a now-deceased student.