The Emerald Torch

"Gerald is a thief!" said Jerome, the parrot, clinging on the top of his cage and hanging up-side-down.

"Gerald is a thief!" he repeated in case Bridget didn`t get it as yet.

Bridget looked at the parrot. Jerome was busy cleaning his blue feathers, one of his yellow eyes cunningly observing her. Unable to accept such observation and scared to hear something else, she put an afghan blanket which was knitted by her grand-mother, on the top of the cage. Bridget sat down on the ancient sofa which also once belonged to her grand-mother. She needs to calm down. But instead she felt the sour anger raising from her well-pedicured toes to her well-styled head. And she didn`t want to wash that anger away. Gerald is a thief. Not a respectable junior manager of respectable publishing firm, but a thief. No, she wouldn`t allow him to open the door of her flat again. Never! She wouldn`t allow him to ruin her life, so carefully arranged and so carefully cared for. On The Plus-Side, at least she knew what that bastard had done to her. Knowledge is a powerful thing. On The-Minus Side, she wasn`t prepared for the village gossipers at all. How would she defense herself against their sharp, poisonous voices? Especially, how could she escape that false-hearted smile of Mrs Torance who happened to know everything what was going on in the village, even before something actually happened? Mrs Torance never stopped talking and giving advice, even when her tongue was busy with sticking stamps on the letters in her post office. Bridget imagined Mrs Torance`s face, covered with purple veins like rivers on the valley - the face which pretended to show the sympathy and understanding, but in reality under that red skin of long-life alcoholic the sympathy never existed. In Mrs Torance`s gossips the victim of any misfortune was never the victim at all, only the criminal. Mrs Torance could turn innocent smile exchanged between neighbours into the horrible adultery. What would she said about the robbery, who can imagine?

Bridget will tell Gerald just to leave her alone and forget about her existence for ever. Probably, it is not too late yet. For him, she just never had been born. She needs to talk to him, right now. She picked up the phone, her eyes accidentally focusing on the mirror. From the mirror an ugly, red face looked directly into Bridget`s eyes. Red lipstick smeared around her tightly pressed lips, awful scarlet spots on the neck, eyes storming and raging. She can`t talk to him right now. She needs a good cup of tea. She needs to calm down. She needs to be in control of the situation.

What kind of robbery he could be involved in, she guessed. Not something national or international - the news about such a crime are usually appearing on telly. Something local, then. Bridget looked at the thick pile of local "Telegraph and Argus". That pile was the main reason for hers and Gerald`s arguments about - whose turn was to throw this stuff in the waste bin. This week it was Gerald`s turn. He had forgotten about it, as usual. Always needs pushing and reminding. But right now and for the firs time Bridget was glad that her boyfriend was so untidy. She grabbed all newspapers from the table and rushed to the sofa. She scanned them one by one. Nothing interesting, just boring. All articles were either about the opening of local community club for those with emotional difficulties, or how Billy, the cat, was rescued from the drainage. She was about to give up, when her eyes stopped on the article printed in very small letters. The article contained just a few words and looked more as an advertisement rather than criminal news.

The emerald torch was stolen last night from the private gallery on Blackberry Street. The gallery owner is kindly asking everybody with any kind of knowledge to approach. The reward is guaranteed for those who finds the torch or shares information where it might be.

Not a word about police investigation. Probably, the owner didn`t make a formal application yet. That`s good for her, Bridget thought. When Gerald is arrested, she would have nothing in common with him at that time. But how did he commit that robbery, by the way? Was he alone or somebody helped him? She went to the kitchen, put a kettle on, and, while waiting, cut the article from newspaper with her kitchen scissors. She tried to visualise all Gerald`s friend one by one to decide which of them could be his criminal ally. She found none. All Gerald`s friends were too 'white-collar' people to commit such a crime. On the other hand, Gerald couln`t have done it on his own. He needed somebody at least to break the door. As far as Bridget knew, Gerald didn`t know how to change an electrical bulb, not to talk about how to force into somebody`s property. No, Gerald wasn`t alone.

She poured boiled water over the bag with raspberry tea, watching water becaming pink then scarlet red. A sudden idea struck her mind. The owner! He hired Gerald to steal that damn emerald torch to get insurance. And surely, he would pretend later that he knew nothing about the robbery and silly Gerald would march to the prison on his own.

Deeply engaged in her uncomfortable thoughts, she jumped startled as the telephone rang in the living room. On the other side Gerald`s cheerful voice said, "Hi, sweetie. Have you heard what Jerome can say? It took me three months to teach him. Gerald is a thief! It is funny, isn`t it?"