Gone and Good Riddance “What do you mean ‘the number you have called is not available’? I just spoke to him five minutes ago!” Natasha stood in the hallway, phone pressed tightly to her ear. She glanced over at the chest of drawers. The jewellery box was still there—but something looked off. The lid wasn’t quite shut. “Rom?” She called deeper into the flat. “Are you in the bathroom?” Natasha slowly made her way to the dresser. As soon as her hand touched the polished wood, a chill ran down her spine—the jewellery box was completely empty. Even the receipt she’d used as a bookmark was gone. Her jewellery, her money—everything had disappeared. Though, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d handed over the cash herself… “Oh God…” she whispered, sinking to the floor. “How could this happen? We just argued about wallpaper yesterday… You promised we’d go to Cornwall in August…” But it had all started so ordinarily. Last June, Natasha’s little runabout seized up with a broken piston. The mechanic quoted a price she couldn’t stomach, so, frustrated, she posted on her county’s “Auto-Help” Facebook group. “Guys, does anyone know if it’s possible to free up a stuck brake piston yourself? Adding a photo of my filthy wheel.” Comments poured in. Some told her not to mess with it, others advised buying a new part altogether. Then came a message from a Roman85: “Don’t listen to them, love. Get a can of WD-40 and a £3 repair kit. Take the wheel off, gently press the piston out with the brake pedal—but don’t push it too far. Clean everything with brake fluid, grease it up. If the cylinder’s smooth inside, it’ll run sweet as a nut.” Natasha took note—his advice was clear and unpretentious. “What if the cylinder’s pitted?” she asked. “Then you’ll need a replacement. But from your photo, looks a well-kept motor. If you get stuck, message me—happy to help.” And that’s how it started. Roman proved to be a whiz with cars. Within a week he’d walked her through changing the oil, picking spark plugs, even which coolant to avoid. She caught herself looking forward to his messages. “You’re a lifesaver, Rom,” she wrote by the end of July. “Listen, maybe we could meet up? Coffee on me. Or something stronger, with what you’ve saved me!” The reply didn’t come straight away. After about three hours, her phone finally lit up. “I’d love to, Natasha. Truly. But I’m… away with work. Overseas. For quite a while.” “Really?” she replied. “Whereabouts?” “Further than you can imagine. Look—I’ll be honest. I’m not on a business trip. I’m serving a sentence. HMP Dartmoor, if you know it.” Natasha dropped her phone onto the sofa, her heart pounding. An inmate? She, a respectable accountant at a large firm, had been chatting to a convict for weeks? “What for?” she typed, her fingers trembling. “Fraud. Fancied myself a clever clogs, got stitched up, played along. Less than a year left. If you want to stop messaging, I’ll understand.” Natasha didn’t reply. She blocked him and wandered in a daze for three days. Her colleagues asked if she was unwell. Why? she kept wondering. Why did someone so smart, so good with his hands, end up in prison? A week later, she found a new message in her inbox. Roman had once asked for her email—she’d never deleted the contact, only closed the chat. “Natasha,” he wrote. “No hard feelings, honestly. I always knew it would end like this. You’re a bright soul. Guys like me don’t belong in your world. Just wanted to say thanks for talking to me. That was the best fortnight I’ve had in years. Be happy. Goodbye.” She read it at the kitchen table and burst into tears. She felt sorry for him, for herself, for this unfair life. Why does luck always pass me by? she thought. Married men, mummy’s boys, and now the only normal bloke is behind bars. But she never replied again… * She tried dating but it was hopeless. One date spent half the night going on about his stamp collection, another showed up with dirty fingernails and asked to split the bill. In March, on her thirty-fifth birthday, Natasha felt more alone than ever. That morning, a message popped up. “Happy birthday, Natasha! I know I shouldn’t reach out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Wishing you the very best. You deserve to be cherished. Made you something out of bread and wire… If I could, I’d give it to you. Just know that somewhere out in Birmingham, someone is drinking a really terrible cup of tea to your health today.” “Thank you, Rom,” she replied, giving in. “That means a lot.” “You answered! How are you? How’s the little car? Did it survive those frosty nights?” And things picked up where they left off. Now they talked every day. Rom would ring her whenever he could—his voice deep, a little hoarse. He told her about growing up with his brother, how his nephew needed raising now, how all he wanted was a fresh start. “I won’t go back to my old town, Natasha—too many old mates who’ll pull me down again. I want to move somewhere no one knows me. I’ve got hands, I can work construction or fix cars, always work to be found.” “Where do you want to go?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d come to you, if you’ll have me. Get a room or a cheap flat. Just to know you’re in the same city, breathing the same air. But no pressure, of course…” By May, Natasha was hopelessly in love. She knew his inspection schedule, when he had “washroom duty”, when he was working in the shop. She sent him care packages: tea, sweets, warm socks, little parts for his handiwork. “Romka, just keep your head down and behave, please—no getting into scraps for my sake.” “For you, love, I’ll be as good as gold,” he laughed. “I’m free in April!” “I’ll be waiting.” * In April, Natasha drove up to the prison gates. She brought him new clothes: jacket, jeans, trainers. Her heart hammered—she thought it might burst out of her chest. When he came out—short, stocky, close-cropped greying hair—she froze at first. He looked different from his photo. But when he smiled and said, “Hello, boss,” she flung her arms round his neck. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she murmured into his prickly cheek. “Where else would I be?” he pulled her close. “You smell amazing. What sort of flowery perfume is that?” They went back to hers. The first week was a dream. Roman got stuck in straight away: fixed a leaky tap, sorted a door lock that had jammed for months. Every evening they sat together in the kitchen, drinking sweet rosé, swapping stories—he laughed about his “old life”, skipping over the darker bits. “Listen, Rom,” she said on day ten, “you know you said about getting your own place… maybe you don’t have to? There’s room here. It’d be more fun with two. Besides, you’ll save for tools and getting yourself set up.” “Natasha, it feels wrong,” he frowned, stirring sugar into his mug. “I’m a man, I should provide a home. I’m already living off you—eating your food…” “Oh, stop it!” she covered his hand with hers. “We’re not strangers. Once you’re on your feet and working, it’ll all be fine.” “My brother called yesterday,” he said, looking away. “My nephew’s really poorly—needs an operation, private one. He’s asked me for a loan, but you see the state I’m in—flat broke. I feel so ashamed, Natasha. Ashamed for my family.” “How much does he need?” she asked gently. “A lot… Five grand. But he says they’ve already raised part.” “I could go up to London on a site, earn good money quickly…” he mused aloud. Natasha hesitated. That five grand had taken three years to save. She’d scrimped and saved, planning to redo the bathroom, replace the old tiles, finally install a proper shower… “I’ve got the money,” she said quietly. Roman’s head jerked up. “Don’t be daft! That’s yours. I couldn’t take it.” “Rom, it’s your family. Like you said, that’s sacred. Take it—you can pay me back later. We’re in this together now.” He protested for two days, brooding and chain-smoking on the balcony, even though he’d promised to give up. In the end, Natasha got the cash out and set it on the table herself. “Here. Take it. Go to your brother, give it to him—or transfer it if you’d rather.” “I’ll deliver it myself,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe see if there’s work where he lives. Better options, you know? I’ll just be gone two days. There and back. Promise…” * Natasha sat slumped on the hallway floor for an hour. Her legs were numb, but she barely felt it. She replayed the night before. They’d watched some daft comedy, he’d laughed, hugged her, and she’d felt like the luckiest woman alive. “I’ll probably leave early, day after tomorrow,” he’d said before bed. But he left a day sooner. She’d slept through it—never even heard him getting dressed. She thought the front door had banged in her dream, but assumed it was the neighbours. At two in the afternoon, she nervously dialled his brother’s number—the one he’d once given her “in case of emergency”. “Hello?” came a rough man’s voice. “Who’s this?” “Hi… It’s Natasha. Roman’s friend. Did he make it to you today?” A pause. Then a long, heavy sigh. “Miss, what Roman? My brother’s got a different name, and he’s not out of prison till October. Roman… Roman’s my ex-cellmate. He got out two months ago. He nicked my phone when I was still inside and copied all my contacts. You’re not the first ‘pen-pal’ he’s spun a story to. Tongue like Teflon, degree in engineering—the lot.” Natasha lowered the phone, stunned. She remembered how he’d coached her fitting new spark plugs. “Careful not to overtighten,” he’d warned. “You’ll strip the thread, and that’s that.” “I stripped it,” Natasha whispered. “Stripped the lot… set myself up for this.” And she realised she truly knew nothing about him—never even saw his passport or prison release papers. Was his name even Roman at all? * Naturally, Natasha went to the police and filed a report. She showed them a photo, and learned a lot more about her houseguest. His name really was Roman—about the only true thing he’d told her. He’d gone down for a serious offence, spent half his life inside—met Natasha while serving his third sentence. Natasha crossed herself, changed all the locks, and figured in the end she’d got off lightly—compared to some of his previous women…

Author Walton MerrittReading 11 minViews 1

Gone for Good

What do you mean the number youve dialed has not been recognised? But he was speaking to someone just five minutes ago! I stood in the hallway, phone pressed desperately against my ear.

My eyes flicked to the sideboard.

The jewellery boxa gift from Mum for my thirtiethwas still in its usual spot. But something was off: the lid was ever-so-slightly ajar.

Rob! I called out, voice echoing through the flat. Are you in the bathroom?

Slowly, I approached, heartbeat tapping out panic beneath my ribs. My fingertips barely grazed the polished wood before I felt the jolt of cold along my spine: It was empty. Every last necklace, earring, and ringgone. Not a single thing left, not even the old shop receipt Id used as a bookmark months ago.

The money too. Although, to be fair, Id handed that over willingly

My knees gave way, and I slid down the wall, ending up on the hall carpet. I took a shuddering breath. How did this all happen? I whispered to nobody. Yesterday we were only bickering about wallpaper. You promised wed go to Cornwall this August

And it all started so ordinary, its almost laughable. Last June, my little Fiesta suffered a seized piston.

The repair shop quoted such a fortune, I nearly walked out on the spot. Instead, I logged onto my countys Auto-Help group.

Anyone know if you can release a stuck brake piston on your own? Or do I need a proper mechanic? I posted alongside a photo of the thoroughly filthy wheel.

The advice poured in at once: several blokes told me not to mess with blokes business, others insisted I simply buy a new part.

Then a comment pinged up from an account named Rob85:

Dont listen to them, love. Grab a can of WD-40 and a seal kit (£20 max). Take off the wheel, gently pump out the pistondont force it, mind! Clean with brake fluid, grease up the seals. If the cylinder walls clean, your car will run like a dream.

It was well-written, sensible, no show-off bravado.

What if the cylinders pitted? I replied.

In that case, its replacement only. But from your photo, the car looks well cared for. If you get stuck, message me privatelyhappy to help.

And thats how it began.

Rob clearly knew his stuff. Over a week, he patiently explained oil changes, which spark plugs to buy, and even what antifreeze to avoid.

I found myself looking forward to his messages, imagining what new tip hed send.

Rob, youre my knight in shining overalls, I joked as July rolled by. You know, maybe we could meet up sometime? I owe you coffee. Or even a pint, all the money youve saved me!

He didnt reply right away. It was three hours before my phone finally buzzed.

Rosie, I wish I could, honestly. But Im away on a work contract. Overseas, sort of a long one.

Wow, I answered, that far?

As far as you can get. Look, I wont lie. I like youa lot. But its not just a contract. Im serving time. HMP Wandsworthif that means anything to you.

My phone slipped from my hand onto the sofa. My heart thundered, a weight caught in my chest.

A convict? Ia reasonable thirty-something woman, an accountant at a big firmhad been chatting for weeks with a criminal?

For what? I typed in trembling hands.

Fraud. Stupid, really. Partly set up, partly my own cock-up. Less than a year to go. Delete our messages if you want, I understand.

I said nothing. I just blocked his number, walking around stunned for three whole days. At work, my colleagues asked if I was unwell.

My head kept spinning: Why? Whys the only clever, decent, funny man locked up?

A week later, I saw an unread emailRob had asked for my address once, but Id never deleted him, just ignored the chat.

Rosieno hard feelings, honestly. It had to end. Youre good, youre bright, you deserve better. Thanks for keeping me companythe best two weeks Ive had in years. Be happy. Goodbye.

I read it in the kitchen and burst into tears. I felt so sorry for him, for myself, for the whole unfair mess of life.

Why do some people get all the good ones? I found myself asking. All I ever meet are married men or mummys boys. The one normal blokeand hes locked up?

I didnt reply.

***

I tried dating again, but nothing clicked.

One man spent half the evening droning on about stamp collecting. Another turned up with filthy hands, asked me to split the bill.

March arrived. My thirty-fifth birthday. Id never felt so alone.

But thenan early morning message:

Happy birthday, Rosie! I know I shouldnt, but I couldnt stop myself. I hope everything goes right for youyou deserve someone who cherishes you. I made something funny from bread and wireId give it to you if I could. Somewhere up North, Im drinking the worlds worst tea to your health.

Thank you, Rob, I replied, unable to help myself. That really means a lot.

You answered! His joy practically buzzed from my screen. How are you? Hows the little Fiesta? Did she survive the winter?

It all started up again.

Daily messages, the odd call when he could. His voicedeeper and warmer than Id imagined.

He opened up: growing up with his brother, how his nephews were now the centre of the family, how he just wanted a fresh start.

Im not going back to London, Rob would say while I made tea in the evenings. Too many old mates, debts, temptations. I want to move somewhere no one knows me. I can workhands like mine, Ill always find a site job or a garage somewhere.

To where? Id ask, almost not daring to breathe.

Id come to you, if youd have me. Rent a room, a little flat, just knowing youre nearby. Thatd be enough.

Honestly, youre not pushing, I said, heart racing.

By May, I was completely besotted.

I knew when his inspections would be, when he had laundry duty or work in the prison workshop. I sent him parcelstea, biscuits, warm socks, bits and bobs for his latest hobby projects.

Robbie, please just keep your head down, Id beg him. Dont get in any more trouble.

For you, Id be quiet as a mouse, hed laugh. Im up for parole in April.

Ill be waiting.

***

In April, I travelled to the prison gates. Id picked out a new coat, jeans, trainerseverything he might need.

My heart hammered as I waited. When he appearedsturdy, a bit older than his photos, close-cropped grey hairat first I couldnt move.

But then he smiled and said, Alright, missus? and I flung myself into his arms.

Oh goodness, youre real, I whispered into his scratchy cheek.

Im not going anywhere, he replied, holding me tightly. You smell nicea bit floral.

We went home.

The first week was a dream. Rob was hands-on with everythingfixed the leaky tap, sorted the dodgy door lock Id been moaning about for months.

In the evenings wed drink wine in the kitchen, him telling tales from the old days, dodging the nastier bits.

Look, Rob, I said on the tenth morning, you keep saying you want your own place, but you dont have to. Theres plenty of space here, and itll save you money. Youll need tools, stuff to get yourself sorted.

He looked uneasy, stirring sugar in his mug. But its not right, Rosie. A blokes supposed to pay his own way. Im sponging off you as it is, eating your food.

Nonsense. I covered his hand with mine. Its only temporary. Youll get a job soon enough, and everythingll work out.

He fell quiet, fiddled with his mug. My brother called last night. My nephews really illneeds a private op. No NHS for it. Theyre short by a fair bit of cash, and Ive got nothing. Embarrassed, really.

How much do they need? I asked, wary.

Five grand, but hes raised most of it. I reckon if I found a temp job up North, I could help out. The moneys good up there.

I hesitated. The five grand he mentionedI had it, saved over years, meant for new tiles, a shower upgrade, a dozen little dreams.

Ive got the money, I admitted softly.

His head jerked up. No way! Thats yours. I wont touch it.

But its for your nephew, Rob. Your family. That matters. You can pay me back later. Were a team, right?

He protested for two days, sullen and restless, even sneaked a fag on the balconythough hed promised to quit.

In the end, I got the cash out and left it on the table.

Take it. Give it to your brother, or transfer it. Whatever you need.

I should take it myself, he said, hugging me. Might even hear of a job for me round their way. Ill only be away a day or two. Promise.

***

I sat on the hallway carpet. My legs had gone numb. I couldnt feel a thing.

Memories reeled on repeat. Yesterday evening: we watched some daft sitcom, he laughed, put his arm round my shoulders, and for a moment Id thought I was the luckiest woman alive.

I might shoot off early the day after tomorrow, hed mentioned before bed.

He left a day sooner. I never even heard him get dressedslept through it. Only in the dead of night did I vaguely register the front door bang. Must be the neighbours, I thought.

By two oclock, my nerves couldnt take it. I dialled the brothers number hed given me, just in case.

Hello? a gruff man answered. Whos this?

HiIm, erm, Rosie. Im Robs girlfriend. Has he got to yours safely?

Silence. Then a heavy sigh.

Look, love, I dont know any Rob. My brothers got a different name, still inside for another six months. His sentence runs till October.

Vision blurred. But October? I picked Rob up myself in April. From Wandsworth.

There was a pause, and the tone grew sharp. My brotherAlexis in Brixton. Rob? Hes just my ex-cellmate, got out two months back. Nicked my phone and all the numbers with it. Sounds like youre another one of his pen pals. Hes good at this. Clever bloke. Engineering degree. Talks his way into anything.

My phone slid from my hand.

I remembered how hed shown me to change the spark plugs. Dont overtighten, mind, hed said. Strip the thread and youre buggered.

Stripped it, I whispered, blinking through tears. Completely knackered it. All my own fault.

Staring out the window, it struck me that I knew nothing about the man Id lived with. Id never seen his passport, never had any official proof of his release.

Perhaps he wasnt Rob at all.

***

Of course, I went to the police, reported it allshowed a photo, learned a lot about my so-called boyfriend.

His name really was Rob. That, at least, wasnt a lie.

He had a record as long as your armserious stuff, years behind bars. He met me during his third stretch.

The locks are changed now. Looking back, I realise I got off lightlycompared to some of his other girlfriends, anyway.