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Thou Shalt Not Steal
One evening, when we were together at my home, sleeping on the kitchen floor to avoid waking Marketa, we spoke briefly about me. He wanted to know about my past relationships. I told him that I had always harbored only platonic loves and had lived almost like a hermit until I was twenty—immersed solely in reading books and keeping journals. He found it hard to believe, as all the girls he knew seemed far less reserved.
The next day, Marketa came to me with frightened eyes.
“Teri, did you borrow ten pounds from me?”
“No, certainly not,” I replied confidently. “Why do you ask?”
“I had my bag hanging on the kitchen chair overnight, and I’m sure the money was there. But when I went to get it today, it was gone.”
“Seriously? But I swear I didn’t take it,” I said.
The only plausible explanation was that Jack had taken it. I knew he occasionally borrowed small amounts from me, but to steal? I found that hard to accept. The two of us stood in the kitchen, stunned, staring at one another. Marketa believed me without a doubt—she knew I was truthful.
“But who else could it have been?” I said, now fully convinced it could not have been a ghost. The arithmetic was simple. If it wasn’t me, nor her, then only one person remained—Jack. We agreed to wait and hoped he might confess.
That very day, only a few hours later, Marketa and I drove to a neighboring village, Leighlinbridge, for lunch. As we sat eating, Jack walked into the restaurant, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a pint of beer. He greeted us with a surprised smile. Marketa and I exchanged a fixed glance. Jack paid for our lunch and even had drinks brought to our table. In that moment, we both understood the truth. He never had money and never made such grand gestures. I could have sunk through the floor in shame.
“Hm, well, I think I now know who stole your money. That bastard—doesn’t he have any shame?” I hissed, genuinely furious, aching to slap him.
“Should I go ask him?” I added.
“No. Leave it be,” Marketa said firmly, restraining me from confronting him.
All day, the incident churned inside me like spoiled food. I felt physically ill. How could he do such a thing? Did he have no scruples? Did he not realize that his behavior would only expose him further?
The next time I was with him, I did not accuse him outright. I simply recounted the entire story and told him neither Marketa nor I had taken the money. He was the only one who had been with us. Immediately, he straightened up.
“So you automatically think it must be me! You’re accusing me of stealing from her? Go to hell!” he exploded into a rage. I knew it was him, but said nothing further. I turned away and curled into a ball. I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. I was so ashamed of him.
copyright©2025
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