by Charlie Wade
Rounding the corner. He slipped his hand back into his pocket. The wallet he’d just stole from the man next to him was thick and almost certainly real leather. That was always a good sign. The street performer had seen Jim steal it during his distraction. Jim knew that.
The joke questioning his sexuality as he walked away was a warning. A warning not to queer his pitch, as entertainers had said years ago.
Two streets away, the wine bars were busier. This was the heart of theatreland. A hundred pounds only bought you a mediocre seat; people saved for months, years even to see a show. Jim walked straight to the toilet. It seemed to be the norm for him. Anyone following would think he had a bladder problem. In the cubicle he examined his latest wallet. He knew he’d hit the jackpot when he saw the man watching the entertainer. Wearing a dinner suit with penguin tails, he just fused wealth. Something about him just said upper class. Inside the wallet, two hundred pounds, four cards, and a double-barrelled named driving licence were joined by a slip of paper with four numbers on it.
“Bingo.”
He knew the numbers could have been anything. Car park code, room key code, anything. There was just that chance he was a “Forgetful Freddy” and it was a pin number for a card.
No time to waste, he left the bar. Further robbing would have to wait this evening; he didn’t have long before these were reported. In the idealist of worlds, the man would go to a show for three hours, enjoy himself then realise his wallet was gone. By the time he got hold of the right banks another hour or two would pass. Jim knew he could have a few hours of fun. Walking round a corner, he found a cash machine. Covering his face as much as possible, he entered the first card. Pin incorrect so he pressed return card. Again for the second one. The third however, an almost new credit card, worked.
“Yes.”
Withdrawing two hundred and fifty, the maximum, he walked away. He knew his face would have been partially caught on camera, but it was a risk he had to take. Unless they caught him in the act of using it, they’d never find him. He was already on the run, having broken his release terms, so another minor crime wasn’t really going to make a difference.
Moving away from theatreland, he entered a small shop. Walking round, he picked up a bottle of whisky then asked for sixty fags at the counter.
“Here you go, mate.” Jim handed over the card. “Look, I’ve not got time to nip to the cashpoint. You couldn’t give me cashback could you?”
“Can’t do cashback on a credit card, pal. They charge a fortune.” The shopkeeper shook his head as he scanned the bottle.
“I’m in a real hurry, mate. I’ll make it worth your while.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes seemed to be replaced by pound signs.
“How much you after?”
“Hundred, hundred and fifty?”
The shopkeeper paused. Jim guessed he was calculating how much in charges that would cost. “I’ll give you hundred and fifty cash for two hundred on the card.”
Jim sharply sucked in a breath. There was a cashpoint just round the corner. He couldn’t appear too desperate. However, he had a good idea the shopkeeper had already sussed him out. Fifty quid cash for some small hassle. The shopkeeper had a bargain there.
“Go on then.”
Luckily, the card worked. Jim didn’t have a clue how much longer he had but he was determined to hit other shops before it was cancelled. Small electrical items were beckoning. However, he knew card companies weren’t fools. This was a new card and multiple purchases in a short time would raise flags. It was all computerised; some algorithm based on normal spending patterns. One more shop though, just the one then he’d throw the card away.
Hailing a taxi, he headed for Oxford Circus. Barely a mile away, he was relying on the roads being clearer now night was drawing in. Turned out to be a good guess, the mile only took five minutes to drive.
Entering an electrical shop, Jim headed for the digital music players. With time running out, he picked up two mid-price imitation iPods. Putting them back, he instead picked up two actual iPod’s. The banks could afford it after all. All that money they make.
Queuing, he picked up The Story of The Clash Vol 1 CD which was on special offer and waited for an empty till. His hands sweating, he pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and again memorised the four numbers. The till free, he handed over his music players and CD.
“These both do the same thing, you know that don’t you?” said the helpful cashier.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “Presents.”
The cashier nodded and rang up the items. Placing his card in the machine, Jim waited for sirens to start screaming, gun-laden secret police to appear or the door’s shutters to close.
They didn’t.
Typing the code in, there was a long, deathly wait before it accepted and the sale was complete. Trying not to look relieved he left the shop, another bag in his hand.
The jewellers next door was beckoning. Could he risk it? It would be stupid to now he’d got four hundred in cash plus two iPods in half an hour. No, he’d be stupid to try another so quickly. He turned and walked away towards Carnaby Street and Soho.
On the way he hit a few pubs, but no wallets or bags beckoned. He reckoned he’d had a good day. No point spoiling it now by being greedy. Besides, he had a bag with bottles of clanging whisky and iPods. He didn’t exactly fit in.
Deciding on one last pint before he made for the East End, he entered a bar. Bright and recently decorated, Jim reckoned the word plush was invented for this sort of place. The music loud, he noticed the abundance of mirrored walls, vases and plastic flowers. The clientele themselves were lively and young. They were in groups of four to five, same sex mainly. It had a more lived-in feel than the other bars nearby. Those others were just temporary stop-offs, a different crowd each day having a few snifters before a show. This one was a regulars bar, and different to anything he’d seen in Coventry or the East End. These guys were loaded. Or they thought and pretended they were.
Ordering a pint, he scanned the bar. With the time getting on for nine, he knew the night was just beginning. Still plenty of time. Today may end up making up for yesterday.
The pint gone in five gulps, he left the bar. No one appeared to have noticed him either enter or leave. Everyone was so wound up in their own little groups and worlds. Making for the tube, he passed another jewellers. Still open at this hour seemed ridiculous to Jim, but this was London. This was the way things were done. Seeing a bracelet in the window, he almost gasped at the price. A ton for little more than a silver band. It looked like the new thing though. He seen girls wearing them both in the city and in pubs. They seemed to be personalised with beads and gems. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the shop.
The staff looked down their noses but he was less than bothered. The camera above the till worried him, but they were everywhere. The only other way was a face mask and armed robbery. If he had to get caught, he’d take three years over twenty.
Wrapping the bracelet in a box and then a bag seemed to take them ages. He felt his neck get hot; he knew it wasn’t the weather. The fading sun was making the air cool. He wondered for a minute if they’d pressed a panic button and were waiting on slow police to arrive. Paying with the card, he expected the worst. Surely it would have been stopped by now? He waited, his hand hovering over the screen, knowing the door was five steps behind him. He’d just run if there was a problem. Catch a cab and head east.
When the machine asked him to enter the pin, he did. Another wait. It seemed to take forever before it read please remove card. He tried not to look surprised as the shop assistant handed him a receipt before he made for the door.
Ambling down the road, he looked for a tube. That was another problem with London: lack of signs. Sometimes you’d see a sign pointing to a tube, other times you could walk for half an hour looking for a sign, only for it to point the way you’d come.
Eventually finding a sign, he moved up a side street. The tube statio
n in front, he noticed a police car fifty yards away. Parked outside a wine bar, he knew it was nothing to do with him. It couldn’t be, he hadn’t even robbed this street. A little spark of doubt crept into his mind. Maybe they were warning all landlords to be on the lookout for a scabby, thieving Coventry lad.
He shook his head and made for the tube. Waiting on the platform, he was convinced any second the police would come down the stairs. His stomach, though empty, was full of butterflies. He’d a bagful of loot, a pocketful of cards that had probably been reported missing and hundreds of pounds cash, semi-traceable to a cashpoint.
He needed to clean himself up. He’d hide some cash at the lock-up. Sure, it wasn’t very secure, but a couple of the bricks looked like they could be removed. The whisky, iPods and necklace; they could be left until he found buyers.
The tube eventually ambled through the tunnel, taking him east.
Alighting in the dark and damp East End, Jim’s phone pinged. Thanks, I enjoyed it too. Work boring and going slow:( His stomach, now rid of butterflies, was complaining of its near twenty-four hour famine. Jim entered the nearest fast food shop to the tube station. Kebab World, with its one solitary branch in east London, would have to do.
Jim had a system for kebab shops: the slab of rotating meat had to be large. That way he knew it hadn’t stood round for days, the bacteria inside being heated then cooled with every shift. Kebab World looked okay, and the slab was huge and the surfaces clean. He smiled as he considered his venture into vegetarianism. Like everything else recently, it had failed.
Waiting for his pitta to be warmed, Jim typed a reply. Sorry to hear that. Keep your chin up x. He added the x after some deliberation.
Her reply took five minutes to arrive and came mid-bite of chilli sauce-coated kebab. Thanks xxx.
As he walked, he noticed the High Street still bustled with late shops, teenagers and trolley-pushing bag ladies. Jim slobbered his kebab spilling a good third on the floor. Taking the back street by Filthy Alan’s, he wandered to the lock-up. In the encroaching night, the back alley had gained a higher degree of seediness. In a few hours, Jim imagined its visitors would include the hookers, drug dealers and gentleman of the road trying to find a bed for the night.
Leaving his loot and most of the cash, he made for the Queens Arms. Not to get drunk, that certainly wasn’t going to happen, he just wanted to see Tim by Four to make sure everything was set for tomorrow. He did fancy a pint in a proper pub, but that wasn’t the reason he was going there. Also, he needed to see Terence to offload his new collection of driving licences and bank cards.
The Queens Arms was heaving, though most of the customers again looked like they were only staying for a couple. Jim bought three pints and joined Tim and Mick near the pool table.
“You alright, Jim?” said Mick.
“Not bad. Yourself?”
Pleasantries over, he sat and confirmed they were still set for the morning. Mick’s eyes were glazed over, the result of all day drinking and tablets that weren’t vitamin C or paracetamol. The younger lads were all over by the pool table, apparently enjoying the only night a week when they didn’t have to pretend to lose. The stares and sour faces Jim had received yesterday were gone. He’d been accepted. Looking round the dank, stained walls and its inhabitants, he was almost glad. Almost.
Leaving the builders, he joined Terence for a quick pint. The pub was so packed that Terence conducted his business under the table instead of in the toilets. Gaining fifty quid for the cards, Jim wondered if it was worth it. It’d only paid for the kebab and today’s drink.
“Know anywhere I can get a fake driving licence?” he asked Terence.
Again, his eyes lit up at the thought of a deal. “Yeah, how realistic do you want it?”
“Fairly good,” said Jim.
“I know someone with a machine. Proper one, same as DVLA use. Not cheap though.” He shook his head.
“How not cheap are we talking?”
“Usually charges a grand. Might be able to get it for six hundred as you’re becoming a regular.”
“I’ll think on it.” Jim reckoned the normal price was five hundred, but Terence had upped it because he knew he was desperate. At least his cash was building up. But at the current rate, and with another hotel bill due, it wasn’t quick enough. After saying his goodbyes, he sold a packet of fags to the pool table lads at half shop price then headed for the tube.
Nearly finished prep now x, the new message said.
Good. I’m just watching telly, he replied.
Walking through Piccadilly Circus, Jim was surprised by both the amount of photo taking tourists still out, and also the amount of clubbers out for the evening. He briefly thought of buying some aspirin and trying to flog them as E’s, but he knew clubbers weren’t that stupid. Sure he might find a couple of twats who’d spend a tenner to cure a headache, but he’d have to leave the club smartish. He’d barely cover the entrance price let alone make money.
What you watching? x
He cursed, knowing he shouldn’t have picked watching telly. Just channel-hopping really, his reply.
Walking into a pub, he made for the bar and sized the clientele up. The night was getting on, but he had to do something to make money. A mixed group of twenty-something’s at a corner table nosily announced to the world their intoxication. They all looked okay to Jim. Nothing offensive or dislikeable about them. Sighing, he ordered a pint. They’d have to do. It was nothing personal, they’d probably understand that. He couldn’t afford to be choosy. It was a life or death situation.
When one of them approached the bar through the throng, Jim edged towards him. Nodding, Jim kept his eyes hovering around, but not directly at him. “You alright, pal?”
Up close he realised he was early twenties. He also looked nervous. People kept to their own groups in this sort of pub. People didn’t usually do what Jim was doing. Jim could sense the lad was wondering who he was and why was he breaking the unwritten laws of Saturday night drinking. He eventually replied, “Alright.”
“Know any good warehouse parties, mate?” asked Jim, supping on his pint. He had the group pegged down as clubbers. Some of them had reflective and fluorescent jackets or t-shirts on.
“What are you? Police?” He laughed and tried to attract the barman’s attention.
Jim smiled and took another sip of his drink. “Yeah, right. I’m the chief fucking inspector.” He waited for a smile before continuing. “Nah, me pals are at Sonic Sound, but I didn’t make it in.” He hoped Sonic Sound was still going on a Saturday night. “Cheesy Ted” from prison had told him about it and their stringent door policy. Only beautiful people needed to apply; anyone less than beautiful wasn’t allowed in.
He nodded his head. “Yeah, they sometimes let us in, sometimes don’t. I haven’t heard of them splitting groups before. Normally if a munter’s in a group the whole lot don’t get in.” His face dropped realising he’d just called Jim a munter. Jim didn’t mind. It’d make his job easier.
He eventually got served and swapped some small chat with Jim about clubs. They were off to Manhattens for the night which Jim said he hadn’t been too. Jim said he’d probably have a few more drinks then head off home, but the lad, Jason, invited him over to the group’s table.
On closer inspection, the group didn’t seem like the usual crowd of hippies and pillheads. He supposed this part of London was too expensive to be workshy. Then again, maybe they weren’t from London. Two of the men looked warily at Jim as he approached. The two young women with them who Jim thought would probably freeze to death later in what little they were wearing, smiled.
“Who are you then?” asked one of the girls.
“Jim. Are you sure you don’t mind me sitting here?”
“Nah,” said Jason. “Don’t worry, pal.” He looked at his mates before continuing. “Jim here’s been dumped. His mates got into Sonic Sound but he didn’t.”
Jim screwed his face up. Jason had virtually call
ed him ugly. Again though, it could only help. The girls looked genuinely sympathetic. The blokes tried to hide smirks behind bottles of lager.
An hour quickly passed of Jim chatting about Coventry’s crap clubs and how his night in the city hadn’t gone to plan. The more talkative girl listened avidly and told him all about their little gang. They lived in south London though were anything but local. The two girls shared a flat above a chip shop, while the lads had a pad just up the road from them. Meeting at university in the city, they’d stayed on, still living the London dream.
Jim was surprised and almost happy to learn that the chattier of the girls worked in the city. An executive of the insurance arm of a bailed-out bank; Jim thought he could remember some scandal about that bank’s insurance mis-selling. Maybe not though; there had been so many scandals they all merged into one. Jason was something in IT but didn’t really talk much about it, and the other girl, after flunking her degree, was training to be a nurse.
The time approaching ten, they were making moves to leave. Though they’d invited him to the club with them Jim had made excuses saying there were parties in Coventry, plus he’d missed his lift back now and didn’t fancy trying to get back on Sunday morning.
“All that talk of chips has made me hungry,” he said as they were getting their stuff together. “I might get some before I head back to Paddington.”
“The Golden Catch in Stockwell, that’s where you want to go. Best chip shop in London, isn’t it?” she said.
“It’s a bit out of the way though,” the other girl said to herself more than Jim.
“I’ll probably just get a burger at the station.” Jim smiled as he finished his pint.
Standing up, the girls put tiny coats over their tiny clothes while Jim pretended to send a text to his mates. After giving them hugs, high fives and wishing them a good time in Manhattens, he got ready to leave.
“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” she said.