by Charlie Wade
They spent half an hour drinking expensive lager and talking about Monaco, bonuses and money. It turned out Raif’s short break was a gift from his company for the best performing twat this quarter. When asked where he worked, Jim gave Charlotte’s company’s name. He regretted it instantly, but he was thinking on his toes and mistakes were bound to happen. He was sure they’d never remember. They were both well gone.
As they spoke and laughed the plan grew, mutating in his head. What should have been his first venture into wallet thievery was becoming more serious.
“Better make this the last one chaps,” said Raif. “Melody’s picking me up soon.”
“You going straight to the airport?” asked Jim.
“Ya. Flight’s in a few hours.”
Twat B made his excuses and headed for the toilet leaving Raif at Jim’s mercy. This was hard work yet enjoyable. He still couldn’t believe just how easy it was to be accepted by wearing the right clothes.
“Which airline?” asked Jim.
“BA, of course,” said Raif. He pulled the tickets from his rolled up jacket and waved them around, Chamberlain like.
He’d bitten his tongue for much of the last half hour, but knew this would be worth it. He’d have the last laugh “We went by train once. Terrible journey, took nearly a whole day. Cressida’s idea of course.” Jim tutted. Placing his bottle back on the table, he accidently knocked Raif’s. The bottle rocked from side to side, teasing before it fell, and directed the foaming lager towards Raif’s trousers and expensive mobile that he’d displayed advert-like in front of him.
“Jesus. Sorry, chap.” Jim reached for the fallen bottle and remounted it, splashing another glug over Raif’s trousers. “Oh, clumsy. I am so sorry.”
“It’s alright.” Raif stood up. Drunk yet in charge of his faculties, he headed for the toilet.
With them both out of sight, Jim took a look around. Their corner was quiet and well hidden. The bar was filling; everyone was knocking off early on a summer’s Friday. The weekend calling, a few drinks before the tube was one of the benefits of living in London. Though busy, the clientele were more interested in getting served than what Jim was up to. With one eye on the toilets, Jim slipped his hand into Raif’s jacket pocket and pulled out the plane ticket. Quickly opening it, he read the name and address. Raif Mortimer, 33 East Street, London N5. Replacing it, he looked round. No one had seen.
Twat B returned first as Jim hurriedly typed Raif’s address into a contact on his mobile. All fingers and thumbs, he managed the postcode just as the twat sat down.
“I’m really sorry,” said Jim. “Can you apologise to Raif for me. Too many afternoon drinks, I fear.” Jim stood, sweeping his hair back with a sticky, beer-filled hand and giving a theatrical wobble.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s okay.” The twat smiled. With Raif away, he seemed at last relieved someone was talking to him.
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning obviously. Have you got his phone number? I’ll ring him when he gets back from Monaco.”
Jim pulled his mobile from his pocket, saved the contact with Raif’s address on then clumsily typed his phone number into a new contact. Finally, he thanked the twat for the drinks, implored him again to pass on his apologies and staggered out of the bar. On his way out, he saw a pound coin lying on the floor near an empty table. He picked it up.
Outside and leaning against the wharf, he tidied up the contact details in his mobile and checked his watch. Five o’clock. The financial heart had just closed for the week and the bars, tavernas and coffee houses were teeming with the masters of the universe, cheering off the week and spending more money than Jim would see in his life. Though he’d been drinking, he was sober. Sure the buzz gave him an edge, but he was working. Friday night, a summers Friday night, was his best chance of loosening tongues and pockets. He had to work this as long as he could.
Smiling, Jim thought of Raif. What a shock he was in for when he returned with his baggage after their once in a lifetime holiday. Walking towards the busiest of the bars, Jim was determined not to be too greedy. There was enough money floating around. If he just creamed a small amount from the top it’d hardly be noticed. Cream off too much and you drew attention.
The next bar was rammed with a hundred Raif and Jocasta’s. Squeezing through a throng of people, Jim queued then bought himself a bottle of beer. He butted into a few conversations and tried to mingle before a lonely misfit latched onto him.
The misfit, Jake, was unlike the others he’d seen so far in the bars. The more they spoke, the clearer it became that he had much in common with the meek young man. He wondered how Jake had ended up working for a bank.
Two young women leaving through the smog of people looked at Jake. “Look, it’s him,” one said to her friend. Jim noticed Jake’s face growing bright red. There was history and Jim was nosy enough to want to know it.
“I didn’t know they let your sort in here,” the other said. The first laughed as they walked past.
Despite the noise and amount of people, it felt to Jim that everyone was looking at them. He could only imagine how small Jake felt. “What was that about?”
His redness grew, and huge blotches attacked his cheeks. “Girls from the office a few floors down. I was seconded down there. An IT system implementation, you know.”
Jim nodded. He didn’t know what it meant, but thought he ought to.
“It’s the credit impairment section. They’re ...” He stopped. Jim nodded to help him along. “They’re evil, it’s the only word. All these people with houses getting repossessed; they’re laughing, more than laughing. They got some sort of kick out of choosing which one to kick out next. A perverse pleasure, you know, the way they pick people. They’re playing games with people’s lives, you know.”
Jim nodded. Jake was bright red. He saw something in him but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Compassion amongst greed? He wasn’t sure.
“So what? Did you have words?”
“Doesn’t matter if you do. It’s like they rule the world with their little cliques. I made what I thought was an anonymous complaint. Next thing I’m demoted and moved to a different office. Whole section’s got it in for me. Actually, the whole bloody bank’s got it in for me.”
Jim shook his head. “Some of the things that go on here ... makes you sick doesn’t it.”
As Jake’s colour started to tone down, Jim looked round. The bar was now rammed as the last of the institutions kicked out for the weekend. Jim started another conversation with Jake while he eyed up prospective customers for the “Bank of Jim”. A group of three young brokers stood in shirts to the left, their accents portraying wealth. To their right, two other young women looked lost and hard-faced as they tried to avoid advances and offers of drinks from unhappily married men. Further round he spied a mixed group stood in a circle. Youngsters most of them, but a particularly loud and balding man was ripping yarns while the rest sipped their wine and cocktails. Their boss had taken them out for a Friday drinky. The working week hadn’t finished for them. Some looked bored, wanting to go home, while others followed every word their leader said. The next promotion dangling like a carrot. He’d have the fullest wallet of them all, that was without doubt. No wedding ring either. Divorcee maybe. Jim knew the type. He’d take some of them to an Indian after their drinks. Maybe he’d try it on with one of the girls who was keenest for promotion. If he had to rob someone, this was a good place to start.
Finishing his drink, Jim nodded at Jake. “Nipping to the loo.”
“I’ll get another round in,” said Jake.
He’d timed the walk to perfection. The baldy boss had just finished his punchline and one of the others was about to start his own related story. The group had separated slightly, half of them sipping drinks hoping to nick off, while the others listened to their boss. Squeezing through a small gap, Jim bumped into the loud baldy man. Quickly, he heavily placed his left hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Sor
ry,” he said. “Bit of a crush in here tonight.”
The man shook his head. It wasn’t a problem. “Always like this in summer, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” Jim replied. He patted the man’s shoulder twice, again just a fraction too hard, while squeezing past. He nodded, smiled then walked to the toilet.
His heart had been in his mouth as he’d walked away. Thinking any minute he would have noticed and shouted or called the police. But he hadn’t. The misdirection trick he’d practised inside actually worked. A hand landing heavily on your shoulder disguises what the other’s doing. While watching him earlier, Jim had seen his wallet half sticking out from his trouser pocket. It’d been too easy in the end, not a challenge, but he’d take it however it came.
He sat in a toilet cubicle as he rifled the wallet. Not having gloves, he used the thinnest part of his suit jacket to pull out the identification badge. Martin Charlesworth MSc, a brokerage executive for the largest bank in London, had just lost three platinum cards, a gold Amex, his golf membership card, driving licence and three hundred pounds cash. Pushing the wallet back into his pocket, Jim straightened his suit then left the toilets.
Jake was still queuing at the bar, but Jim headed the other way for the beer garden. Martin Charlesworth still hadn’t discovered his wallet was missing, but Jim knew walking past was asking for trouble. No doubt he’d only realise it was missing when he was at the bar, midway through an expensive order.
“How embarrassing,” said Jim, walking out the door into the garden. “How embarrassing for you, Martin. Shame you’ve only got a gold Amex too, eh. Not good enough for platinum yet, old boy?”
The garden led to a back street which narrowed past bins towards another road. Slipping into the busy streets, he walked for a minute, his bearings clear from earlier. Heading down a side road, he saw a small cafe or bistro as they now seemed to be called.
Sat outside at a table were two young woman. The two that Jake had had dealings with. A newly opened bottle of wine sat between them. They’d just arrived for either a meal or a quick drink somewhere quieter and more expensive. One of them got up and headed inside. Jim pulled out his phone and slowed down.
“No,” he said, “just tell me which hospital. Hello. Hello.” He’d reached the remaining woman and stopped walking. Blonde, smart and no doubt extremely intelligent too, but an awful bitch to anyone in trouble. Yeah, she deserved what was coming.
Catching her eye, Jim started again, “Hello. Yeah, my battery’s dying. Which hospital is she in? Hello, hello.”
He held out his phone and furiously pressed a few buttons, the off button being one of them. “Jesus, no. Not now.” Looking round, he searched the length of the road both ways before turning back to the table. A pair of eyes looked at him, enjoying the spectacle. “Excuse me.” He put on his posh voice. “Do you know if there’s a payphone around? Phone battery’s packed up.” He showed her the lifeless phone in his hand. “My wife’s giving birth and I need ring to the nanny quickly.”
“Here,” she said, “you can borrow mine. Is everything okay?” She genuinely looked concerned as she pulled a touch screen phone from her handbag.
“Oh, are you sure?” He tried to look sincere. It seemed to be working. “My wife’s gone into labour. She was visiting a friend so I don’t know which hospital she’s gone too.” She unlocked the phone and handed it to him. “Thank you.” Jim stared at the phone screen and winced. “What’s her number, what’s her number?”
“Can I do anything to help?” She seemed pleasant enough. He wondered for a minute if Jake had given him a false story. No, he seemed genuine too. It was the baby line. It had brought out her best side. Under other circumstances she would have blanked him.
“Ah, my wallet,” Jim feigned both surprise and delight. Pulling out Martin Charlesworth’s wallet, he dialled the number on the golf membership card. Before the phone had even connected, he said, “Hello, it’s me again. Which hospital? You what? What do you mean?” He started breathing in and out heavily. Clutching his chest, he slumped into the seat next to her, cancelled the call and put the phone on the table.
“Oh my God, what’s happened?” She stood up, confusion in her voice.
Jim continued his breathing. “Panic.” He paused. “Attack.” He breathed in and out twice. “Glass ... water.”
The woman ran inside the cafe. Jim slumped over onto the table, his hand swiftly entering the open handbag on the floor. The purse inside was huge, too big to steal, so he opened it and removed a small wad of cash and a few cards. Next to the purse was a phone, except it was wider and blacker than most mobiles he’d seen. He pulled it out too, then leant back in the chair. Ruffling his hair, he stood up feigning light-headedness. The woman returned with a glass of water. Jim drank half of it, banged the glass on the table, thanked her profusely then hailed a passing taxi.
Chapter 10
Travel through the city was slow. Every traffic light seemed to be against them. He stared at the black phone. Called a Blackberry, it seemed to have a proper, if tiny, keyboard. He’d no idea what it was for or why the woman had that and a normal mobile. There was no obvious way to turn it off, so he slipped it in his pocket and pulled the battery out.
Now nearly a mile away, he turned his own phone back on. Charlotte must have finished work by now, but hadn’t sent a message. Maybe it was a Friday thing. She’d no doubt be in a rush to get home. He typed the message, On way home now, but didn’t send it. It sounded desperate. They’d had dinner and it had gone well; she’d agreed to see him tomorrow. She was probably stuck waiting for a train or having an after-work drink.
Maybe she’d run out of phone credit. Jim himself was nearly halfway through his ten quid’s worth already. Hers wouldn’t be Pay As You Go though, it’d be on a contract, and paid for by work with regular upgrades as soon as some new vital way of using a phone got discovered. He locked the keypad, the message unsent, and asked the taxi driver to pull over.
Though on a roll, he had to be careful. Pretty soon two people would realise they were missing wallets, money and a phone. Loads of people mislay wallets and phones. Chances are they’d think it was their own drunken stupidity. However, their first thought could be Jim. They might remember the way he’d walked into them or had a panic attack just at the same time their stuff went missing. It was a chance. If they remembered him, they might remember what he looked like. If both of them remembered him and reported it, his description would be circulated.
Now stood on the edge of the financial district the bars and restaurants were quieter. In the near distance stood the Houses of Parliament, dispenser of the laws that Jim took it upon himself to break. Was there time for just one more? Yeah, maybe just one more. He was on a roll after all.
He walked into a wine bar. Though not as busy as the last, it was still doing a fair trade. Most people were drinking champagne; the air felt richer with wealth. A different sort of wealth. Inherited not earned.
Feeling more out of place, Jim made for the bar and ordered a malt whisky. Looking round, most of the customers were sitting at tables. Sipping the whisky, he found no easy access to any of the groups. Downing the dregs of the smooth tasting but not worth the price whisky, he made for the toilet. In the cubicle, he examined the phone again plus the cash. One hundred quid from the woman. Fresh from the cashpoint, it had a crisp feel. He pocketed it and looked again at the wide phone. Picking out the Sim card, he wrapped it in paper and flushed it down the pan.
Returning through the bar, he left. He stood out like a sore thumb; the place had too much class. Or thought it did. He walked further down the road past a more rowdier pub until he came to another wine bar. Light-headed from the drink, he walked in. Busier than the last, it was still quiet compared to the city. He wasn’t sure if he’d drawn a blank or not. Sat at the bar, he ordered a bottle of lager.
It didn’t take him long to realise that the bar was as busy as the city, but half the people were outside. They seemed to rotate
from outside back in. The whole place reminded him of a Japanese sushi bar he’d once walked by. The sushi replaced by humans. The smoking ban to blame. People were nabbing tables then taking it in turns to go outside for a smoke before returning for a half hour sit down.
One particular table caught his interest. The women had cleared off outside leaving two lads to guard the bags. The lads, more interested in staring at something on a phone than the bags, had missed one on the floor. Looking round again, he saw two CCTV cameras: one aimed at the bar, the other the back door. Downing the lager, he raised his eyebrows at the barman and got off the chair.
The coat stand played its part well. Jim couldn’t remember any pubs in Coventry having a coat stand. Anything placed on it would disappear before it’d stopped swinging. Grabbing the least expensive looking coat that was roughly his size, he headed for the door. Dropping the coat near the table, he swore. The two lads looked up, one of them smiling.
“Need some sleep,” said Jim.
The lad nodded then went back to his mate’s phone. Picking up the coat and the bag underneath, he swapped arms and left. Outside, he cursed himself for not staking the area out. He’d just got in a taxi and got out. He didn’t have a clue where the side streets were, or worse where the CCTV cameras were.
The bag was big, maybe too big for a coat to hide. Rolled up in a ball under his arm, he knew it looked suspicious. He’d only a few minutes to get out of the area. Walking quickly past cafes, wine bars, takeaways and restaurants, he guessed this was a refuelling street. Every bit of floor space transformed to keep you full to bursting with food and drink.
He headed for a side street across the road. Full of bins, it was the back way into the food shops. People were mingling in the street, but he hoped everyone was too busy in their own world to notice him. Besides, he reckoned the alley was regularly used as a toilet most Friday evenings.
