Mother always said that my pinching stuff would get me into trouble one day. Usually as she pulled her purse from her handbag and found it lighter than it should have been. I mean, she started saying it after my first trip to Woolworths. She’d parked my pram next to the pick and mix sweets while she went to ask the staff about something. She’d come back to find me surrounded by sweets, stuffing handfuls of dolly mixtures into my pockets.
I’ve got a lot better since then.
It just became something I did. I took pens, erasers, markers and the like when I was at school. People always came to me asking for things because they knew I’d have it. I had a tidy little business going during high school.
Man’s got mad skills, bruv. Well, you’d think so anyway.
I got caught. A lot. I have seen more of the headteacher’s office than anybody would like to admit, even the bad kids. That’s the worst part, I’m not even a bad kid. It’s just… Something I gotta do. Some people wish on wells, I steal stuff. I’m also pretty damn good at it.
I took a different trophy every time I was called to the office. My favourite was the stapler. He had it chained to his desk, but I got it anyway.
No, I’m not telling you. Trade secret. Besides, you don’t want to hear about that. You want me to tell you about Oscar Bunting. And his wallet. Which, to be fair, is the reason I walked into this police station and told you that I’d just stolen a wallet. Can I begin?
So, I’m walking down Oxford Street. It’s great. Easy pickings everywhere. Tourists, shoppers, everything a pickpocket could want. I’d already managed three phones, so I was pretty much done for the day.
That’s when I saw him. He puts this fat wallet into the breast pocket of his suit. This guy absolutely reeks of money too. I was pretty much drooling. So I go for the classic bump-pass. You collide with them, pat them down to say sorry and pull the wallet out as you do.
It worked like a charm. It was like stealing those pick and mix all over again. It’s just a shame what was inside it. Fifteen hundred pounds. And three separate photos. The girls… Did he kill them, do you think? Or just have the photos because he’s some creep? But that’s when I came to you. Because I might be a thief, but we’ve got some honour.
How can I help?
The Idiot in Tin Foil