My name is Harry and I am a shoplifter, working this morning in a department store. I call it work because it is how I earn a living.
Shoplifter. Such a meaningless word. I am a thief. I have been a thief for nearly twenty years, proud that I have never been arrested. Think about that. In this era of CCTV overload, of security tags and bleeping exit barriers, I have not been caught. Ever. On some occasions, it was a close-run thing but what’s the point of doing a job like mine or any job if there aren’t thrills along the way.
Most of my possessions are stolen property. You should see my wardrobe and my kitchen appliances. The smallest object I stole was an engagement ring, the largest was a television set. No kidding! There’s always a way. If I want something, I just go out and get it. No money necessary.
Today, I need a birthday present for the lady who lives next door. Sadie is a good neighbour, very kind, quietly spoken. She used to work in fashion and shoe shops many years ago but is now retired. She does not have much of an income, so I try to give her little treats throughout the year. She has no idea that my gifts have not been paid for, but to see the delight on her face as she rips away the wrapping paper, warms my heart. If only she knew what a scoundrel I am.
In conversation, Sadie told me she would like a diary to keep in her handbag. I was browsing the stationery department for something elaborate. I know this store very well. I have studied its routines and escape routes. I have identified patterns of activity – when it’s busy and when it’s quiet. Managers, staff and roaming security people are creatures of habit. I have pinpointed blind spots where cameras are useless. Diaries and notebooks are displayed close to one such spot.
I am careful not to look suspicious, moving my eyes but not my head to see around me. The band of idiot thieves who get caught stick out like sore thumbs. I look normal, nondescript, never furtive, guilty-looking or nervous. Twitchy people attract attention. Years of experience have given me confidence. I know what I am doing and I am good at it.
Of course, rather like a member of the Magic Circle, I will not divulge my sleight-of-hand techniques. Trade secrets.
A diary is in my hand. I sidestep three paces to the blind spot. The diary is secreted. I spend a few minutes browsing several displays before making my way to the front doors. Mission accomplished.
Sadie’s eyes light up when she unwraps the present.
‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’
She beckons me over for a hug. The hug goes on for several moments longer than a hug should.
‘I know what you do,’ she whispers. 'It takes one to know one.'
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