Stealing

When I was fourteen, I was caught shoplifting.
It started out as a childish competition between me and my grammar school friends. I think the mission was inspired by one day in town when we managed to acquire some free samples of coffee from Costa; we were so delighted by the miniature steaming vanilla lattes, served from a tray inside cute little paper cups, that we decided acquiring freebies was as rewarding as it was enterprising.

Every Saturday from then on would become a mission for the three of us to collect loot without paying, every week trying to out do each other. We discovered very quickly that there was little opportunity to attain complimentary goods legitimately. We progressed to purloining make- up testers from Boots and Superdrug, and soon discovered the wonderful rush of adrenalin that pulsed within us as we strolled poker faced through the security barriers, our pockets bulging with Rimmel miniatures.
For almost a year we managed to get away with embezzling the high street, progressing to non tester makeup, cheap costume jewellery, especially from Accessorize, and the odd item of clothing. It was so easy. Shopkeepers didn’t suspect us in our trendy, nice girl wear; bootcut jeans and blazers from New Look. We were cute.

The day we were caught was on a spree in honour of our friends sixteenth birthday. The party was looming, and so with a fiver in our, we were set loose on the Bullring to shop for presents. It was the first sixteenth we had ever been invited to, and we thought it only appropriate to shower her with gifts for such a milestone age.

The first stop was John Lewis, with their designer costume jewellery selection. Beautiful limited edition beaded necklaces shone and glistened, unguarded on their stands, Perfect targets. I took one for my self, and one for my friend who was having the party. Next, the Benefit make up, again, left carelessly unsecure. Stacks and stacks of fabulous shades of eye shadow, and novel little Perspex boxes containing false eyelashes. Monsoon was next, where we found an intricate beaded bag. The price tag said it was £40, but to us it was free. It was so easy. The walk past security on the doors was a breeze, us looking them directly in the eye as we exited with teenage brashness, our bags rattling with rebellion and excitement.

Our first bug mistake was visiting HMV. We knew we couldn’t steal from there; every CD was studiously tagged, and most of the cases were empty and for display only, but the avid music fans in us wanted to browse the latest indie releases. We chattered coolly as we approached the security barriers on the exit, but as we passed them, a screeching alarm began to sound and we were surrounded by security within seconds.It was a flurry of walkie talkies and incredibly muscular men who looked like gangsters from Eastenders. Shit. Slightly shaken, I knew we could turn on the charm; after all, we didn’t have anything on us from the store. The security insisted on searching our bags, commenting accusingly on how many trinkets we had floating about in there. I made some thoroughly unintelligent remark about how we had just been to a sleepover.Reluctantly, they released us, and with a sigh of relief we scuttled to Boots, cursing HMVs faulty alarm system. To our dismay, the Boots alarm sounded as we entered, but since we were going into the store, no one disturbed us. It occurred to us that we were going to have to leave the store at some point, so we ducked down behind the hair dyes and assessed our loot, in an attempt to source culprit that was setting off the alarms. A great lump of plastic was hidden in the corner of the Monsoon bag. I couldn’t believe we had missed it before. Discarding the offending item, we quickly scoured boots for designer shower gels and the like, relentlessly checking for security mechanisms. We had learned our lesson.

Leaving the store to the sound of shopping centre white noise, unpunctuated by the sound of the security alarm we did a sort of victory jive. We were brilliant con artists, and we had excelled ourselves.

Suddenly, a swarm of fully uniformed police officers decended upon us. Within seconds, they were grabbing our arms and arresting us on suspicion of theft. We were dragged back into Boots, into a little box of a room with a desk and a computer screen. I was frozen, and my friend was hyperventilating. The tiny computer screen buzzed threateningly, and I realized it was CCTV footage of the store. I could see mothers pushing prams. I tried to concentrate on this obscure TV show as my bags were gracelessly emptied onto the floor, their nasty hands scrabbling through my treasure. I wondered vaguely how long I would be grounded for. Three years? Maybe my parents would throw me out. Maybe I would be sent to a young offenders institute and wouldn’t have to worry about being grounded. I wondered if they had any good books at young offenders, and if you were allowed to wear your own clothes, or were you confined to hideous orange overalls. I was thinking about this all the way to the police van. They bundled us in and I noticed there were no seatbelts. Tears were streaming down my friends face, but I was blank.