Sleight of Hand

At the time it seemed like a good idea. All right, perhaps not a good idea but something that once in your head is persistent. It requires you do something about it. Now, in the stark, neon light of the police station, standing in his stockinged feet, it seemed like a really stupid idea. A really, really stupid idea.
The phone hangs disconsolately on the wall opposite the booking desk that is still occupied by the burly booking Sargent to whom, 30 minutes or so ago, Paul had meekly surrendered his tie, belt, shoelaces, watch and mobile. Paul felt very exposed.
“Isn't there somewhere more...er, private?”
“No sonny, this is it. We wont be listening in, eh Sarge?” says the accompanying officer
The desk Sergeant agrees. “That's right Robbo. Anything we hear you say will be between us.”
Paul is nervous. It takes him three attempts to get the number right. And even on the third attempt, just before she picks up there's a moment of panic; he's called an Indian takeaway and that would be it, he'd have had his call, he'd be marched back to the cells and Katie wouldn't know he was fine (as much as a night in the cells and a caution can be considered 'fine'), that would be terrible and the desk Sargent and his mate Robbo would end up eating the chicken vindaloo with two naans he'd ordered. (“Kind of you, amazing how hungry you get past midnight.”)
“Paul is that you? I've been worried sick. Where are you? Are you OK? You're not in hospital are you? You said you'd be back by 10 and you'd call if you were going to be late. Why didn't you call? I've not been to bed. I've been worried sick. You know I've got the presentation tomorrow. I need to be ready for that. Your not being here doesn't help Paul, it really doesn't” Paul wondered if it would've been better to have got the tandoori.

He always found the Tube a surreal experience. It was the enforced proximity, a huge game of sardines that everyone ignored, resolutely carrying on their own business without complaint. The only other places where this level of physical intimacy would've been acceptable was a night club or bed (and ideally the former led to the latter.) He'd dream of ways to subvert it whilst stuck under someone's armpit. Maybe getting an orange from one of the carriages to the other without using your hands or, when the lights go off, 'Murder in the Dark'.
Tonight, he was grateful for the crush. His meeting over, he skipped the taxi and walked to clear his head. He quickly regretted it. It was sleeting. The cold spittle jabbed and slashed at his face. Cramming into the lift to get to the Tube meant he was warm again.
The lift rattled down, shuddering to a halt. He was squeezed out and propelled into a stream of bodies that flowed down the steps. To his horror the river forked and the current took him south when he needed to be north. Scrabbling desperately he fought the flow, salmon-leaping up stream until he was swept up, propelled into a carriage and unceremoniously beached. He relaxed pinned between a tall, dour, damp newspaper reading man whose overcoat dripped incessantly, and a terse, taut mother who fiercely guarded the space she'd won for her sleeping child secure in a monster sized push-chair.
They bounced through to the next stop. There was a pause, a ripple of movement, then an almighty shove as more people struggled into the carriage. A man with a large suitcase wormed his way towards Paul in the mistaken belief that there was more space at his end. The man squirmed into a place in the middle of Paul's group, dropping the suitcase with a dull, heavy thud. It just avoided crushing the sleeping buggy-bound toddler. The buggy-mum gave a ferocious scowl. The newspaperman shrugged.
The newcomer twitched, two bags that were slung over his shoulder made a disorderly descent until they balanced on the suitcase. The Tube bumped, everyone jumped and the bags, (from Harrods), wobbled precariously. The man stuck out a hairy hand rescuing the contents before they spilled on the kid. The man smiled. He had a big round, pudgy face stippled with stubble. It glowed red. Paul couldn't decide whether this was a result of the cold, the overcrowding or his natural complexion; whichever it was he looked surprisingly content compared to his compressed compatriots. He caught Paul's glance. Rather than turn away his smile broadened.
“London,” he said in a thick European accent that Paul, “ Is good place, yes? I like it. These are for my family!” He pointed to the teetering bags. There were airport tags on the suitcase. Paul craned forward, he couldn't work out the destination.
The train clattered and everyone braced themselves. The man's bags tipped violently again. His hands shot out to catch them, forcing him to bend. He was wearing a pair of newish jeans that stretched under the exertion, revealing a flash of red silk above his belt and a thin brown line above the tide mark of the back pocket: his wallet. Paul looked away and then back. The train bumped again and the man reached out to maintain the packages equilibrium. The wallet wormed its way a bit higher.
What if... The thought shocked him. He dismissed it.
What if...
Paul blinked.
...You nicked the wallet.
He turned to newspaperman who was resolutely stuck on the same page. Paul wished he'd move on, he'd already read the article three times.
No, not steal, borrow, just see if you could do it.
Paul blocked the thought. The newspaperman was now on the TV page – film of the night 'The Entertainer'. Good film. The suit case man shifted stepping back on Paul.
“Sorry, yes?”
Paul gave a thin smile. There was the wallet.
Back to the paper, the choice column – 'The Entertainer' first in a series of films about hustles, grifters and cons which include... The list folded over the page. Paul was assailed by thoughts of sharp suited men dexterously purloining a prized personal possession.
The wallet: one chance. Could snatch it and claim it had dropped out of the pocket. Of course he wouldn't keep it, he just wanted to see how easy it was. It would be a dare, yes a dare; he was daring himself.
Paul fancied he'd be quite good at this, though his one flirt with slight of hand hadn't quite gone to plan. He'd bought a book on card tricks and practised the required fake shuffles. It looked good in front of the mirror but at the dinner party the palmed card had pinged from his control landing in the chilli dip. He'd meant it to be amusing. Just not in that way.
Go on. One go, reach out and flip it would be there. It would be a story to tell, something to entertain, just to prove... well just to prove he was not just plain old Paul.
But... it wasn't right, you don't filch someone's wallet for fun...
Something clicked. Paul realised how duplicitous the mind can be. Whilst debating the morality of nicking the wallet, somewhere in the dark recesses it was all worked out. A solid idea, four walls, roof and front door, previously submerged it was now concrete: he saw how he would pluck the protruding wallet from the pocket as suitcase man bent to protect his bags as the carriage filled. He would swivel away palming it only to announce at the next station that he'd found a wallet. Suitcase man would gratefully receive his property back thus enhancing the reputation for English honesty. The only person who'd know different would be Paul.
The Tube began to grind to a halt. Everyone stiffened in anticipation. With the initial jolt suitcase man stretched to save his bags. Paul readied himself for the final lurch, heart hammering against his rib cage. He had a 'surely you're not going to do this' moment but then, to his surprise, as the Tube clanked to a halt he swooped.
The doors hissed open. Paul shuffled forward, reached out with his right hand. Suitcase man flexed to protect his bags. Everyone relaxed as passengers dismounted. Paul felt his fingers close round the soft brown leather. Paul tugged. Then came the heave as people clambered in. In the crush Paul stumbled into suitcase man. Paul reached for a strap to balance and found that his right hand, with wallet, shot up.
“He's got your wallet,” screeched the buggy-mum.
Paul struggled to keep standing. Suitcase man almost capsized.
“Hey, 'e's got your wallet.” The buggy-mum grabbed suitcase man. Paul staggered back into newspaperman. The woman pointed at Paul.
“'Him! Him!”
Paul turned only to be swatted in the face with a rolled paper. Newspaperman grabbed Paul's shoulder and thwacked him hard again. Paul couldn't move.
“That's right, him.” The toddler, who had remained blissfully silent, bawled, joining his mother's accusations.
Suitcase man regained his balance. Buggy-mum had him by the shoulders, shouting in his face:
“ 'e's...got...your...wallet...your...money...yes?”
“Yes, my money”
“Your money.” Suitcase man's eyes followed the line of her outstretched fingers until he looked Paul square in the face. His eyes tracked down Paul. They reached Paul's hands and the brown shape they were holding.
“ Is my wallet, yes? Thank you for finding it?” He reached out to grasp the wallet. To Paul's surprise he jerked it away from the man, it's his prize. Suitcase man's big, sweaty hands grasped Paul's arms. Newspaperman's grip tightened. Paul panicked. He struggled forcing his captor backwards. They hit the Tube's doors. The Tube stuttered. The doors suddenly ph-ished open, (Paul vaguely caught a metallic apology). Off balance newspaperman began to topple, Paul felt himself falling. Suitcase man hadn't let go of Paul. There was a shove from inside the carriage. Newspaperman scrabbled desperately. The train jerked. Gravity took over. The three of them tumbled. As suitcase man fell he caught the buggy.
“Oh, no you don't” shouted the mother. Too late the buggy rolled forward as the twist of bodies, with Paul sandwiched in the middle, pirouetted out of the carriage and with a whump hit the platform. Paul was pressed between a dank, wet woollen coat and the overpowering smell of garlic. Winded, newspaper man had this shocked look on his face, somehow his good deed had gone inexplicitly awry. The doors hushed close.
“Ow!”
They pinged open again. Newspaperman's legs were half in in the carriage. Seizing the moment Paul rolled to one side and struggled to sit up. Suitcase man was still beaming as if this was all part of the London experience. For one moment nothing happened, save for the sush of the doors closing and opening on newspaperman's legs.
Paul could've ran, he could've tossed the wallet back but... Next to his face he felts a harsh, hard breathing.
“This is your fault,” a sharp jabbing pain followed – a rod from the broken push chair. He tried to struggle to his feet, but was brought clattering down by newspaperman who'd rolled over and and caught Paul's ankles.
“Give him back the wallet”
“My wallet, yes”
“What's all this then?”
“Well officer...”

Suitcase man was delighted to get his wallet back. There was no question of charges being pressed, plane to catch. £50 bought the screaming mother off. Paul suffered the ignominy of being manhandled down the platform, faces gawking from the carriages. Before he was bundled into the lift he caught the celebratory round of applause as newspaperman and the mother helped suitcase man back into the Tube.
All in all, it was not a good idea.