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The
Irrelevant Thief
He crept around the back of
the house and was delighted to find a slightly open window – he always
refused to force an entry, after all he wasn’t a vandal. In a moment he
was inside the kitchen of a semi-detached family home in the respectable
end of town. It was three o’clock in the morning.
Taking out his torch he began opening cupboards and drawers, quietly and
precisely sifting out objects for consideration; Sellotape, pastry
brushes, old birthday cards, birthday cake candles, nail clippers,
batteries, tins of food, fridge magnets, pens, shoe polish, furniture
polish, oven cleaner, egg cups, saucers, saucepans, key fobs, salt
cellars, pepper mills and other unwanted ornaments. He was beginning to
think there was nothing worth taking when he spied a most beautiful
porcelain thimble at the back of the last kitchen drawer. He placed it in
his coat pocket and made a cursory observation of the room, ensuring his
clandestine visit would remain a secret. A moment later he was gone, away
into the night with nothing much to say that this event had ever happened.
It was an odd obsession for a knick-knack here, a curiosity there, or a
forgotten white elephant from the back of the shelf, but always something
worthless and always someone else’s. A strange accumulator of other
people’s property, though not for profit, not for gain, simply because he,
Barry Roberts, was an irrelevant thief.
His house was a private museum, dedicated to exhibiting the spoils of his
labours in glass-fronted cabinets with spotlighting. Each piece in his
collection had been painstakingly cleaned and, if necessary, restored to
its former glory with records kept listing when, where, and from whom it
had been ‘liberated’. He had hundreds of objects, each one stolen from
someone who, however fleetingly, had entered his life and each one had
been specifically selected to suit his purpose of total irrelevance.
Sleeping late one Saturday morning after a good night’s work, Barry was
disturbed by an unexpected knocking at the front door. He had no friends,
no interested family, so visitors were rare and invariably unwelcome.
Still, contact with someone new would mean an opportunity to increase his
collection, so he rushed down the stairs, climbing into his dressing gown
as he went and greeted his next victim.
‘Hello,’ said Barry opening the door.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said a woman no younger or older than Barry himself.
‘I have some tea towels, dish clothes and dusters.’ She gestured towards a
large holdall she had placed on the doorstep.
Something in the keenness of her eyes and the intonation of her voice made
Barry aware of her deafness, although he couldn’t be sure. She produced
her certification and held it up for him to read, ‘Julie Andrews is
licensed to sell for and on behalf of The Organization for Deaf Commerce,’
followed by signatures, dates and the charity reference number. Anyone
could have faked it. But why bother? Who on earth would want to make a
living hawking worthless junk from door to door?
Barry didn’t need cloths, of any sort, he already had more than he could
ever use and he’d never had to buy them, but Julie would make for an
interesting new project. He made his excuses, smiled and wished her well.
Julie made her way on up the street, never letting the setbacks set her
back.
Back inside Barry dressed quickly, choosing the most inconspicuous clothes
and only stopping now and again to check Julie’s progress down the street
from out of the bedroom window; he didn’t want to lose track of her now.
It was time for a little surveillance.
Barry followed Julie through street after street of unsuccessful cloth
sales. Watching from behind bushes and undergrowth, he was surprised and a
little embarrassed at the rudeness shown by so many of his near neighbours
to this new found angel of mercy. It seemed to him that by the very act of
selling items for charity, door to door, Julie had relinquished all rights
to politeness, kindness and humanity. Barry also knew that many of these
people were desperately short of tea towels and the like because he had
been in many of their homes and stolen them.
Eventually Julie grew tired of the rejection and decided to call it a day,
having sold nothing. Barry was tired too, but he needed to get what he’d
come for, he had to find out where she lived. And so he continued
following her, watching her struggle with her heavy bag of wares. He
wanted to help her, but stopped himself; it wasn’t in the rules, it wasn’t
allowed. Even when she struggled on to the bus, near tripping on the steps
and short of the correct fare, Barry just had to ignore these little cries
for help and sidle past, flashing his bus pass in the general direction of
the driver.
Julie eventually scraped the needed pennies for the full fee and the
frustrated Grand Prix ace sped off before she had made it to her seat. She
bashed her head on a metal safety rail, throwing her sideways before
flopping in the seat next to Barry’s.
In this close proximity, Barry became aware of things he’d never noticed
in another person before; he could see the various shades in the strands
of her fair, shimmering hair and smell an almost unconscious scent; unique
and mysterious. She was smaller than he’d first thought and yet her
presence grew greater in his mind. He felt content to just be near her and
anxious that it would not last. Soon enough the bus came to their
destination, stopping as clumsily as it had started. Julie thanked the
driver, without the tiniest hint of irony, and set off again with Barry
still close behind.
They walked down a street of terraced houses with white picket fencing and
gardens with gnomes. The lampposts sported Neighbourhood Watch signs and
children played safely without fear in the street. It was not a part of
town that Barry had ever been to before and already its mix of vigilance
and freedom unsettled him. He felt exposed and vulnerable and criminal. He
was sure that someone was watching him, but he had to keep going.
Julie stopped at the end terrace, fumbled for her keys and let herself in.
It was the prettiest terrace in the row and the largest, jutting out from
the normal oblong shape at an angle on the open side, with a window where
the other houses had solid, separating walls. Barry walked calmly past
having clocked the window and started off home to plan the next stage.
It was midnight by the time Barry returned to the terrace, safe sunlight
having given way to darkness and moonlight. He found a bush to hide behind
and staked out the house.
After the last light was extinguished, Barry waited for the usual twenty
minutes, enough time to send the inhabitant away to the land of dreams and
to settle himself for the task ahead. He checked the contents of his
little rucksack, ritualistically assuring himself that for any difficulty
he may find, the bag would contain something or other that would get him
through. A small torch, gloves, a screwdriver, pliers and a simple
homemade lock pick for emergencies were all the items it held. It was a
general rule with Barry, not to force entry and not to break anything; he
would leave no trace and take nothing of value or importance, so he was
pleased to find the side window invitingly open.
With feline precision Barry arched his way inside, confident that the
Neighbourhood Watch signs were just that, signs. Going through the
motions, he closed his eyes and counted to ten, adjusting to the
non-chromatic conditions of the situation. His eyes, once open again took
in the scene, though without the torch his knowledge was still limited. He
didn’t recognize anything conclusive and so delved for the light-line in
his rucksack. He found it quickly and flicked the switch in the direction
of the unknown. He was in the hallway next to the stairs with the front
door to his left. Two other doors led off, one in front, probably to the
lounge and another to the right, probably the kitchen. He didn’t want to
climb the stairs - it wasn’t his style to get so close to the occupiers –
and he’d filched more than enough kitchen ware recently, so he stepped
toward the door in front and slowly turned the handle. It was locked.
For Barry this was a dilemma. He didn’t like to intrude on his victim’s
privacy – a locked door was a locked door – but with Julie it was
different, he’d felt something that afternoon and wanted to feel more. He
wanted to take up the challenge she’d, however unconsciously, laid down,
the challenge to take the next step and break through the unacceptable,
accepting the dare before him. He knew how to use the lock pick, he’d
practised time and time again, but he’d never used it out in the field. He
sniffed the air, recognized that same mysterious scent first discovered
that day on the bus and reached inside the rucksack again. A few tinkerings later and the still closed door was unlocked. He need only turn
the handle and search out his heart's desire, whatever that may be. He
turned off the torch, blinked his strained eyes and opened the door.
He didn’t need the torch now, for as the door swung back it revealed a
beautifully lit room, spotlights shining on each and every item in each
and every glass-fronted cabinet. Piece after irrelevant piece of pointless
memorabilia shone out proudly with the joy only a loving curator could
bestow. He buzzed with excitement and shook with disbelief, moving from
display to display; a green plastic soldier, a tiny Eiffel Tower, a place
mat, two balls of wool, a ‘Frankie says Relax’ T-shirt and an unused
miniature picture frame. In the next cabinet lay biros, Clipper lighters,
handkerchiefs and a copy of ‘A Brief History of Time’ by Stephen Hawking.
Such wonders!
‘Hello Barry,’ said Julie, somewhere close behind. ‘I thought you’d be
impressed.’ She stood in the doorway, smiling, holding a small porcelain
thimble in her thumb and forefinger. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while
and I so loved your museum. I'm glad you’ve finally visited mine.’ She
began to walk around the exhibits, pointing out a piece here and an item
there. When she reached Barry, she handed him the thimble and kissed him,
the one thing she didn’t have to steal as Barry, in all his innocence and
inexperience, reciprocated.
They never left each other’s company after that. They combined their
collections and found a new home together in a respectable part of the
town and although they never returned to their thievery, they never forgot
why they did it and they never forgot what it meant to be irrelevant
thieves.
Epigram
It is likely that Barry or Julie have stolen something from your house. It
is unlikely that you will ever know what it was. The author apologizes for
any inconvenience caused.
© Jon Andriessen
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