Coldwater Cottage – 10: The Stairs

Previous instalments: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9


Coldwater CottageHe followed it with the flashlight and found himself looking at a cuttlefish. It hovered about two meters away, its crown of tentacles aimed at the flashlight, ready to defend itself. Waves of brown pigment chased each other across the striped body. It took Ian a moment to make the connection, then a gust of laughter swept through him. It was all he could do to keep his mouth closed on the regulator, and he knew he was close to hysteria, but a sodding cuttlefish for Christ’s sake! It was so obvious. He’d startled it, and it had released a cloud of ink and dived into the kitchen. A predator would see what all predators were most afraid of in the cloud: a larger predator. Ian had seen Dad. The haze in the living room was the remains of the ink cloud, which he must have been dispersed by his frantic exit.

Yet the cuttlefish wasn’t throwing out ink clouds now. It was doing what cuttlefish usually did when they saw divers, which was to withdraw to a safe distance and have a look at the noisy, clumsy creature invading its realm. Ian occasionally wondered who was more interested in whom when exchanging stares with cuttlefish, but now he wondered why it had reacted so violently. He must have startled it, he thought, or perhaps the ink was from an octopus that was still hiding somewhere. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d seen Dad in an ink cloud and now needed to search Dad’s bedroom before he gave himself any more scares.

He inhaled and allowed the air in his lungs to carry him up, over the stone stairs. They were as bare as they always had been, but they wouldn’t stay bare for much longer. After a few months, they’d be scattered with the dark brown sausages of cotton-spinner sea cucumbers and the grey coral claws of dead men’s fingers that turned red in electric light.

Ian reached the top of the stairs and found himself between two doors. Dad’s on one side, his and Jakki’s on the other. He turned toward Dad’s door.

“You ever come in here, boy, and I’ll thrash your arse so you’ll be sleeping on your belly for a month!”

Ian rotated slowly until he was facing the room he’d slept in until he was fourteen. He opened the door before he realised he’d decided to do it.

Next week: The Bedroom


The full story is available from the Amazon Kindle store, and is part of the Steel in the Morning collection which is available in Kindle or paperback format.

Coldwater Cottage was originally published in Lamplight 1:2 and subsequently in the Lamplight Volume 1 annual.

Author notes

Goodreads

Cover by Manda Benson

Other stories by DJ Cockburn available online

Steel in the Morning

Newgate Jig

The Endocrine Tyranny

Peppermint Tea in Electronic Limbo

Foreclosure

Cassandra’s Cargo

Mars One

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Posted in Coldwater Cottage, Uncategorized

Sick Society

SickSociety

(per Corell [CC / Flickr])

Don’t hide your tickets. We need to see them at all times. Don’t bother checking your pockets. You’re not taking the sort of trip you get on by showing a piece of card or waving a magnetic strip. This is a journey you take because your ticket is written into you.

We read it in your pale skin, your bloodshot eyes, your shaking hands.

Don’t hide them. If we can’t read your ticket, we might get the impression that you’re stowing away; Hiding yourself among the people who fit here.

Malingering your way aboard.

What are you looking so shocked about? Did you think this was a safety briefing like you get from the airlines, with smiling flight attendants miming how to stay cheerful and comfortable when you hit the ground at five hundred knots?

It’s too late for you lot. You’re here because you’ve already crashed in one way or another.

So no faking it. We’ll know. Wear your pain, your exhaustion, your unhealed scars. Wear them where we can see them and we’ll have a seat for you.

Not first class. We don’t do first class. You’re all in this together.

On you go, now. Take your time. Limping is good. Shuffling is good. Your walk is part of your ticket.

Who’s that bounding in there?

Stop her, stop her at once. No, we don’t want to hear it. We don’t want to look at you. We’ve seen enough.

Ticket cancelled.

Keep moving the rest of you, nothing to see here. That’s more like it. It warms our hearts to see your lack of enthusiasm mixed with your gratitude for letting you aboard at all.

Find yourself a seat and don’t bother asking:

We’re nowhere near there yet.

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Posted in Saturday Hooptedoodle

Coldwater Cottage – 9: The Living Room

Previous instalments: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8


Coldwater CottageThis was the right time to return to the surface. And explain to Jakki that he hadn’t found the brooch. He could see her face as he told her, a veneer of sympathy over her implacable conviction that he would go back. Her conviction would be justified because as hopeless as the quest was, he’d left her alone with Dad and would do whatever she asked until he atoned for it.

He looked back to the house and knew there was another reason why he’d go back in. He refused to accept he’d seen Dad in that room because it simply couldn’t have happened. He made himself go over the scene in his mind and think about what he’d actually seen. The flashlight beam flicking around the room, sending shadows cavorting in all directions. A movement out of the kitchen. Or was it into the kitchen? A dark figure with no features. Could he have imagined it? It had looked so human. So real.

He had to know. He kicked back toward the house before he had time to frighten himself. He panned the flashlight around the living room. The same two armchairs he remembered lay toppled on their sides. The bookshelves were still screwed to the wall, although the books were reduced to lumps of pulp scattered across the floor. Ian remembered titles like SAS Survival Manual and Bravo Two Zero, but little of the words inside them. Instructions on butchering rabbits blended with tales of hard-jawed men slaughtering softer and darker featured men who never had names. Ian had always identified more with the slaughtered than the slaughterers. It wasn’t until years after he ran away that he understood what an impossible dream those hard men had been for Dad, and understood Dad’s rage that his son showed so little aptitude for becoming what he never became himself.

Yet the memory of Dad was all that was left of him in the room. There was no sign of Dad himself, though there was a faint haze in the room. Ian saw that it was made up of dark tendrils that diffused and dissolved as he peered at them. He finned into the kitchen. Something darted through the flashlight beam. Ian caught his breath as he recognised the same movement that had preceded Dad’s appearance.

Next week: The Stairs


The full story is available from the Amazon Kindle store, and is part of the Steel in the Morning collection which is available in Kindle or paperback format.

Coldwater Cottage was originally published in Lamplight 1:2 and subsequently in the Lamplight Volume 1 annual.

Author notes

Goodreads

Cover by Manda Benson

Other stories by DJ Cockburn available online

Steel in the Morning

Newgate Jig

The Endocrine Tyranny

Peppermint Tea in Electronic Limbo

Foreclosure

Cassandra’s Cargo

Mars One

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Posted in Coldwater Cottage, Uncategorized

Talking about Books

TalkingAboutBooks

(Pat David [CC / Flickr])

There is nothing more chilling than the silence that falls when you think you’ve just said something clever.

Only the other day, I met this girl in the pub. We got chatting and I thought she liked me. I was working up to asking for her number when she said she likes reading books. Right, I thought. Books. Don’t want to mess this one up. I don’t think watching Game of Thrones counts. I know there were some books, but perhaps they’re different and I’ll make a prize cabbage of myself if I pretend I’ve read them.

But a couple of weeks ago, I was at my GP and the only magazines were Good Housekeeping and the Times Literary Supplement. It was a long wait and my phone battery died and you’ve seen the state of my flat, so you can guess which one I picked up. So I’ve read something about books. That means I know more than someone who just reads the books, right?

I thought back to one of the articles, and I asked her if she thought Moby Dick exemplified Melville’s preoccupation with the eternal battle between man and a nature that’s been reified to symbolise the Abrahamic god.

I remembered the words exactly. They sounded so clever I thought I might use them some time.

That’s when the silence happened. It was horrible. She stood there, looking at me like I’d grown a second head. Then she said she preferred Harry Potter and asked me where the loos were.

I was left standing there with my beer, wondering what I’d said wrong. Perhaps she didn’t like reading at all, she just thought it made her sound clever.

So that’s the lesson I learned: get a girl’s number first and then start talking to her. That way, if you get it wrong first time, you can call her later and try again.

What are you looking at me like that for?

Go on, say something…

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Coldwater Cottage – 8: The Roll

Previous instalments: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7


Coldwater CottageIan kicked his fins and tried to twist his body toward the door he’d come in through. The door itself appeared in the flashlight beam, and he heard as much as felt his head thud into it. The sea exploded into pinpoints of light. He felt salt water in his nose and mouth as his mask and regulator shifted. He flailed his arms, feeling for the doorway, and somehow he was outside. He shoved the regulator back into place and found himself staring up at soil and boulders as the air in his drysuit rushed to his feet. Bubbles roared past his ears as he breathed in great retching sobs.

The image of that figure shimmered in his mind and a spasm of shivers shook him. Just as suddenly, he found he was furious with himself. It was stupid enough to be down here alone to start with, but he’d committed the cardinal sin of panic. Now he was still out of control and drifting toward the surface when he knew perfectly well that a simple forward roll like that would get the air out of his boots and into his sleeves so he could release it through the wrist valve like that. Uncontrolled ascent turned into a gentle descent, and he landed on his knees on top of a boulder. He needed the feel of firm ground while he got his breathing under control. He pressed his hand to his ringing head, though he could feel nothing but the texture of neoprene covering a solid object. The boulder beneath him would feel the same.

He glanced at his air gauge. A hundred and twenty bars left after seventeen minutes. He was ripping through his air, seeing things and now he’d banged his head.

Next week: The Living Room


The full story is available from the Amazon Kindle store, and is part of the Steel in the Morning collection which is available in Kindle or paperback format.

Coldwater Cottage was originally published in Lamplight 1:2 and subsequently in the Lamplight Volume 1 annual.

Author notes

Goodreads

Cover by Manda Benson

Other stories by DJ Cockburn available online

Steel in the Morning

Newgate Jig

The Endocrine Tyranny

Peppermint Tea in Electronic Limbo

Foreclosure

Cassandra’s Cargo

Mars One

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Posted in Coldwater Cottage, Uncategorized

Haute Couture

HauteCouture

(victorillen [CC / Flickr])

Sarah’s reflection in the mirror would have been perfect until Ralph’s frowning face appeared over her bare shoulder. The ends of his moustache drooped with a look of dismay.

“This dress is perfect,” she said. “What are you looking so miserable about?”

“The cut is perfect for your figure, it’s true,” he said. “But I’m not certain that cerulean goes with the sound.”

“What sound?” Sarah felt that a couturier as fashionable as Ralph had earned the right to have the occasional eccentricity indulged. “A dress doesn’t make a sound.”

“That sound. Your voice,” said Ralph.

“My voice? What’s not cerulean enough about my voice, Ralph?”

Rafe, my dear, it is pronounced Rafe. Rhyming with safe. Which I, of course, am not.”

The frown had gone from Ralph’s face, replaced by an expression that belonged on the face of a boy who was last to be picked for a team. It made Sarah want to comfort him.

She squeezed his arm. “Now you’re being silly, you’re the perfect gentleman. You didn’t even peek while I was changing into it, did you?”

Ralph looked as if she’d slapped him. “I did indeed peek. Of course I did.”

His features hardened in a visible attempt to rally himself. “But to return to the matter of your voice, my dear, your voice. To wear this colour requires the velvet tones of a contralto. Your voice…”

Ralph waved his arm in an upward motion, indicating octaves higher than Sarah could aspire to.

“But my hazel eyes? My dark hair? The colour matches them perfectly. And I’ve been on a diet since you measured me to make sure I’d fit it perfectly.”

“Hmm…” Ralph’s expression did not change.

“What’s wrong with my voice, then?” asked Sarah.

“It’s hard to say,” said Ralph. “How can a man with pitch as perfect as mine describe a sound that is so chronically off-key.”

“Off what?”

“Off-key, dear girl, off-key. To wear that dress – not merely to put it on but to wear it, you understand – requires the mellifluous tones of the skylark. Not the screech of a parakeet with laryngitis. No, no, no, it won’t do.” Ralph opened a wardrobe and rifled through the dresses hanging in it. “I have the perfect dress for you here. A lady of very similar proportions who sadly passed away the day before she collected it.”

He turned with a flourish, holding up a grey long-sleeved gown.

“That?”

Sarah waited for him to notice he’d chosen the wrong dress, but he held it out to her.

“But it’s…it’s…dowdy.”

“It’s perfect for you, my dear. It requires but a few minor adjustments.”

Sarah looked down and ran her hands over the dress she was wearing. “I think this is perfect.”

“Then you are sadly mistaken.” Ralph shook his head, conveying his sadness was not a figure of speech. “My conscience will not allow you to leave this building with that dress. It was my mistake to ever think you could wear it.”

“But…”

“And my name, dear girl, is Rafe.”

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Coldwater Cottage – 7: The Door

Previous instalments: 1 2 3 4 5 6


Coldwater CottageHe noticed that the door wasn’t shut as he had first thought, but slightly ajar. Strange, he could have sworn…but he hadn’t looked that closely. He could just swim round in circles and tell Jakki that there was no house. He remembered the face at the window he left behind when he ran away, and knew he had to go inside.

He flicked his fins and bumped a hand against the door. It didn’t move. Years of cold and damp had made it a poor fit for the frame long before he’d left.

“Don’t bang the bleeding door, you little turd!”

Ian braced a hand against the frame and pushed. It ground across the slate floor, but it gave way and his momentum carried him through it. Into darkness. He couldn’t see his hands. He heard his bubbles pass his ears, but he couldn’t see them. He felt his anxiety as he fumbled for his flashlight. It was only anxiety, he told himself, a long way from panic. This was not the time for panic.

The flashlight clicked on. Ian blinked in the sudden glare even as he saw the wall at the end of the living room. He threw his arms in front of his head before he gently collided with it. He felt the flashlight knocked out of his hand and opened his eyes to see the beam wandering around the room. The worn paint and bare floorboards were so familiar he felt sick. His repeat offenders must feel like this when they go back to prison, he thought. He retrieved the flashlight and the beam swept across the door to the kitchen. He saw a quick movement and refused to believe what had just appeared, because there couldn’t be a human figure in the room and it just couldn’t be “Dad!”

Next week: The Roll


The full story is available from the Amazon Kindle store, and is part of the Steel in the Morning collection which is available in Kindle or paperback format.

Coldwater Cottage was originally published in Lamplight 1:2 and subsequently in the Lamplight Volume 1 annual.

Author notes

Goodreads

Cover by Manda Benson

Other stories by DJ Cockburn available online

Steel in the Morning

Newgate Jig

The Endocrine Tyranny

Peppermint Tea in Electronic Limbo

Foreclosure

Cassandra’s Cargo

Mars One

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Posted in Coldwater Cottage, Uncategorized

The 390 to the North

The390ToTheNorth

(Martin49 [CC / Flickr])

The day began so well that I should have known the man upstairs had his clown suit on. I caught the 390 bus to Tufnell Park, where my friends would be waiting. Saturday afternoon in the pub and Chelsea in the cup final. What could be better?

I didn’t notice something was up until we’d cruised past a couple of stops. It wasn’t rush hour, so perhaps no one wanted to get on or off. When we passed Staples Corner, I saw someone trying to wave the bus down. His look of open-armed, open-mouthed ‘what the hell?’ made me pay attention. It’s the same look you see on a striker’s face when the ref disallows his winning goal for being offside.

The bus not stopping was strange, but what was even stranger was that we weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Staples Corner. I’ve taken the 390 enough times to know that. I was even more sure that it wasn’t supposed to be tearing down the sliproad on to the M1, and the engine wasn’t supposed to be screaming like the Arsenal crowd had all caught a cold at the moment they wanted to cheer a winning goal.

Then again, Gooners always sound like that.

The woman across the aisle was looking at me with wide eyes, and I found myself looking back at her. When you catch someone’s eye on London Transport and they don’t look away, you know things are bad.

The she spoke to me. It was a direct violation of the unwritten, unspoken code of buses and tube trains: don’t ever acknowledge the existence of another living person. It’s how you preserve your sanity when one stranger’s bum is jammed in your crotch and your face is pressed into another’s armpit.

“Do you think this is a short cut?” she asked.

Her accent was pure West London. No chance she was a foreigner who didn’t know how many lines she’d just crossed. This was indeed an emergency.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think buses take short cuts.”

We both looked forward to where the partition hid the driver.

“Perhaps we should ask him.” She didn’t sound like she was volunteering. Speaking to one stranger on a bus must have been her quota for the day.

I tried to remember what the driver looked like, but I couldn’t remember. I’d just swiped my oyster card and shuffled into the bus, thinking I could murder a Stella when I get to the pub. If Chelsea in the final isn’t an excuse for afternoon boozing, what is?

“It’s just…I don’t want to be late for my Zumba class,” said the woman.

Hard to argue with that. I got up and worked my way forward, from one handgrip to another. The bus was swaying in a manner that suggested double-deckers were never designed for the speed we were doing, though plenty of cars were overtaking without half the effort the bus’s engine was screaming about. After a lifetime of trundling from traffic light to bus stop, the freedom of the motorway had come as a shock to the engine.

The driver looked normal enough. A middle-aged white guy who looked so well fitted to the driver’s seat that he might have been part of the bus.

“Hi there,” I said. “Where are we going?”

He rotated his head toward me. “Passengers must not speak to the driver while the vehicle is in motion.”

“OK…” The road ahead was straight, which was fortunate as he was now looking directly at me instead of where we were going. “I’ll go back, but could you please tell me -”

Passengers must not…oh, you heard the first time. Naff off.”

He was looking straight at me now, with a pair of eyes so black that it was like looking down the muzzles of a pair of cannon. It was a clear, sunny day. There was no reason for his pupils to be that dilated. At least, there was none that made me feel any happier about our blind northward charge.

I tried a different tack. “Does that apply on the motorway?”

“Eh?” His face wrinkled in thought. “D’you know, I dunno. Buses don’t go on motorways, so there aren’t no rules about it. Bit of a poser, that.”

He turned his head back to the road. I hoped that was progress of some sort. “So, where are we going?”

“Going? I dunno. Land’s End. John O’Groats. Does it matter? Narnia. Yeah, let’s go to Narnia!”

“Well, there’s a lady who’s worried about missing her Zumba class. I don’t think they know about Zumba in Narnia.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. Hey, look at that.”

He was looking in the wing mirror. I looked behind to see blue flashing lights.  As I watched, a second police car powered down a slip road to join the car and two motorbikes behind us.

“They’re coming to Narnia too,” said the driver.

I was still trying to think of an answer to that when a bang and a lurch threw me off my feet. I bounced off the windscreen and ended up sitting on the floor, facing backward. The engine noise was drowned out by a howl of tortured metal, sounding like ten thousand souls in torment at once. It was more Man United than Arsenal now.

“What are you doing down there?” The driver shouted over the racket. “Stand straight! Look forward! Think positive or we’ll all be a goner!”

The bus was rattling around in a way that put standing out of the question. I smelled burning, and realised we’d gone over one of those contraptions the police use to blow the tyres out.

“We’re going to Narnia! Think positive!” shouted the driver.

“How can we make it to Narnia?” I shouted back. “You forgot to bring the wardrobe!”

The driver looked stricken. The noise faded, suggesting he’d taken his foot off the accelerator.

“I knew there was something,” he said as the 390 shuddered to a halt.

I spent the afternoon in the police station, giving statements and failing to persuade them I wanted something a lot stronger than the cups of tea they plied me with. It wasn’t the day I’d been looking forward to.

And Chelsea lost on penalties.

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Coldwater Cottage – 6: The Father

Previous instalments: 1 2 3 4 5


Coldwater CottageIan stared back at the door, shut as it so often had been while a fire burned inside and rain fell outside.

“You’re not coming in until you’ve chopped that wood!” The unshaven head disappeared as the window slammed shut.

“You’ll stay outside until you’ve caught us a couple of rabbits. It’ll be good for you!” Jack’s face appeared at her bedroom window, her palms pressed to the glass as though reaching out for him.

Dad had been determined to be self-sufficient. It was a favourite word of his, like manly and deadweight.

“You’ll learn to be manly if it kills the pair of us,” to Ian.

“I never wanted a girl! You’re just a deadweight,” to Jack.

Ian’s hand drifted through the soil, feeling no more than a slight resistance through the glove. A mist of fine particles rose before him. He remembered bunching his fists in that soil and watching blood drip on to the grass from his lip or nose after one of Dad’s attempts at homeschooling. Dad’s gifts as a teacher had been as meagre as Ian’s as a pupil, and frustration was never more than one step away from flying fists. Ian never cried. He’d learned not to make that mistake at a very early age. He’d clench his fingers into the soil as though trying to pull it out from under Dad, the house and his entire life. “Bastard,” he’d say, “bastard, bastard, bastard.”

Ian jerked his head, annoyed he’d let his thoughts wander. Forget ‘manly’ and ‘self-sufficient’. The word he needed to remember now was ‘narcosis’. Before his first training dive below eighteen meters, the instructor had told him to write his phone number backwards. He’d done it without hesitation, but when she handed him a pad on the bottom, he’d had to wring the digits out of his memory, and even then he’d mixed two of them up. It was as clear a demonstration of the effect of nitrogen under pressure on the human brain as he could have asked for. Yet here he was drifting through memories he’d spent half his life trying to forget instead of keeping an eye on his air. A hundred and fifty bars left, and he’d only been down for fourteen minutes. He shouldn’t have let his breathing run away with him.

Next week: The Door


The full story is available from the Amazon Kindle store, and is part of the Steel in the Morning collection which is available in Kindle or paperback format.

Coldwater Cottage was originally published in Lamplight 1:2 and subsequently in the Lamplight Volume 1 annual.

Author notes

Goodreads

Cover by Manda Benson

Other stories by DJ Cockburn available online

Steel in the Morning

Newgate Jig

The Endocrine Tyranny

Peppermint Tea in Electronic Limbo

Foreclosure

Cassandra’s Cargo

Mars One

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Posted in Coldwater Cottage, Uncategorized

Nose for a Wrong ‘Un

NoseForAWrongUn

(Thomas Bunton [CC / Flickr])

Seeing is believing. I’ll not let you or anyone else tell me otherwise.

I knew he was a wrong ‘un the moment he came into the shop, which is why I had my beady eye on him in the first place. I’ve got a nose for his sort. That’s why they took me out of that cheap security guard uniform and put me in plain clothes in the first place. Now you, I could tell you were a copper at fifty paces. Detective constable now, sergeant in a year or two and inspector by the time you’re forty.

The opposite of him.

I followed him past frozen foods and when he turned left instead of heading for the cheese, I knew where he was going. I kept going past refrigerated, turned left at the rack full of soya milk, followed the aisle along and there he was at the booze. Right where I knew he’d be.

No, I didn’t follow him there. He’d have seen me, wouldn’t he? Wrong ‘uns like him have eyes in the back of their head. When you’re up to no good in every waking hour, you get to know when you’re being watched.

I pretended I was browsing through the toothpaste while he was looking for the priciest bottles. All right, I’ll admit it wasn’t the best cover in the world. Not a lot of people waste time choosing between Colgate and Sensodyne, but that’s what’s next to the booze so I had to look like I was doing something while I kept line of sight.

So I can tell you that missing bottle went under his coat. In fact, let me think, yes, I saw him take it. His right hand, he used. The one closer to me. See, I remember the detail. That shows I saw it, and I know what I saw.

I followed him to the exit tills. Watched him pay for a Mars bar he picked up on the way. Cover, that was. He didn’t want to draw attention by walking in and out without buying anything. It might have worked if I wasn’t already on to him.

What d’you mean, he didn’t have no booze on him? Damn, he must have clocked me and got rid of it on the way out. Must have been when he went round the corner, through the cuddly toys.

I saw him take it, plain as I can see you cut yourself shaving yesterday. See, I don’t miss much. Your cut’s a day old. I can tell with one glance.

Sure, let’s have a look at the CCTV. You’ll see what I’m on about.

There he is. Look at him, he’s so crooked he can hardly walk down a straight aisle. Now he’s stopping at the booze like I said.

That woman? No, I don’t remember her. No reason I would. My job is the wrong ‘uns. She must be, what, seven months pregnant? She’s just passing the booze on her way up to the healthcare section where I am. She won’t be interested in booze in her condition, will she?

I wouldn’t have registered her when I was focused on Johnny Lightfingers there. I’m telling you, if you didn’t have it on him when you caught him then it’s buried in a pile of teddy bears. I only lost sight of him for a couple of seconds, but that’s as long as his sort needs.

Yeah, yeah, I’m watching closely. That’s my job, you don’t need to tell me how to do it. I’m watching that right hand of his, like I was when I was at the toothpaste.

Miss what?

OK, let’s rewind. You want me to watch the woman?

OK, you’re the copper but I don’t see…

OK, so she took a bottle. Must be for her husband. So she put it under coat. Big deal. She forgot to pick up a basket or a trolley, and walking must be hard work for her.

Hang on.

Is she wearing a pouch under there?

She’s not pregnant at all, the little…rewind a bit, will you, I want a proper look at her face.

Look at her walking up that aisle. Eyes flicking all over the place. Look up ‘shifty’ in the dictionary and you’ll find her picture.

She’s a wrong ‘un if ever I saw one.

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