Sugar Crush
Her name was Candy, of course it was Candy, what else could it be?
I met her early one grey London morning, the drizzle blanketing the morning commuters as we headed for the warm, underground warren of the Tube.
I was late, threading my way through the throng of umbrellas and latte wielding office types, two months in and still unsure of myself. Dublin just a memory now, a collection of places strung together by long associations. London Irish, that’s what I am now, here to build a life not just the Sasnach’s roads.
Those days were gone, but being alone in a city never changed, Dublin nor London, an empty bed and an empty heart, prick the soul just as much. My prick was half the problem, insistent little bugger.
The women in work didn’t want to know me. Some Paddy straight off the Ryanair flight with no prospects, no cash, living above a takeaway in Camden town, no thanks. Where’s those Irish lads off the rugby team. Big, glowing hair, big teeth and strong calves, a few quid in the back pocket too never hurt. See you when you make some money Paddy.
You should meet the young wans from Dublin 4 Missus, you’d get on grand. Some things never change.
Candy was different. I met her on the Tube that day between Kings Cross and Piccadilly. She tried to nick my wallet. It was somewhere near Picadilly when the train jerked to a halt and the crush of of bodies heaved around me. I felt a hand brush against my chest, a brief flowery scent of newly washed hair, a red butterfly hairclip and a momentary frisson from my neglected loins before the doors clanked open and I realised my wallet was gone.
‘Oi,’ I shouted after the disappearing blonde head. ‘Oi,’ I said again, ‘stop, somebody stop her, she’s got my wallet!’
There was a momentary pause from the crowd as confusion reigned before I shoved my way past onto the platform and spied the red hairclip heading towards the exit.
‘OI, STOP THAT BITCH. SHE’S GOT MY FUCKING WALLET!’ I found my anger and my voice. The crowd around me fell back at the force of my anger and I sprinted after the disappearing thief.
Rounding the curve of the white tiled corridor at a dead run, I came upon the would be thief in the painful looking armlock of one of London Underground’s Transport Police.
‘Stop thief!’ I shouted, somewhat unnecessarily under the circumstances, but the adrenaline had kicked in and I was shaking with rage.
‘Where’s my wallet, where’s my fucking wallet,’ I said, wildly gesticulating at the girl, held fast in the stern grip of the Policewoman.
‘Fuck off you nonce,’ said the girl, without a trace of fear.
‘Keep it quiet young lady,’ said the Policewoman, as she turned to face me. ‘Now sir, if I can ask you to calm down and explain to me why you where pursuing this young lady across the concourse.’
‘She stole my wallet,’ I said, outrage flowing across my burning face, ‘she picked my pocket on the train, just before the station. I need my wallet back.’
‘Yes sir, of course, if you wouldn’t mind stepping over here sir for a moment and I will speak to the young lady.’
‘No, I don’t mind, but she has my wallet and I need it back,’ I said, trying to sound reasonable and rational. Paradoxically embarassed now by my public outburst in the face of authority.
‘What the young lady does or does not have is still to be ascertained. Please, if you wouldn’t mind stepping to one side sir and we will try to clear this up as soon as possible.’
‘What! There’s nothing to clear up, she stole my wallet, it’s as simple as that,’ I said stepping forward.
I realise now that was a mistake.
‘Step back, NOW SIR!’ said the policewoman, placing a restraining hand on my chest and firmly pushing me away. He other hand touching an unspecified pouch on her belt.
Shocked, I stepped back, hovering by the curved wall of the tube corridor as the policewoman spoke rapidly into her radio and took the young woman aside. Commuters flowed past us in an unending stream. I bore the brunt of their furtive glances as they passed. I began to feel uneasy, what did these people think I had done? It was her who had stolen from me, not the other way round.
I looked over at the two women conversing in low tones by the ticket machines and for the first time I actually looked at my would be pickpocket.
She was young, eighteen, nineteen maybe. Dressed as was the fashion in clothes barely covering her skinny frame. ‘Where was her jacket’, the thought burrowed up through the conflicting emotions crowding out my reasoning faculties, it’s raining outside, and cold. I looked harder, the clothes were short, but cheap and unwashed, the hair styled, after a fashion, but dark circles, not the work of a makeup brush hung beneath her haunted eyes.
The two other policemen arrived without warning, appearing silently out of the steady stream of commuters and positioning themselves between myself, the policewoman and her charge. I smiled weakly at them, they smiled politely back, but said nothing.
Finally the policewoman left her charge and stepped over to me. I smiled at her too, hoping to ease the tension in the air. The policewoman did not smile, she merely regarded me without comment and opened her notebook.
‘Sir, I must warn you the young lady has made some serious allegations regarding your conduct.’
‘What!” I shouted, fear and anger rising up inside me. ‘I was just on the train, going to work. This person picked my pocket, she stole my wallet and I ran after her. You caught her running away from me. That’s the sole interaction I have had with this person. I have never met her before in my life.’
‘That’s not how she puts it.’
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This abruptly truncated piece of Flicktion is brought to you using this photograph from Flickr user Anavrin. Sometimes the days are too short to fit in all your plans.