No Thief

By Mark Burrow

Photo by Pineapple Supply Co. on Unsplash

Listen to a reading of No Thief by Mark Burrow:

The Old Lady sits on a wooden chair in the doorway of her ground floor flat, shoutin at the scummers who take their staffies an pit bulls for poos an wees on the patch of grass opposite where the sign ses, No Dogs Allowed.

Boy, she ses. Come here, boy.  

She drinks budget gin an smokes fags. I know she’s only callin cos she wants me to go to the shops.

Her arms an legs are skinnier than French Fries.

Can you get a couple of bits for me? she ses.

It’s near dark an there’ll be idiots hangin outside the shop an offie, the ones who think it’s funny to call me a soap-dodger, makin fun of my mum an if I shout at them to shut their big mouths I’ll be stabbed the same as that kid in the park.

The Old Lady usually gives me cash money, though, so I go, Alright, what do you want?

She pulls her white leather purse from under her mangy jumper with the ash burns. The leather is flakin off the purse like eczema. Don’t you ever go to school? she ses.

Yeah.

You been wandering about all day. I’ve been watching you.

There’s no school.

And the rest.

It’s true. It’s incest day.

I doubt that. Inset’s what you mean. They wouldn’t be having those now in the term.

Are you a teacher?

In another life, she ses, pullin a couple of fat notes from her purse an she goes, Now, I want my change.

I reach for the money.

You deaf?

I’m not gunna steal it, am I?

That’s what I’m asking.

Nah nah, I’m no thief.

She tells me all the alcohol an fags she wants like she’s stockin up for a birthday party on New Years Eve an she goes, Can you remember all that?

Yeah. I’m not dumb.

I’m not suggesting you are.

She eyeballs me.

What?

Go on—tell me what I want.

Fucken teachers an their tests. Exams 24-7. I feel the pressure of rememberin. Brain cells stressin XL-style.

I speak an she ses, Try again.

So I take a deep breath an have a second crack an she nods, handin me the notes.

Correct, she ses. Now hurry up and I’ll let you have some of the change.

I bounce off, touchin the money in my pocket. I pass the row of two-storey flats where the disabled an special needs live with their walkin frames an wheelchairs an ramps. I take my chances an use the alleyway to reach the main road, lookin at the blocks of flats an the maze of walkways above that connect the balconies. If I ever get chased, I can escape easy once I’m up in the flats, losin anyone tryin to hunt me, cos no one knows the turns an hidin places like I do. I peer round a wall at the shops an offie an see two psychos, Robert an Junior, sittin on steps chattin shit to Tracey Clarke. There ain’t no chance of me gettin into the shop with them out front as I know they’ll start on me for sure, wantin to flex in front of her. I didn’t realise Robert was out after bein arrested for shootin a boy in the face with his air pistol. Robert’s the worst. Seriously twisted. Don’t get me started.

There’s another set of shops. It’s a longer walk but it should be safer. I can’t believe I have the money in my pocket an I think about goin to Maccy D’s an orderin the lot. Big Mac. Nuggets. A full on feast.

I’d buy food for Tracey Clarke too. What is she doin with those two losers?

It don’t make no sense.

The bell tings as I enter the shop. A woman is behind the counter an I’m surprised as usually it’s a man. She has a bindi an a bright coloured sari. There’s a smell of spices an the radio is playin music where the drums beat mega fast an a lady sings in a high pitched voice in Hindi or Bengali. I look at the woman an she is shiny an sparkly an it makes me realise how dirty I am in my clothes.

I put the bottles on the counter, yankin my hands back quick so she don’t see my black fingernails. I ask her for the fags.

She laughs an ses, I can’t serve you.

Eh? 

You’re underage.

It’s not for me, I swear. I’m helpin an old lady who can’t walk.

Where’s your ID?

Nah Nah.

The bloke who runs the shop comes out. He wears a long striped shirt that is tight over his pot belly.

Seein me, he ses, Ah, Jay.

The woman shakes her head an ses, He wants to buy alcohol and cigarettes.

It’s for an old lady, I tell them, pullin out the wad. Look, how would I have this for myself?

The man nods at the woman.

You’re going to serve him? she ses.

He don’t speak an she huffs an disappears through the red, white, blue an yellow strips of the fly screen in the doorway to the side of the counter. 

What do you want? ses the man.

I ask for the fags an add onto the counter my tax of a couple of chocolate bars an Dr Peppers.

Anything else? asks the man, usin a black bag of the thinnest plastic to put the booze an fags in. How is your mum doing? he ses.

Yeah, fine, I go.

I hate it when fools ask about mum. All they really want to know is how crazy she is from drinkin an if I should be put in Care. 

He gives me change, plus an extra bag of crisps for free, holdin his finger to shoosh me so the woman don’t know. We bump fists an he laughs, tellin me to take care. I walk out of the shop an stand on the street. I’m not a thief like the others so I ain’t stealin the Old Lady’s money. I walk along the road, seein the buses an bikes an cars go by. I head to the park. The bag’s cheap plastic is strainin from the weight of the bottles like it’s gunna split. It’ll be dark soon but I go an chill on the grass. I check around me, touchin the change in my pocket, lookin at the orangeade sky and openin a Dr Pepper. A man by the trees starts playing a saxophone. I guess he can’t practice in his flat without annoyin fools. Everyone’s always arguin an stressin about noises in the flats. Their ears can’t handle the TV an the bass an the beats. I stretch out on the grass, concentratin to cut out the sound of traffic an the homeless hangin by the public toilets, shoutin an screamin on Special Brew an Tenants an drugs. I listen to the man blowin into the sax, thinkin how mental it is when noise turns into music. There’s a sadness I can touch for sure. A kinda feelin like when I decide not to go to school in the mornin, cept I don’t want to stay indoors either, neither, or go an do my wanderin on the estate cos it might be cold an pissin with rain an fools wantin to hunt me.

Everythin turned grim after my bro, Mike, was sent to young offenders.

I have that twisty feelin. It’s almost nice to let myself be dirge. I don’t know, the sound of the sax with my eyes shut tight an the last rays of heat from the sleepy sun on my face an the grass underneath me, somehow it makes my head an heart go peaceful like the cuddle me an mum had after dad walked out on us.

I’ll take the Old Lady her cigarettes, booze an money tomorrow.

I’m no thief.

Jason Smith ain’t like everybody else. 

Mad how a boy was stabbed in this park an is dead.  

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Mark Burrow has published a novella, Coo, which is about an alcoholic turning into a pigeon in a world where people are turning into birds (Alien Buddha Press). His short stories have appeared in a range of titles, such as Literally Stories, Cerasus, Flight of the Dragonfly, Punk Noir Magazine and Hunger, an anthology of stories published by Urban Pigs Press. He lives in Brighton in the UK and can be found on social at @markburrow20