Saturday. It was that time. It was van time.
I walked quicker as I approached the house. The build of excitement panning over me and into my throat, as if a mouth was already at its entrance in thanks. A mouth which knew exactly what to do.
My jacket pockets knocked against my hips with the motion, patting me with rhythm for what was to come. Rewarding me for good conduct. They'd never been that full before. It felt rich. Doing my best to sway with the elegance of the most beautifully grown up woman. I was ready to set out my swag.
That morning I'd lined each pocket with what I could get from the shop ever so carefully, so as not to attract the slightest attention from the family, because that would spoil everything. Over the week I'd taken my time to pick the right place, although there weren't that many on our estate. It was a dingy little news-agents, with everything painted brown. I watched who came and went whenever I was passing. To clock the time, which cars were around, even the registrations, playing the line--my future depended on it. Observation, I concluded, was central to this game.
The woman behind the counter knew me by sight, had even begun to greet me with a kindly little smile and a "Wacha sunshine," so that her voice lilted towards something.
I liked that. But the smile would always be gone the instant she put your money in the till and turned away. And the sunshine bit, well, that was said without feeling.
My moment came when, on a chance visit, there were no actual customers in the place and the woman was engrossed near the door, moaning on to some friend as though it might save the world. I picked up a magazine pretending to browse. The woman looked over at me a minute and looked away. Her line of sight was half blocked by a display. I put the magazine down. The woman said a few words and looked over again. I selected another magazine nearer the counter. My heart was in my mouth hindering judgement. The woman entered a new phase of moaning. That was it. I snatched what I could at lightening speed. The ciggies and matches Racka had asked for slid up my sleeves as if they had been made to fit. They felt cool and neat for the asking, like I had answers tucked away in slippy white packages.
"What's that girl doing?" said the friend. "She's got something."
"No I haven't."
Both women came over.
"I wanted to buy this," I said holding out the magazine. "I was just getting my money ... that's all. You were talking."
Trembling in my stomach, and forcing calm, I held up the magazine and could feel the packets slip to the top of my arm. The woman looked me up and down and slowly took my money, as if reviewing who I was.
The getaway came next. I wanted it to be good. Avoiding my reflection in shop windows, although I knew it was there wanting to look back--and grab. Moving nimbly through the tide. Looking into a stranger's eyes when I didn't have to. Feeling their curiosity imprint on my back, teasing they might pick up something to tell. Ploughing down the streets. Accepting housewife shoppers knew what was in my head long before I ever did. Heart pounding for England.
Feeling relieved that I had done his bidding with flair. I could see those lips of his parting to insert the first cigarette. How proud Racka would be of me? How shocked Mr Swift.
The family lived in a really nice house. It was built about thirty years ago. It had a slant roof at the front and two little hexagonal windows as you went up the stairs. It didn't stand out that much because the whole road was the same right along on both sides. I suppose it was important for them their home didn't stand out too much.
I put my jacket on the peg in their cloakroom-come-toilet as usual. Timothy's potty squatted nearby, filled and smelly, so that it demanded your attention for more than a glance. I was never quite sure whether to empty it or not. This time I was happy to leave it and shut the door.
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