The kids looked scared half
to death when they entered the store.
They were a familiar enough
trio in any university town: the beanpole science or IT undergraduate towering
ginger-haired and bespectacled above the others, a six-foot under muscled
beanpole who was doubtless also a lord of Middle Earth; the tubby daydreamer
whose comic books and two left feet had exiled him from the football field and
sent him onto the darker paths of imagination; the white-haired, not-too-pretty
girl whose intelligence and self-doubt had propelled her first into Goth and
now beyond it into a world where darkness was no longer any fun at all.
I didn’t pay much attention
at first because they were too obviously furtive to be effective shoplifters.
And seriously, what heavy, expensive items that might cost the company much
could those less than mighty muscles even shift? Decorators’ supplies and
hardware are scarcely the favourite loot of Rag Week dares or members-only club
initiations. Besides, the store manager was hypersensitive about hassling kids
and it was rumoured to be a part of her police warning that neither she nor any
of her staff would ever again be over-zealous with teenage miscreants. Property
rights and the shareholders could just go to hell. I tend to keep a low profile
with the customers myself; not wanting to strain her limited sympathy for me
nor to imperil her Board-level instructions to get along with the local police
and Probation Service. Her sympathy and the company’s shallow, publicity-hungry
Community Outreach policy had led her to hire me in the first place. Despite my
record.
Provided I don’t approach the
customers more eagerly than the hello-can-I-help-you routine and if I don’t
linger near the paint thinners or other flammables the manager and the Board
stay happy.
I didn’t see the kids
again until they neared the checkout; pushing an overloaded trolley. The three
of them looked very much like a team then, but unbalanced: perhaps missing a
fourth member. I recognized their selections straight away, having much the
same kit myself under the floorboards and hidden by my multigym in probation-defying
secrecy. There was a pair of cordless power tools - ideal for shifting rusted
screws and removing neglected doors far from mains electricity and WD-40 to
loosen any hinges. Next there was a crow bar for prizing out heavy brickwork or
pushing off ornamental masonry, and a couple of heavy hammers: a long sledge
that none of them looked able to lift (let alone wield accurately), and a
hickory oak lump hammer for the main event. Then three hand torches and some
headband LEDs as worn by plumbers and loft insulators with a yen for the
dramatic... Oh, there were also some cool-looking tool belts and knee and elbow
pads in black and charcoal for hard scrabbling in gritty, sunless places. They
looked enticingly military, though someone had exercised some foresight about
low stonework or joists and had picked up a brace of decidedly uncool yellow
hard hats - though I also noticed some matt black spray paint. Kids, eh? Next
were spray painters’ respirator masks for the dust. They'd would look o-so
Darth until they got to the place where it would no longer to be anything at
all like a game. A tenon saw and chisels for whittling.
The timber was all wrong so I
stopped them straight away before they could load up the checkout conveyor.
“You need to take the wood back and replace it. This is pine. Soft wood’s no
use, see? You need ash or oak for this job. Go back and get a couple or three
stair rods. They’re on special offer this week. If you need more than one each
then you three won’t be up to the job and you’d be better off just leaving
town.”
The girl glowered at me with
eyes that had recently stopped being young. Her jewellery looked to be solid
silver and brand new, as did the boys’. Expensive. This would be a credit card
transaction then. Her hair was luminous white like mine. Hers was bleached;
unlike mine which had always grown a rich and wavy chestnut until the morning
after our teenage son went on a date with the new girl in town and my husband
stopped speaking forever.
“Also take plenty of
rags and newspapers and perhaps some bags of wood shavings for kindling. Paint
thinners to get it all started. Apart from the dust, there isn’t much flammable
stuff in the sort of place you’re going. If you can’t get the roof down well
before dusk then setting a fire’s the only way to be sure you’ve finished the
job properly. And just you make certain it’s full daylight when you go in. Give
yourselves a good hour after dawn and to hell with being reported to the
police. There’re worse things in this world than being convicted of arson. You
understand me?” She didn’t ask me anything.
Later, she left the store with her pair of
beta males who I prayed might hew nuggets of courage out of their fear as their
grandfathers had when they left their studies and offices and banks to face
down the Luftwaffe.
It was only later when I
noticed a lingering smell like all the kebabs in England that I thought I should
have explained it’s the flowers rather than the bulbs that might just keep them
alive. Damn.
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