Funny thing, though. I didn't like the idea of getting rid of it.

Next few days just sort of go by. Nothing much going on. Baz had to head East to visit some mate in the London Hospital, so he goes over and does the business with Mr. Pzlowsky. Usually I'd do it because people have been known to take advantage of Bazza, but me and the Pole had words over it a year ago and he plays fair with him now. Fair as he plays with anyone, that is. The handful of jewelry we got from the house with the empty drawers gets us a few hundred quid, which is better than either of us expected. Old silver, apparently. American.

We play pool, we play darts, we watch television. You know how it is. Had a row with me bird, Jackie: she caught sight of the little coral thing (I'd just put it down next to the sink for a minute while I changed trousers) and seemed to think it was for her. Usually I do come back with a little something for the old trout, granted, but on this occasion I hadn't. p.i.s.sed me off a bit, to be honest. She just sits at home all evening on her fat a.r.s.e, doing nothing, and then when I come home she expects I'll have some little present for her. Anyway, whatever. It got sorted out.

Couple days later Baz and I go out on the game again. Nothing mega, just out for a walk, trying back doors, side doors, garden gates, usual kind of stuff. What the coppers call "opportunistic" crime. Actually, we call it that too.

"Fancy a bit of opportunistic, Baz?" I'll say.

He'll neck the last of his pint. "Go on, then. Run out of cash anyway."

We were only out an hour or so, and came back to the pub with maybe three, four hundred quid worth of stuff. Usual bits of jewelry, plus a Palm V, two external hard drives, three phones, wallet full of cash and even a pot of spare change (might as well, plenty of quid coins in there). That's the thing about this business: you've got to know what you're doing. Got to be able to have a quick look at rings and necklaces, and know whether they're worth the nicking. Glance at a small plastic case, realize there's a pricey little personal organizer inside. See things like those portable hard drives, which don't look like anything, and know that if you wipe them clean you can get forty apiece for them in City pubs, more for the ones with more megs or gigs or whatever (it's written on the back). Understand which phones are hard to clone or shift and so not worth the bother. Know that a big old pot of change can be well worth it, and also that if you tip it into a plastic bag it makes a b.l.o.o.d.y good cosh in case you meet someone on the way out.

The other thing is the mental att.i.tude. I remember having a barney with an old boyfriend of Baz's sister, couple years ago. She'd met him in some wine bar up West and he was a right smarta.r.s.e, well up himself, f.u.c.king student or something it was.

He comes right out and asks me: "How can you do it?"

Not "do," notice, I'd've understood that (and I don't mind giving out some tips): but "can." How can I do it? And this from some little w.a.n.ker who's being put through college by Mummy and Daddy, who didn't have a lazy girlfriend to support, and who was a right old slowcoach when it came to doing his round at the bar. Annoying thing was, after I'd discussed it with him for a bit (I say "discussed": there was a bit of pushing and shoving at the start), I could sort of see his point.

According to him, it was a matter of att.i.tude. If someone came round and turned me mum's place over, I'd be after their f.u.c.king blood. I knew that already, of course, he wasn't teaching me nothing there: I suppose the thing I hadn't really clocked was this mental att.i.tude thing. I know that Mum's got some bits and pieces that she'd be right upset if they was nicked. Not even because they're worth much, but just because they mean something to her. From me old man, whatever. If I turn someone's place over, though, I don't know what means what to them. Could be that old ring was a gift from their Gran, whereas to me it's just a tenner from Mr. Pzlowsky if I'm lucky. That tatty organizer could have phone numbers on it they don't have anywhere else. Or maybe it was a big deal that their dad bought them a little telly, it's the first one of their own they've had, and if I nick it then they're always going to be on their second, or third, or tenth.

The point is I don't know all that. I don't know anything about these people and their lives, and I don't really care. To me, they're just f.u.c.king cattle, to be honest. What's theirs is mine. Fair enough, maybe it's not great mental att.i.tude. But that's thieving for you. n.o.body said it was a job for Mother Teresa.

Anyway, we're back in the Junction and a few more beers down (haven't even shifted anything on yet, still working through the change pot) when who should walk in the door but the Pole. Mr. Pzlowsky, as I live and breathe. He comes in the door, looks around and sees us, and makes his way through the crowd.

Baz and I just stare at him. I've never seen the Pole anywhere except in his shop. Tell the truth, I thought he had no actual legs; just spent the day propped up behind his counter raking in the cash. He's an old bloke, sixties, and he smokes like a chimney and I'm frankly f.u.c.king amazed he's made it all the way here.

And also: why?

"I'd like a word with you," he says, when he gets to us.

"Buy us a beer, then," I go.

I'm a bit p.i.s.sed off at him, truth be known. He's crossing a line. I don't want no one in the pub to know where we shift our gear. As it happens it's just me and Baz there at that moment, but you never know when Clive's going to come in, or any of the others.

He looks at me, then turns right around and goes back to the bar. "Two Stellas," I shout after him, and he just scowls.

Baz and I turn to look at each other. "What's going on?" Baz asks.

"f.u.c.ked if I know."

As I watch the Pole at the bar, I'm thinking it through. My first thought is he's come because there's a problem with something we've sold him, he's had the old Bill knocking on his door. But now I'm not sure. If it was grief, he wouldn't be buying us a pint. He'd be in a hurry, and p.i.s.sed off. "Have to wait and see."

Eventually Mr. Pzlowsky gets back to us with our drinks on a little tray. He sits down at our table, his back to the rest of the pub, and I start to relax. Whatever he's here for, he's playing by the rules. He's drinking neat gin, no ice. Ugh.

"Cheers," I say. "So: what's up?"

He lights one of his weird little cigarettes, coughs. "I have something for you."

"Sounds interesting," I say. "What?"

He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown envelope. Puts it on the table, pushes it across. I pick it up, look inside.

Fifties. Ten of them. Five hundred quid. A "monkey," as they say on television, though no f.u.c.ker I know does.

"f.u.c.k's this?"

"A bonus," he says, and I can hear Baz's brain fizzing. I can actually hear his thoughts. A bonus from the Pole, he's thinking: What the f.u.c.k is going on?

"A bonus, from the Pole?" I say, on his behalf. "What the f.u.c.k is going on?"

"This is what it is," he says, speaking quietly and drawing in close, I won't do his accent, but trust me-you have to concentrate. "It is from that jewelry you bring me last week. The silver. The American silver. I have one of my clients in this afternoon, he is the one sometimes buys unusual things, and I decide I will show this silver to him. So I get one of these things out-I always show just one first, you understand, because it can be more expensive that way. He looks at it, and suddenly I am on high alert. This is because I am experienced, see, I know what is what in my trade. I see it in his eyes when he sees the piece: he really wants this thing, yes? I was going to say two hundred to him, maybe two hundred fifty, this is what I think it was worth. But when I see his face, I think a moment, and I say seven hundred fifty! Is a joke, a little bit, but also I think maybe I see what is in his eyes again, and we'll see."

"And?"

"He says 'done,' just like that, and he asks me if I have some more. I almost fall off my stool, I tell you truthfully."

I nearly fell off my own stool, right there in the pub. Seven hundred and fifty f.u.c.king notes! f.u.c.k me!

The Pole, sees my face, laughs. "Yes! And this is just the smallest one, you understand? So I say yes, I have some more, and his eyes are like saucers immediately. In all the time I do this thing, only a very few times do I see this look in a man's face which says 'I will pay whatever you want.' So I bring them out, one by one. You bring me five of them, you remember. He buys them all."

Baz gapes. "All of them? For seven fifty each?"

The Pole goes all sly, and winks. "At least," he says, and I knew there and then that one or two of them went for a lot more than that. There's quiet for a moment, as we all sip our drinks. I know Baz is trying to do the sums in his head, and not having much luck. I've already done them, and I'm a bit p.i.s.sed off we didn't realize what we had. f.u.c.k knows what the Pole is thinking.

He finishes his gin in a quick swallow and gets up. "So, thank you, boys. Is a good find. He tell me is turn of the century American silver, from East Coast somewhere, he tell me the name, I forget it, something like Portsmouth, I think. And . . . well, the man says to me that if I find any more of this thing, he will buy it. Straight away. So . . . think of me, okay?"

And he winked again, and shuffled his way out through the crowd until we couldn't see him any more.

"f.u.c.k me," Baz says, when he's gone.

"f.u.c.k me is right," I say. I open the envelope, take out four of the fifties, and give them to him. "There's your half."

"Cheers. Mind you," Baz says, over his beer, "he's still a f.u.c.ker. How much did all that add up to?"

"Minimum of seven fifty each, that's three grand seven fifty," I said. "But from that f.u.c.ker's face; I'm thinking he got five, six grand at least. And if he got that off some bloke who knows it's nicked, then in the shops you got to double or treble it. Probably more."

"Sheesh. Still, good for him. He didn't have to see us right."

"Yeah," I said, because he wasn't completely wrong. The Pole could have kept quiet about his windfall. His deal with us was done. "But you know what that cash is really about?"

Baz looked at me, shook his head. He's a lovely bloke, don't get me wrong. He's my best mate. But the stuff in his head is mainly just padding to stop his eyeb.a.l.l.s falling in. "What it means is," I said, "is he's very f.u.c.king keen to get some more. In fact, probably says he was lying about the seven fifty for the cheapest. He got more. Maybe much more. He got so much dosh for them, in fact, it was worth admitting he did well, and paying us a bonus so we go to him if we find any more."

"Better keep our eyes open, then," Baz said, cheerfully. "More beer?"

"Cheers," I said.

I watched him lurch off to the bar. My hand slipped into my pocket, and I found my cold little friend. The bit of polished stone, coral, gla.s.s, whatever. I knew then that Clive had been right. My little piece was probably worth a lot of money. The bits of jewelry had been all right, but nowhere near as pretty as my stone.

I wasn't selling it though, no way. I had got too used to the feel of it in my hand. Twenty, thirty times a day I'd hold it. I liked the way it fitted between my fingers. Longer I had it, better it seemed to fit. Sometimes, if I held it up to my face, I thought I could smell it too. Couldn't put my finger on what it smelled of, but it was nice, comforting. The Pole wasn't getting hold of it. Not Jackie neither.

It was mine.

On the Sunday Baz goes on holiday. He's off to Tenerife for the week. This is fine by me, because I need time to plan.

Now Baz, he thinks we've just got to keep an eye out for this stuff, that it's something like a particular DVD player or whatever. I know different. If it's this f.u.c.king valuable, then it's not something we're just going to find in some gaff in Kentish Town, mixed in with all the s.h.i.t from Ratners or Argos or wherever. This isn't just common-or-garden thieving we're looking at. This is nicking to order, which is a different kind of skill. Happens all the time, of course: you pa.s.s the word to the right bloke in the right pub, that you want some particular BMW, or a new Mini in cream, and they'll go do the business for you. There's big money in it. Not my area, normally, but this is different. We do all right with the usual gear, but if me and Baz can take some more of this silver to the Pole, we can do very nicely indeed. It's worth making an effort.

So on the Monday night, I'm out on the streets by myself. It's about ten thirty. I park the van around the corner, and I take a stroll down the street where the house is, the house where we found the stuff. Couldn't remember which one it was at first, but in the end I worked it out. All the other houses in this street, they've been done up. Window sills painted, bricks re-pointed, new tiles on the path, that kind of thing. Scaffolding on a couple others. Lot of people have moved in recently, the area's coming up. But this particular house, it looks a bit more knackered. I'm thinking the people have been there a while, which makes sense, what with it being so untidy inside. Could be they're foreign. You get that, sometimes. People moved in just after the war or whatever, when it was dirt cheap. House gets pa.s.sed on to the children, and then bingo, suddenly they're sitting on a gold mine. Could be they're Yanks, even-which would explain the old silver being from the US originally.

I walk past the house and see the curtains are drawn and the lights are on. Lot of people do that when they go out, but if you take lights to mean there's no one at home, you'll being doing time so fast your feet won't touch the ground. Me, I've never been inside. Not intending to be, either. And I'm not planning on doing the job solo anyhow. It's a big house. It's a two person maneuver-not least because it was Baz who picked up the bits of silver in the first place. I don't know where he found them, but it's got to be the first place to look. Quicker you're in and out, the better.

I walk the street one way, then go around the corner and have a f.a.g. Then I walk back past the house. I'm trying to remember the exact layout, cause we've been in a few other houses since. I'm glancing across at the front window on the second floor when I see a shape, a shadow on the curtain. I smile to myself, glad I'm not so stupid as to have had a go tonight. And loyal, of course-I want Baz in on it, and he's not back until Sunday.

I slow the pace, keep an eye on this shadow. Never know, it might be a bird with her t.i.ts out. Don't see nothing of note, though. Curtains are too tightly drawn, and it's that thing where the light's behind them and they get magnified till they're just some huge blob.

The light goes off, and I realize mostly likely that's the kid just gone to bed. That tells me that room was where the little telly was from, and the whole floor clicks in my head.

I walked back to the van, feeling very professional indeed.

Next night I'm busy, and the one after. Not nicking. The Tuesday was our "anniversary" (or so Jackie says; far as I can see I don't understand why we have them when we're not even f.u.c.king engaged, and anyway-anniversary of what? We met at a party, got p.i.s.sed, s.h.a.gged in one of the bedrooms on a pile of coats, and that was that). Either way we ended up going up West and having a meal and then getting bladdered at a club.

Wednesday night I'm not going f.u.c.king anywhere. I felt like s.h.i.t.

So it's Thursday when I'm outside the house again.

I was there a little earlier, about quarter to nine. You look a bit less suspicious, being out on the street at that time; but on the other hand there's more people around to see you loitering about. I walked past the house first, seeing the curtains are drawn again. Can't work out whether the lights are on full or not: there's still a bit of light in the sky.

I'd actually slowed down, almost stopped, when I heard footsteps coming up the street. I started moving again, sharpish. You don't want the neighbors catching someone staring at a house. There's some right nosey f.u.c.kers. They'll call the old Bill quick as you like. Course the Bill won't do much, most of the time, but if they think there's lads scouting for opportunities then sometimes they'll get someone to drive down the street every now and then, when they're bored.

So I started walking again, and as I look I see there are some people coming up the street towards me. Three of them. Actually, they're still about thirty yards away, which is a surprise. Sounded like they were closer than that. I just walk towards them. I didn't actually whistle-n.o.body whistles much these days, which I think is a bit of a shame-but I was as casual as you like.

Just as I'm coming up to them, them up to me, the streetlights click on. One of these lights is there just as we're pa.s.sing each other, and suddenly there's these big shadows thrown across my path. I look across and see there's two of them in front, a man and a woman. The woman's wearing a big floppy hat-must have been to some fancy do-and the bloke happens to be looking across her, towards the street. She's in shadow, he's turned the other way, so I don't see either of their faces, which is fine by me. If I haven't seen theirs then they haven't seen mine, if you know what I mean.

I'm just stepping past them, and I mean around, really, because they're both pretty big, when suddenly someone was looking at me.

It was the girl, walking behind them. As I'm pa.s.sing her, her head turns, and she looks right at me.

I look away quickly, and then they're gone.

All I'm left with is an image of the girl's face, of it slowly turning to look at me. To be honest, she was a bit of a shocker. Not scarred or nothing, just really big-faced. With them eyes look like they're sticking out too far, make you look a bit simple.

But she was young, and I think she smiled.

I walked down to the corner, steady as you like. As I turned around it I glanced back, just quickly. I saw two things. I see the three of them are going into the house. They weren't neighbors, after all. They're the people from the actual house. The people with the jewelry. The people I'm going to be nicking from.

The second thing I notice is that the streetlight we pa.s.sed isn't lit any more.

I'm a bit unsettled, the next day, to be honest. Don't know why. It isn't like me. Normally I'm a pretty chilled bloke, take things as they come and all that. But I find myself in the pub at lunchtime, which I don't usually do-not on a weekday, anyway, unless it's a Bank Holiday-and by the afternoon I'm pretty lagered up. I sit by myself, in a table at the back, keep knocking them back. Clive pops in about three and I had a couple more with him, but it was quiet. I didn't say much, and in the end he got up and started playing pool with some bloke. It was quite funny actually, some posh w.a.n.ker in there by mistake, fancied playing for money. Clive reeled him in like a kipper.

So I'm sitting there, thinking, trying to work out why I feel weird. Could be that it's because I've seen the people I'm going to be nicking from? Usually it's not that way. It's just bits of gear, lying around in someone else's house. They're mine to do what I want with. All I see is how much they're worth. Now I know that the jewelry is going to belong to that woman in the hat. And I know that Baz's sister is watching a telly that belonged to the girl who looked at me. All right, so she was a minger, but it's bad enough being ugly without people nicking your prize possession.

That could be another thing, of course. She'd seen me. No reason for her to think some bloke in the street is the one who turned them over, but I don't like it. Like I didn't like Mr. Pzlowsky being in the Junction. You don't want anyone to be able to make those connections.

I'm thinking that's it, just them having seen me, and I'm beginning to feel bit more relaxed. I've got another pint in front of me, and I've got my stone in my right hand. It's snuggled in there, in my palm, fingers curled around it, and that's helping too. It's like worry beads, or something: I just feel better when it's there.

And then I realize that there's something else on my mind. I want to find that jewelry. But I don't necessarily want to hand it on.

The Pole is still gagging for it, I know. He's rung me twice, asking if I've got any more, and that tells me there's serious money involved. But now I think about it properly, with my stone in my hand and no Baz sitting there next to me, jabbering on, I realize I want the stuff for myself. I didn't actually handle it, the last time. Baz found it, kept it, sold it to the Pole.

If a little bit of stone feels like this one does, though, what would the silver feel like? I don't know-but I want to know.

And that's why, on the Sat.u.r.day night, I went around there. Alone.

I parked up at five, and walked past once an hour. I walked up, down, on both sides of the street. Unless someone's sitting watching the whole time, I'm just another bloke. Or so I tell myself, anyway. The truth is that I'm just going to do it whatever.

It's a Sat.u.r.day night. Very least, the young girl is going to go out. Maybe the mum and dad too, out for a meal, to the cinema, whatever. Worst case, I'll just wait until they've all gone to bed, and try the back door. I don't like doing it that way. Avoid it if I can. You never know if you're going to run into some have-a-go-hero who fancies getting his picture in the local paper. Clive had one of those, couple years back. Had to smack the guy for ages before he went down. Didn't do any nicking for three months after that. It puts you right off your stride. Risky, too. Burglary is one thing. Grievous Bodily Harm is something else. The coppers know the score. Bit of nicking is inevitable. The insurance is going to pay anyway, so no one gets too exercised. But with GBH, they're on your case big time. I didn't want to go into the house with people in it. But by the time I'd walked past it three times, I knew I was going to if I had to.

Then, at half-past seven, the front door opens.

I'm sitting in the van, tucked around the corner, but I can see the house in the rear-view mirror. The front door opens and the girl comes out. She walks to the end of the path, turns left, and goes off up the street.

One down, I think. Now: how many to go?

I tell you, an hour is a long time to wait. It's a long time if you're just sitting there smoking, nothing but a little stone for company, watching a house in the mirror until your neck starts to ache.

At quarter-past eight I see the curtains in the downstairs being drawn.

h.e.l.lo, I thought. It's not dark yet. Nothing happens for another twenty minutes.

Then I see the door opening. Two people come out. She's wearing a big old hat again. It's a bit far away, and I can't see his face, but I see he's got long hair. I see also just how f.u.c.king big they are. Fat, but tall too. A real family of beauties, that's for sure.

They f.u.c.k around at the door for a while, and then they walk up the path, and they turn right too.

Bingo. f.u.c.king bingo. I've had a result.

I give them fifteen minutes. Long enough to get on the bus or down the tube, long enough that they won't suddenly turn up again because one of them forgot their phone or wallet. Also, enough for the light to go just a little bit more, so it's going to be a bit darker, and I won't stick out so much.

Then I get out of the van, and walk over to the house. First thing I do is walk straight down the front path, give a little ring on the door. Okay, so I've only seen three of them before, but you never know. Could be another kid, or some old dear. I ring it a couple of times. Nothing happens.

So then I go around the side, the way we got in last time. It's a bit of a squeeze, past three big old bins. f.u.c.k knows what was in them-smelled f.u.c.king terrible. Round the back there's the second door. Last time it was unlocked, but I'm not reckoning on that kind of luck twice. Certainly not after it got them burgled. I try it, and sure enough, it didn't budge.

So I get myself up close to the gla.s.s panel in the door, and look through the dusty little panes. Some people, soon as they get burgled, they'll have a system put in. Bolting the stable door. It's why you've got to be careful if you find some keys the first time and go back a couple weeks later. Can't see any sign of wires.

So I take the old T-shirt out of my pocket, wrap it around my fist. One quick thump.

It makes a noise, of course. But London is noisy. I wait to see if anybody's light goes on. I can be back out on the street and away in literally seconds.

Nothing happens. No lights. No one shouts "Oi!"