Two o'clock in the morning. Dressed in black from head to toe, he moves through the foliage like a leopard. His prey: the rich residents of Belgium Hill and Luxembourg Crescent. His conscience is clear; Standard Union and Allied Mercia will pick up the bill. These people have insurance coming out of their ears.
He slides open a side window, and clambers inside the property known as 'The Beeches'. The layout is familiar; he moves around quickly picking up items of value and placing them noiselessly in his black briefcase. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.
No more than four minutes later, he’s outside in the night air again, his luggage bulging with duty–free; a good night’s work. A fine athlete in his youth, he vaults the surrounding wall with ease, and is back on the deserted pavement. In the distance, a dog barks. He never pays a visit to a home with canine protection; too risky. As he brushes himself down, a narrow beam of yellow illuminates his face.
‘Police’, says the young voice holding the torch. ’Step out of the shadows.’
He does as instructed, quickly evaluating his options. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
‘Is that you … Father O'Rourke?
‘Tommy? Tommy Harrison?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I heard you’d graduated Hendon. Your mother was telling me after Mass a few weeks back.’
'I didn’t expect to see you at this hour, Father,' apologises the young constable. ‘You see there’s been a string of burglaries on the area.’
'One of my parishioners had a stroke. His wife called me; distraught, the poor dear.'
‘I really am sorry, Father.’
‘Nonsense - you were just doing your job, Tommy! If it wasn’t for this,’ the priest goes on, pointing at his dog collar, ‘I could easily be your burglar, all dressed in black like Johnny Cash.’
‘Johnny who?’
Rain is beginning to fall, and the priest has phone calls to make, goods to move.
‘Johnny Cash – the Man in Black. Ring of Fire?’
The youngster shrugs his shoulders
‘I’ll walk you back to the parish house, Father,’ says Tommy. ‘It’s not safe to be out this late, especially with that briefcase.’
Father O’Rourke sees it is hopeless to refuse. As they walk the silent streets, Father O’Rourke regales Tommy with tales of his time as a young missionary in Uganda, of the time he met Idi Amin, but Tommy hasn’t heard of him either.
Soon it is time to part, and the clergyman has his keys in the wooden door of the presbytery.
‘Good night, Father.’
‘See you on Sunday, Tommy?
Pc Harrison looks down at his shiny boots, and from somewhere in his throat finds a guilty cough.
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be there.’
Inside the door, Father O’Rourke hears Tommy’s footsteps recede into the distance. At last he relinquishes his iron grip on the briefcase, and relaxes the muscles in his shoulders. His lodgings are simple and austere. He flops down on the fold-up bed and flicks on the transistor radio. He hopes the orphans in Kampala will be pleased with the proceeds of his latest collection on their behalf, and his friends, the Collinses, not too upset about their material loss.
He slides open a side window, and clambers inside the property known as 'The Beeches'. The layout is familiar; he moves around quickly picking up items of value and placing them noiselessly in his black briefcase. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.
No more than four minutes later, he’s outside in the night air again, his luggage bulging with duty–free; a good night’s work. A fine athlete in his youth, he vaults the surrounding wall with ease, and is back on the deserted pavement. In the distance, a dog barks. He never pays a visit to a home with canine protection; too risky. As he brushes himself down, a narrow beam of yellow illuminates his face.
‘Police’, says the young voice holding the torch. ’Step out of the shadows.’
He does as instructed, quickly evaluating his options. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
‘Is that you … Father O'Rourke?
‘Tommy? Tommy Harrison?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I heard you’d graduated Hendon. Your mother was telling me after Mass a few weeks back.’
'I didn’t expect to see you at this hour, Father,' apologises the young constable. ‘You see there’s been a string of burglaries on the area.’
'One of my parishioners had a stroke. His wife called me; distraught, the poor dear.'
‘I really am sorry, Father.’
‘Nonsense - you were just doing your job, Tommy! If it wasn’t for this,’ the priest goes on, pointing at his dog collar, ‘I could easily be your burglar, all dressed in black like Johnny Cash.’
‘Johnny who?’
Rain is beginning to fall, and the priest has phone calls to make, goods to move.
‘Johnny Cash – the Man in Black. Ring of Fire?’
The youngster shrugs his shoulders
‘I’ll walk you back to the parish house, Father,’ says Tommy. ‘It’s not safe to be out this late, especially with that briefcase.’
Father O’Rourke sees it is hopeless to refuse. As they walk the silent streets, Father O’Rourke regales Tommy with tales of his time as a young missionary in Uganda, of the time he met Idi Amin, but Tommy hasn’t heard of him either.
Soon it is time to part, and the clergyman has his keys in the wooden door of the presbytery.
‘Good night, Father.’
‘See you on Sunday, Tommy?
Pc Harrison looks down at his shiny boots, and from somewhere in his throat finds a guilty cough.
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be there.’
Inside the door, Father O’Rourke hears Tommy’s footsteps recede into the distance. At last he relinquishes his iron grip on the briefcase, and relaxes the muscles in his shoulders. His lodgings are simple and austere. He flops down on the fold-up bed and flicks on the transistor radio. He hopes the orphans in Kampala will be pleased with the proceeds of his latest collection on their behalf, and his friends, the Collinses, not too upset about their material loss.
1 comment:
I loved this - the first twist was unexpected and I liked the idea that the burglar is a modern-day Robin Hood. Has anyone ever told you that you should write? :)
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