I just want to get home

The front door seemed stiffer than usual. The lock turning with greater difficulty. While he struggled with the front door he noticed how flaky the white paint on it had become. Another job to be added to the list of things that barely ever got done. To him there was always another day. Sometimes he missed the days before he had bought the flat, when he rented. In those days he would simply have to call the landlord to ask for something to be fixed. Between the ability to make any deterioration someone else's problem and the choice to move home every couple of years he had gotten used to not having to be concerned about flaky paint or stiff doors.
Renting also meant that he did not have the freedom to change anything beyond the layout of his own furniture. This was a feature he had failed to take advantage of since moving in. Save for adding some self adhesive mirror tiles to the ensuite and bathroom, the carpets and walls were exactly the same. Stained carpets and marked, faded magnolia walls were other things he had on his list to sort out. He wanted to, just not enough to actually spend the time and money doing anything about it.
The change in design of shoe rack, and its contents also failed to register on David's mind. He was just glad to get home after a long an exhausting day capped off with a dreadful drive home in pouring rain.
It wasn't until the door at the top of the stairs opened suddenly that David started to take seriously any hints that something was off. By this point there was no time for him to react. The woman standing at the doorway screamed. David screamed. He jumped back, only just managing to stop him launching himself backwards down the stairs.
'Who the hell are you ?' he spat out, gasping for breath. 'What the fuck are you doing in my flat ?'
'Your flat ?' Her screaming ceasing mid screech. 'I've lived here for five years. This is my flat ! How did you get in !' She took a step toward him. David, intimidated gingerly retreated a step lower on the stairs. He produced his key.
'This is my flat ! This is my key ! See !'
'I bought this flat from the family of some guy that had died on the way home from work. His car came off the road in the rain or something. Who are you and what are you doing here ?'

Bags of Trouble

From Robbie’s vantage point he could see clearly the hundreds of people below him. Some marching with militant determination, others completely lost. He scanned them for potential. Their attention drawn to the information boards hanging overhead and away from whatever bags they had brought with them. Distracted mid rummage. Bag left open. Flaunting the tempting valuables inside. Their uncertainty making them vulnerable. 

He worked in concert with Vicky. They had it down to a fine art. They had a system. Each taking turns to spot the opportunities and direct the other over the phone. They were always careful never to stay in one place too long, never get greedy. Never get noticed. Spot. Take. Escape. 

So many clever but dumb people for Robbie and Vicky to relieve of their possessions. Dressing like their targets in smart office wear, they blended in. Even the more cautious passengers would not pick up on someone who looked like just another office drone, walking through the crowd immersed in their own important but worthless conversation. They made sure to be easy to miss. So many busy and stressed people hurrying to and fro. Frantically searching for the right platform or exit, racing for connections. Focused on everything but the things they had with them. Shiny things. Portable things. Expensive things.  

Right now Robbie was guiding Vicky towards a tall bald middle aged man. He had taken his rucksack from his back. He was slowing down and looking up, searching from left to right for the details of his next train. The man unaware as Vicky closed in from the side, carrying on her practiced conversation with Robbie. Her eye drawn to the green rucksack he had placed on the floor. 

At the last moment he moved his right foot inside one of the straps. Vicky veered away. Cursing under her breath. Had he seen her ? 

“They can’t deliver ? I’m not putting up with that !” venting her frustration in character. Her behaviour and look both practiced to enable her to merge back into the masses. You can’t spot the shark that bites you in a sea full of them. She remained invisible to others locked in their own worlds, ignorant of the dangers in this one. The person she had been heading for hadn’t even given her a glance. Ignorant of how close he came to losing his rucksack and all of its prized contents. 

With a sigh Vicky moved on. Scanning for her next target.

The initial tide bringing wave after wave of commuter into the city had ebbed. They would all now be sat like obedient little soldiers at their computer screens, inside their boxes of metal and glass. Robbie and Vicky lent over the barrier of the upper level. Munching on the overpriced pasties they had both purchased. Two showers of pastry fluttering onto the heads of those below them. 

Although the office workers had dispersed, Waterloo Station continued to be busy and chaotic. Instead of the serious and stony faced uniformity the station was now pulsing with brightly dressed holiday makers.  

Robbie and Vicky did not stop to consider the difference of their targets, only the change in types of items they were likely to secure. Naturally, in the rush hour periods the people zooming around the station with little attention for their belongings would be carrying expensive laptops or tablets with them. When the holiday makers replaced them, the tourists would bring a different bounty in addition to the obligatory mobile phones and tablets. There would be large amounts of cash stuffed into their bags as well as high end cameras. Some of the holiday makers would have complaining children in tow. The children provided another distraction for the adults, giving them something else to worry about than their luggage. Robbie and Vicky had agreed a long time ago that they would not mark one of the spoiled little brats. The adults however, were still fair game.

The trick as ever was to spot the opportunity, get in and out without being noticed. Spot. Take. Escape. Half the trick was to remove the item with such confidence that it appeared to belong to you, and be gone before the target even realised that their item was missing. This part often made Robbie chuckle. Vicky made it look so easy. Theft as art. This was ballet on a grand echoing stage with other people’s props. They would make their exits from the station separately, meeting up at a prearranged spot after making sure no one was in pursuit. 

You had to keep your head to get away with it. And get away with it they did. Vicky and Robbie are very good at what they do.

As the day marched on, thousands of people spilled out of the endless line of trains under the careful eyes of Robbie and Vicky. Each new batch of those passing through brought a fresh catch. There was a rhythm to it.

Vicky directed Robbie toward one likely looking customer. A man in his late twenties, looking rather distressed. Eyes wide in panic. For Robbie and Vicky, distressed meant distracted. The heavy black rucksack slung over his shoulder. By continually cushioning the bag with his arm he unwittingly betrayed its value to others. Looking around wildly did nothing to increase his awareness of the circling Robbie as he closed in, phone pressed tightly to his ear.

Robbie continued his fake conversation with Vicky. Steely eyes focused as he bore down on his target. The man completely unaware. He started removing the rucksack. Slowly and gently slipping his arms out of the straps, he carefully lowered the bag to the floor and twisted his body away to his left, searching for something in his jacket pocket. This was Robbie’s moment and he did not intend to waste it. Vicky gave him the word over the phone. Robbie reached down and grabbed the bag. It was heavy. A smile on Robbie’s face. Heavy meant expensive. 

Walking fast towards the exit he could sense a commotion behind him. Practiced at his part, Robbie powered on ahead, never looking back. 

Robbie opened the bag. From where she was sat Vicky couldn’t see what was in it. The sudden loss of colour in Robbie’s face gave her no clue.  

“What is it ?”

He looked at her. Unable to speak. He moved slightly to show her. Gently angling the bag. She moved in closer, impatient. They’d both heard stories of bags fitted with tracking devices, or set to cover you in special paint when opened. This was different, but still very, very wrong. His facial expression was beginning to scare her.  

Three things happened in very quick succession. 

Vicky screamed loudly.  

Robbie dropped the bag.

They both dived over the sofa.

Tumbling awkwardly a mess of arms, legs and heads colliding with each other as they tried to crouch as low as humanly possible. 

After what felt like hours they both gingerly peaked their heads from behind the sofa. On the floor in front of them, where Robbie had dropped it, the bag lay open. Wires poking out. Two bottles of liquid visible. One dark grey, the other red. This was no tracking device. This was something much, much worse. 

“Look !” She was pointing at the television. She scrabbled down between the cushions to recover the remote control while he tried to recover control of his bladder. 

The woman from ITN emotionless as she justified the interruption to the meaningless daytime entertainment that was supposed to be on. Robbie and Vicky usually took comfort from realising that there were people in far worse situations than they were. 

Today that was no longer the case. 

The view on the television cut to a man standing outside Waterloo Station. The streets around him were chaotic. Packed with people being commanded to move further down the street by Police officers. The people looked bemused, angry and distraught.

“Not ten minutes ago Debbie, the Police shut down London Waterloo and started clearing the station. No trains or tube will call at, or travel through the station until further notice. As you can see the streets are full of passengers who had been going about their business, in the city to see the sights, maybe going away on holiday, or here to meet loved ones.

Chief Inspector Lesley Mulvaney from The Metropolitan Police made a statement moments ago.”

The image on the screen changed to a room filled with journalists and cameras. The wall behind the platform lined with posters of actors pretending to be happy and helpful policemen and women. Not the sort that Robbie and Vicky had ever encountered.  

A woman in police uniform edged her way to the lectern in the  middle of the platform. The moment she came into view a thousand cameras started flashing, and dozens of reporters shouted indecipherable questions all at the same time. As she took her position, organising her papers, she cleared her throat. The journalists took their cue. Hushed silence descended.  

“A short time ago we were made aware of a video claiming ownership of an imminent attack to London’s transport network.”

The flashing from the cameras increased to fever pitch. Several of the journalists shouted questions. She ignored them all.

“The video warned of an attack due to take place today at London Waterloo Station at one fifteen pm.”

Robbie nervously looked down at his watch. The time was one thirty eight. He looked at the malicious contents of the bag in the centre of his front room. His attention was drawn back to the screen when Mulvaney resumed talking. Neither Vicky or Robbie could find a single word to say. Not that they would dare to utter any if they had. 

“We have apprehended the individual from the video. It appears however that before he was able to detonate his device he was separated from it by two quick thinking members of the public. We are eager to speak to these two citizens, to confirm their safety and take necessary steps to disarm the device.”

Chief Inspector Mulvaney continued to speak but her words were drowned out by a barrage of questions from the journalists.

Robbie and Vicky turned to each other. Mouths open. The same frightened look on each of their faces. 

“What the fuck !”