Last Train to Aldwych

A good pickpocket learns to select his prey early on, so that he or she can study their movements, their characteristics and mannerisms and most importantly, their apparent state of mind. Because, if a punter looks like they're lost in thought, have things on their mind, so to speak, that means their guard is down and they're vulnerable.

I'd followed this geezer down the escalator from the street. He was wearing a trilby and his loose-fitting, double-breasted suit-jacket was perfect for a 'dip'. He was as good a prospect as I was likely to find on that hot Wednesday afternoon. You develop a sixth sense about these things and I anticipated an easy afternoon's work.

The platform at Leicester Square tube station gets pretty crowded between half-past-four and six o'clock with the rush hour and I made sure I stayed close to the bloke in the trilby because I didn't want to get separated from him when we all bundled into the train.

I could feel the air being forced out of the tunnel by the approaching train. It was like a tropical breeze against my face. I saw the headlight emerge from the tunnel mouth, like a miner coming up to the surface of the ground after a doing a shift below. The mournful whine of electric motors was virtually drowned out by the ear-splitting roar and clatter of steel on steel. I felt my heart beat faster with the anticipation of what was to come and a little flurry of butterflies in my guts. No matter how many 'dips' and 'picks' I make I still get the same excitement as when I did my first job at Wimbledon dog track. I've been told by the older hands that once that 'buzz' goes it's time to give up. Good advice I reckon, because if you've got no heart in it, you're not going to be any good and sooner or later you'll get caught.

For the first time it struck me how oddly he was dressed. He looked kind of out-of-step with time. Up on the street I'd had him down as an office type, but on thinking about it now I reckon he wouldn't have looked out of place carrying a violin case in an old Humphrey Bogart movie. That's not to say he looked much of a threat... not to me anyway. I can handle myself alright... and I can also make myself pretty scarce when I have to. Anyway, this geezer was well old, about 40.

He didn't fit in anywhere with today's fashions, not that I'm a slave to it myself. Give me my old jeans, bomber jacket and trainers and I'm happy as Larry. But I always do go to 'work' in a suit, a matter of pride and principle I suppose. And I find people don't get the jitters about you.

Anyway, like I was saying, this bloke was dressed really weird - I mean, who wears chalk-stripe suits and paisley ties these days?

But there was something strange too about the train as it squealed to a halt at the platform. It looked kind of ancient, old carriages from a long ago. I knew that the rolling stock on the Piccadilly Line had been replaced with new because I'd worked it only last month, so it was kind of spooky to see this old relic with its sets of sliding doors now yawning open, hissing air, sucking us all into its sweat-stenched, worm-like innards. Perhaps it had been brought out of retirement as a stand-in while one of the new trains was being serviced.

I thought little more about it as we all bundled into the carriage, with me keeping a close tail on 'trilby', meaning I was only half-a-step behind him. He reminded me of one of those guys you see in old wartime movies, the bloke who can get hold of all-sorts, especially some nice fancy underwear for the soldiers' wives who were left at home -- and at a 'knock-down' price. He was dressed like a spiv, a bit like that bloke from Dad's Army.

I knew it would be standing room only. It always is on the 5:15 northbound from Leicester Square. It was just perfect. I huddled up close to him, breathing a sigh of relief when he reached for an overhead support because he couldn't get a seat. That would've been game over as far as I was concerned - night-night, nurse! But my luck was in. Mind you, he did honk a bit, kind of mothballs and a rotting smell. Still, I wouldn't have to poke up with it for long because I'd planned to get off at Holborn.

We stopped at Covent Garden and I knew there wouldn't be many getting off there. It was far too early for the theatres. But equally I knew a few more would get on and really squeeze us up. And that would be my cue to lift the geezer's wallet, which is exactly what I did once we'd moved off again. But it was a strange sensation putting my arm around him and my hand into his inside pocket. It was kind of cold and damp and I couldn't wait to get my hand out again... with a nice fat wallet in it of course. It gave me a bit of a shudder to be honest. Anyway, I quickly slipped it in my side pocket and that was that. So far, so good.

Now you might think a pickpocket would leave his own wallet at home. Well, some might, but I like to have mine with me. I mean, although I make a career out of taking other people's, I still find a certain comfort in knowing I have my own with me. It's just one of those things. Of course, understandably, I'm naturally cautious when it comes to mine - you're never quite sure what kind of undesirables are going to cross your path when you're out and about. But that's not to say pick-pocketing isn't an honourable profession; it has a proud tradition. It's just that there's some pretty dishonest people out there and you can't be too careful.

Anyway, what we 'dippers' do, just to be on the safe side, is attach our wallet to our person by a chain, bit like a watch chain, so it can't be nicked. There you go... I'm giving away trade secrets now.

Now the thing is, between Covent Garden and Holborn stations there's a disused one that was the Aldwych stop which mainly served the theatre, but it got closed down a long while back because it wasn't profitable, and there was some safety issues with the lifts. So I was right surprised when the train squealed to a halt there because it shouldn't have done. I thought we'd stopped for a signal, but then the doors nearest to me hissed open and the geezer got out. I couldn't believe it. Nobody else seemed to take a blind bit of notice. And another funny thing... when the doors closed and I looked out after him, he was nowhere to be seen, Like he'd just disappeared into thin air. I don't scare easily, but I swear my legs were about as useful as a chocolate teapot right at that moment and I had to reach out for the hand rail on the back of a seat pretty damn quick, otherwise the floor was coming up to meet my face.

"Did you see that bloke get off just then?" I said, to no one in particular as I looked around the carriage. But they all looked at me like I was barmy. "You must have seen him, for Christ's sake?" But they just stared. It was like in one of those Hammer House of Horrors things where all the people in the village are in cahoots with each other, or in some sort of sect. They look at you suspiciously, but never speak, because you're an outsider.

Anyway, at Holborn station I got off and took the escalator to ground level. I thought I'd stop off at The Clover Leaf pub before I made my way home. I needed a stiff drink after what I'd been through. I felt for 'trilby's' wallet in my side pocket. It was still there, nice and snug. At least that was real. I would check through it once I'd got myself into a nice little corner with my scotch... might just turn out to be a nice little 'earner'.

When it came to paying for my drink I thought I'd have enough change in my trouser pocket. But you know London pub prices. I didn't have enough, so I reached into my inside pocket for my own wallet and got another shock. It wasn't there. I frantically felt for the chain and pulled that out. There was nothing on the end, only the wire loop that the wallet had been attached to.

"I don't believe it," I said to the barman. "I've been robbed." And then I remembered the geezer's wallet I'd just nicked and got that out. I opened it. I couldn't believe my eyes. Not a credit card in sight, and there was just one note tucked in it. I took it out and looked at it, not recognising it as being anything I'd seen before. It looked much bigger than normal fivers and tenners.

"What you got there?" said the barman.

"I-I'm not sure... I think it's foreign." I could feel my heart sinking, and a kind of cold panic taking over.

"Let's have a look... Blimey, where did you get that?" he said. "It's a blinkin' ten bob note. They went out with the bleedin' ark."

I fumbled around inside the wallet for more money, searching all the compartments, but there was nothing else... that is, apart from a theatre ticket for The Aldwych.

I took that out in some forlorn hope that it would change my fortunes. I held it in my shaking hand while I read the words printed on it in disbelief:

Complimentary Ticket

THE ALDWYCH THEATRE

Wednesday June 4th 1943 starting at 7:30 p.m.

For one night only... The incomparable Monty Fly... Internationally acclaimed magician supreme. A night of magic, mayhem and mirth... Probably the slightest, lightest, quickest hand in the world. Prepare to be amazed.

Middle Stalls - Seat G24

THE END