The Pickpocket

Chapter 1 - You Gotta Pick A Pocket Or Two!

Normal day, normal life. Woke up, fed the gecko, called my dad, found my coat and walked the dog. All whilst still half-asleep at 6 in the morning.

Yawning, I let myself back into my house. It was freezing and I’d left the back door open. Grumbling away to Rex, my Alsatian cross, I shut the door. It swung open again.

“Right, not funny,” I called. A chattering reached my ears. Nicci, my Capuchin monkey, dropped down onto my head. Rex trotted back inside and I followed, shutting the door on the outside world.

“Monkey’s been fed, dog’s been walked, gecko’s been fed,” I muttered to myself as I walked. Nicci grabbed a handful of dog biscuits out of the tin and dropped them for Rex. That monkey remembers more than I do!

Shutting Rex in the kitchen, Nicci in the lounge and Smaug back in his tank, I put on my coat (again) and left for work.

I don’t have a normal job, see. Well, I do, but what I do for it is unusual. I’m an actor by trade and I play the part of a  Victorian pickpocket. My job is to pick the audiences’ pockets whilst they’re watching the show. Anything that I find, I put into a bucket at the door. Anything not collected, I get to keep. If a member of the audience spots me, then I put everything back and go home early. So far, that’s only happened once.

“Morning, Mr Hatchett,” a voice called. I stopped walking and groaned quietly. Mr Morris, my neighbour, was the nosiest person in the world. Every time he saw me he’d lecture me about ‘getting a proper job’ and I had to explain every single time that I was happy doing what I do.

“Hello, Mr Morris,” I replied, forcing a smile onto my face and turning around. The old man shuffled towards me, opening his mouth to talk, when a car passed.

“Jamie!” a second voice called. My forced smile grew warm. Abbi Gates, my employer and friend, had rescued me from a somewhat inevitable lecture.

“Come on, Jamie, you’ll be late,” Abbi continued. I raised an eyebrow and looked back at Mr Morris. His mouth hung open, revealing rows of broken, brown teeth. The look of shock on his face made me grin, and I darted for the now-open passenger door. Abbi drove away, me hunched over with laughter in the passenger seat.

“Oi, Pickpocket, put your seatbelt on,” Abbi said, giving my ear a flick. I slowly stopped laughing and sighed contentedly.

“Ah, geez, you should’ve seen his face!” I said happily. Abbi sighed.

“Working with you is like working with a four year old who’s had too many Smarties,” she muttered. I scowled and jabbed her with a finger. “Hey! I’m driving, kiddo!”

I muttered something unintelligible and turned to look out of the window.

“What was that? Did you say something, kiddo?” Abbi said, her smile steadily growing. My scowl deepened.

“Stop calling me kiddo,” I said, eventually. Abbi smiled.

“Why? You’re fourteen, so you’re technically a child. Do you want me to call you childo?”

“No.”

“Kiddo it is then.”

“Hey!”

“What?” Abbi turned to look at me, her face a picture of innocence. I grabbed the steering wheel and turned us away from an oncoming truck before replying.

“Just. Call. Me. Jamie,” I said through gritted teeth. Abbi rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright,” she murmured, prising my fingers from the wheel and turning right. I sank down into my seat as we passed some early visitors to the theatre. It wouldn’t do me any good if I were seen before the show.