An Army of One

Looking around the overcrowded carriage for a mark Freddy spotted an easy touch standing near the doors. She was a frail elderly woman with a careworn face swaying with the Underground train’s motion facing side on to him her handbag over her arm. She looked yonderly, lost in her own thoughts. Freddy felt the train decelerate and moved in as if preparing to exit at the rapidly approaching stop.

He covered the bag from view with his body his hand expertly slipped the bag’s catch and he quickly located and liberated her purse pushing it into the special pocket inside his overcoat so that it dropped all the way down to the bottom of the lining he  closed her bag again to delay discovery of his theft.

The whole operation had taken just six seconds and was so slick that he was extremely surprised when he glanced to his left and saw the older man sat in the end seat glaring at him with cold fury. The older guy looked about sixty with washed out grey eyes and a large hooked nose that gave him a hawk-like appearance. Freddy was annoyed he hated being spotted working a mark. The man got up and approached Freddy just as the train drew to a halt. The doors hissed open and Freddy ducked the outstretched hand and darted off the train. Running swiftly to the escalator he half expected a shout to go up. None did.

Freddy “Fingers” Fenton was a prolific thief, an expert professional pickpocket.  A totally amoral character he would steal from anyone young or old rich or poor without compunction. He never gave a moment’s thought for his many victims and the untold misery he caused them. To him they were just marks, mugs, idiots who worked for a living. Even his own father, no saint himself, had once described Freddy as: 'An evil little bastard who was nine months too old on the day he was born.'
Leaping off the escalator Freddy looked around the older guy was nowhere to be seen so he dodged into the men’s toilet and into a cubicle. Opening the purse he quickly pulled out the contents. There was two hundred and twenty pounds cash, a bus pass, a bingo membership card and some old black and white family photographs but nothing else of value.

“Ah nice one” he said to himself gloatingly. This was the moment he loved, discovering just how much he’d stolen.

Throughout his childhood Freddy had been nothing but trouble he stole from school friends he stole from his parents he even stole from his widowed pensioner grandmother. At the age of fourteen he’d been caught burglarising his headmaster’s house. With a juvenile record as long as his arm he was finally sent into secure care as uncontrollable. After a year of psychological profiling, counselling and coddling he absconded shortly after his fifteenth birthday. This was to be a pivotal move in his life.

Freddy had drifted to a fairground desperately short of money, trying his hand at picking pockets when he made the mistake of trying it on with The O’Flynn one of the best pickpockets in the country. The older man had caught him at it of course but, to Freddy’s surprise, made no fuss at all. He had simply laughed at him and said he was the worst bloody dip he’d ever come across and bought the starving youngster a burger and chips. He even got Freddy’s to talk about himself.

The O’Flynn, as he was known, recognised a kindred spirit  in Freddy and saw potential for profit in the lad so took him under his wing telling him “If you’re going to be a dip son then be a good dip. Be the best. “

He had then given Freddy a demonstration relieving a fat man of his wallet with the ease of long practice.  Freddy hadn’t seen how it was done even though he was watching carefully but from that moment on he knew what he wanted to be.

The O’Flynn, a tiny wizened Irishman who was about fifty five at the time, claimed to have been a jockey in his youth but otherwise was sparing with his personal history. He loved to frequent horse racing events, fairgrounds and other busy leisure venues where he used his considerable expertise to make a substantial living. He nurtured Freddy and schooled him well in the dark arts of the fingersmith.

"You can use the spare room" The O'Flynn had told homeless youngster on that first day “but steal anything from me, anything at all, and yer out for good no second chances understood?”

Freddy had merely muttered “understood” and for the first time in his life he kept his promise.

To Freddy The O’Flynn was a demi–god and the only man he had ever looked up to. He never knew whether O’Flynn had a first name or not as his friends referred to him simply as ‘The O’Flynn’ or O’Flynn to his face. Freddy and The O’Flynn worked well as a team. They worked the busy places never over working any one venue.  The O’Flynn had taught him how to blend into the background and to never go back to the same place too frequently no matter how good the pickings. Freddy was a good pupil and a fast learner.  

Two years later The O’Flynn died of cancer and Freddy was on his own. Now, fifteen years later, he was an accomplished thief.

Pocketing the cash Freddy stuffed the purse behind the toilet.  Emerging from the station he had a quick look round, put on his sunglasses, lit a cigarette then strolled casually down the street until he came to a McDonalds where he thought he’d take his morning coffee. Twenty minutes break he thought then back to work.

Taking his drink the thief slid into a bench seat in the far corner of the shop. This was his cautious habit; he liked to be where he could see the door and who was doing what in the place.

Freddy didn’t see the toilet door opening, he didn’t see the older man from the train until he slid along the bench trapping Freddy in the corner and startling him. The man looked at Freddy balefully. “I saw you just now robbing that poor old woman.” The man said in an even voice.

Freddy looked into the cold pale grey eyes and felt something akin to fear but he was a quick witted man and a bold one too.

“Sorry mate, yer must ‘ave mistook me for someone else innit” he said forcing a smile “I dunno whotcha on abhaat.”

What worried Freddy was that he, an expert at spotting people who might be following him, a man who had thrived for years on his wits alone and who had been arrested only once in all that time, had seen neither hide nor hair of this chap since the train now his killer grey eyes and icy calm manner was beginning to freaking him out.

The man stared at Freddy for a moment before saying “Look I know you’re an expert in your field but I was an expert in mine too I still am for that matter so why don’t you cut the bullshit eh?”

Freddy slipped his right hand into his pocket and felt the knife that was his last resort in a crisis though he’d never actually used it before.

Undecided on his next move he asked “Wot d’ya want mista?”

The man gazed back “I want you to stop picking pockets” he said evenly “retire or you’ll be retired, that plain enough?”

Freddy’s jaw dropped he gawped in astonishment. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the man had asked him to fly arse first round the moon. He looked at the man as if he had not heard him correctly, iz ‘e ‘aving a laff or wot? he thought to himself. At the same time he was curious to know just what or who he was dealing with.

“Wot are yer then mate ex filth?” he asked belligerently.

The man stared back calmly “Oh much worse than police mate, much worse. I was in military Intelligence.”

Freddy gave a nervous laugh then sneered “you got no proof an’ no powers of arrest arse‘ole an’ yer an old git too so why doncha piss orf ‘an polish yer medals before yer gets ‘urt?”

The man never batted an eyelid. He placed both his hands on the table his fingers tapping lightly.

“That knife you’re holding won’t do you any good sonshine” he said evenly  “Firstly even if you got lucky, which you won’t, the cameras in here are state of the art high definition full colour excellent for ID purposes. They’d nail your arse in a day and you know it. Secondly if you try it on I’ll break your arm.”

These last words shook Freddy to his core, there was no anger in the man’s voice, no threat in his body language it sounded like a plain statement of fact and how the hell could this bloke have known he had a knife let alone that he was holding it? He let the knife slip from his nervous grasp and brought his hand out onto the table.

“Wot d’ya want mate? Fer Chris’ sake wha’ d’ fuck der yer want?” Freddy was badly rattled.

“What’s your name?” the man asked

“Fred ,that is Freddy, surname don’t matter” then he added defiantly “OO der fuck are ya man”?

“The name’s Jack, surname don’t matter” the man parodied,   “I told you just now Freddy, you’re retired mate.” The old man paused then leaned toward Freddy and spat “or else!”

With that the man was gone leaving Freddy so shook up he took the rest of the day off.


Mrs Hart got to the bus stop and reached in her bag for her purse. It was gone. She searched the bag frantically for a couple of minutes, her bus came and went. She sat down in the bus shelter totally bemused tears streaming down her face. It wasn’t the pension money, though god alone knew how she’d manage without it, it was the shock of losing the precious black and white photos of her dead daughter taken on holiday in Clacton forty years previously; it was as irreplaceable as her wedding photo with her late husband Stan looking so debonair in his RAF uniform. The shock was too much for the eighty six year old.  Heartbroken, totally devastated, she lost control of her bladder as she keeled over.

 

Sixty five year old Jack Ellis lived alone in a semi which he and his late wife Betty had shared since he retired from the military. His children, a boy aged thirty eight and a daughter of forty had long ago flown the nest the son to Australia the daughter to Canada. Finding himself fit, healthy and at a loose end and seeing how much wrongdoing was going on about him he went back to work, his old work.

Jack had been a member of 14th Detachment of the Army Intelligence Corps known simply as ‘The Det’ aka ‘The Green Slime’ a highly secretive unit that most other soldiers never knew existed. That was back the early seventies at the height of the IRA troubles. If asked by other soldiers what they did for a living they would simply smile and say “Oh, just the usual stuff: thuggery, buggery and general skulduggery.” But behind the joke lay deadly purpose as many a Provo had found to their cost.

Jack’s home area, a once peaceful leafy suburb, was now suffering from encroachment by drug dealers. The dealers weren’t having it all their own way though and recently one in particular had gotten very unlucky.

He had been found in an alley with a split head and two broken legs. The man couldn’t say what had happened all he remembered was parking his car and walking up the narrow alley on his way to make a buy from his wholesaler. There was no one about but he thought he heard a gate open behind him. Next thing he knew there was a searing pain in his head and he woke up in hospital.

Next morning a local charity shop manageress arrived to find a large envelope stuffed through the shop letterbox with a mystery donation of four thousand pounds in cash. A note with the money read: Please accept this donation from a retired drug dealer.

On the streets no one knew a thing; the usual sources were clueless.  The local press picked up the story and speculated that it was from some reformed character.  The local dealers were feeling more paranoid than ever and had started to go around in pairs keeping a low profile and watching each the other with great suspicion.

Jack Ellis took a heavy brass Zippo lighter from a drawer it was one he’s found on the streets of Belfast years ago.  It was an attractive piece and obviously of very good quality. He didn’t smoke but, being a natural hoarder, he’d kept it and now he’d found a use for it.

Jack took the lighter to a trophy stall on the market and told them what he required. An hour later he picked it up paid cash and went home. In his garage he worked on the lighter for about an hour until he was satisfied then polished it until it gleamed like new. He spent a moment admiring the deep diamond pattern the engraver had cut in the front and sides of the case and the inscription on the back he thought was most appropriate.

It was Wimbledon fortnight and Jack Ellis had a good idea which stations Freddy would be working even so it took a week of trawling the area before he finally spotted him and even with his skills it was damned hard work following him home unseen, the guy was a slick as snot.

On the last Saturday of Wimbledon Ellis watched as Freddy left home his chance had come at last and he moved in carefully to trap his man.

Freddy looked about the carriage with his usual care but there was nothing he saw that was immediately available to him. Then at the next station as he changed trains a bent old man leaning heavily on his stick got on before him. The man was wearing a wide brimmed black hat and had a long grey beard. He climbed slowly aboard and shuffled to a seat. After two stops the man got up and made his way, head bowed, to the door.

One glance told Freddy he had found a mark for protruding ever so slightly from the man’s jacket pocket was a registered envelope. This was too good an opportunity to miss and he closed in. Stepping off the train with the man Freddy deliberately bumped into the old fellow.

“Sorry mate” he mumbled and quickly made off. The envelope felt heavy and he wondered what could it be? The old guy had looked like a Jew so gold perhaps? Diamonds even?

Freddy dived eagerly into his ‘private office’ as he called public lavatories and entered a cubicle; he tore open the envelope a slid out the contents. Out came a small heavy gift wrapped object. Unwrapping it he saw it was a brass Zippo lighter.

Wha’ the fuck? he thought as he turned the lighter in his hand and read the inscription: ‘To Freddy Happy retirement.’ Freddy felt a pang of fear rush through him, what the hell was this?  He calmed himself down Christ, he thought, thousands of people are called Freddy you’re letting some daft old fart scare yer mate.

He flicked the lid open it looked a perfectly normal lighter, brand new too. He sniffed the wick it smelled of lighter fuel. Could it be a bug? He shook it, nothing, he flicked the wheel to see if it worked and the sparks flew bright. They were the last things he ever saw. There was a brief vicious hiss and the Zippo exploded blowing off the fingers of his right hand, the diamond pattern shrapnel flew into his face blinding him.

The bent old man at the urinal finish his business and, ignoring the screams coming from the cubicle, walked out a grim smile playing about his lips.