Stealing the Show.

Prompts
Genre: Crime caper
Subject: A talk show
Object: An adrenaline junkie

Synopsis: In a quiet Berkshire village outside London, a bored professional thief decides to make his latest job more exciting – by committing it live on air during a late-night talk show.

The electric scooter whines beneath my feet. The night air chills my cheeks and fills my nose with the smells of the Berkshire countryside (damp earth, even damper cow-shit). My night-vision goggles turn the moonless approach to Alderley House into a rush of trees and hedgerows, neon-green silhouettes appearing then disappearing from view.

This is where things start to get spicy!

“Son, find something you love doing,” my old man used to say, “and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

Turned out, I love stealing stuff.

I’m not sure that’s what the old man had in mind. Then again, he spent his working life doing maintenance at Greenwich gasworks, and his life outside work moaning about his it.

I come to a stop outside the ornate gates to the Alderley Estate, ditch the scooter in the darkness behind a nearby tree.

At the end of the gravel driveway, the Georgian house looms in the darkness. No lights on, of course. I’ve been planning this job for months. The owner’s at work. Will be until 3am. His trophy wife is skiing in Europe, spending his ill-gotten gains.

“Who is this bloke to judge someone for their ‘ill-gotten gains’?”, you might, quite rightly, ask. “He’s about to disarm a security system, break in, then make off with a very tasty Turner painting!”

Fair point. I’ll get to that in due course.

I pull my laptop from my backpack, boot it up and do the boring bit: open an app procured from some guy in Romania on the dark web, help it hook up to the security system – it isn’t as old as the house, but it’s pretty archaic – then let the app do its thing.

A minute later, the gate swings open and I get that familiar feeling as I pack my laptop away. It starts in the pit of my belly, flutters through my chest and down my arms and legs, leaving my fingers and toes tingling.

Spicy!

As I crunch-crunch-crunch my way up the drive, now’s as good a time as any to explain that this isn’t one of those aging-criminal-doing-one-last-job-so-he-can-retire-to-a-tropical-paradise-to-sip-pina-coladas capers. 

I’ve got more than enough money to retire, tucked up safely in the bank (irony alert!).

I’m not in hock to any of the local thugs in my end of London.

And I don’t like beach holidays. Or cocktails.

I just enjoy nicking stuff.

Up close, Alderley House looks like it’s seen better days. I slip around the back, into the rear courtyard where the stables have been converted into garages.

At the back door – would’ve been the trade or servants’ entrance back in the day – I unclip the small crowbar strapped to my backpack and jimmy the door open. The timber door and frame split easily enough, splintering the night with a crack.

Silence, and another wave sweeps through my body.

Inside, I make my way through the kitchen and bowels of the house to the entry foyer. A rotunda.

Swapping my goggles for the maglite, I sweep the torch beam around the walls. It’s like an art gallery. There’s a Hockney. A Freud. And there, taking pride of place, the Turner.

Holding the torch in my mouth, I remove the painting from the wall, flip it over in its gilded frame, pry the back board off and, opening my penknife, slice the crusty canvas from the frame, roll it and then slip it into the art-tube strapped to my pack.

I check my watch: 11:16 pm.

Sixteen minutes.

Almost three hours and forty-five minutes to spare.

Allowing for my fence’s fees, the cost of recon and research and sundries, that works out to about one hundred thousand quid a minute. After tax.

I’m joking. I don’t pay tax.

And here comes the downer. It used to kick in after I got paid. Then about a week after each job. Then a day. Then on the way home after the job. But here I am, packing a Turner, no fear of being caught, and feeling deflated.

It’s all getting too easy. Too predictable. A bit boring.

Let’s take a tour of this place. I love a bit of classic architecture.

In fact, let’s kick back for a bit.

I wander from room to room, turning the lights on as I go. Almost no chance anyone is going to notice. Almost. I feel a flutter in my belly.

The sitting room, the library, the dining room. Up the sweeping staircase: one, two, three … eight bedrooms!

11.25 pm.

My tummy rumbles. I haven’t eaten since lunch.

I wonder if this fella has got anything to eat.

Another wave sweeps over my body. This is starting to feel like fun again.

Downstairs and through to the rear of the house, I flick the kitchen lights on and open one of the big fridges. White wine. All wine.

I open the next fridge. Bingo!

I grab a plate and make up an almost-midnight feast of cheeses and charcuterie, with some pickles on the side. There’s a crusty loaf in the pantry, so I cut a couple of slices, nice and thick, and tuck in.

While I’m eating, I check out the kitchen. Top-of-the-line appliances all round. No telly, though. Nothing to read. But there is a radio. And I bet I know which station it’s tuned to.

Sure enough, when I turn the radio on, I’m greeted by the grating nasal tones of Colin Lemerde.

Colin Lemerde. Disgraced populist politician. Professional shit-stirrer. Self-proclaimed patriot and saviour of Britain’s working class, although his posh, Eaton-educated, Oxford-finished accent tells another story.

Colin was born with a plum in his mouth and a silver spoon up his bum.

“…and tonight, on LRC, we’re asking: are the police and the judiciary woke, and do we need to bring back corporal punishment for theft and burglary. Or maybe even the death penalty, eh? Eh?!”

He gives us one of his trademark snorting guffaws here. Always does when he says something that he thinks is funny but generally isn’t.

“Tell us what you really think. No woke police here, eh?! Phone, text or Whatsapp us on 0345 20 40 600. Back after the news headlines…”

No surprise there. It was bound to be about immigration, woke culture, or law and order.

Dickhead.

While the newsreader runs through the latest news from the capital, a thought wheedles its way into my brain and sends a shiver through my body.

I really shouldn’t, but I feel the spiciness rising.

I take my burner phone from my pocket.

I definitely shouldn’t.

I dial 0345 20 40 600.

When I get through to the show’s switchboard, a nice fella called Sanjay (can’t imagine he’s a fan of Colin) asks for my name and what I’d like to talk to Colin and listeners about. I tell him my name’s Robin, and I’d like to talk to Colin about robbing.

Sanjay laughs and asks for my family name and where I’m calling from.

I tell him it’s Hood and that I’m calling from Nottingham.

Sanjay chuckles and tells me I’m up first and to turn off my radio to avoid any feedback.

A flood of spicy goodness washes through me.

Before I know it, I hear Colin on the end of the phone.

“And here’s our first caller. It’s Robin … oh, very droll, eh? … Hood from Nottingham. What would you like to share with the people of London, Robin? And are you wearing tights?”

“Hello, Colin. No tights. Just a black jumpsuit, and a backpack for my loot.”

“Oh, very Ocean’s Eleven. What else is in your backpack? Night-vision goggles and a crowbar, eh?!”

Guffaw, guffaw.

“As a matter of fact, Colin…”

“What would you like to say about our woke police and judicial system? Are you in favour of corporal punishment for thieves, pickpockets and ne'er-do-wells?”

Ne'er-do-wells? What century is this guy living in?

“Well, as a thief myself, no, I’m not in favour. Although I’ve never been caught. And I guess I’m not what you’d call a common-or-garden thief. More of a specialist cat-burglar.”

“You steal cats, Robin? Eh? Eh?!”

“No, art. I procure fine art, Colin. For very wealthy people.”

“You don’t sound like an art thief?”

“Why? Because I have a working-class London accent? Because I’d have to be a toff, like you, to know anything about the art world? Is that it?”

“No need to be so sensitive, Robin. As you know, I’m one of the most ardent supporters of our great working classes. If you really are an art thief, I’m sure you’re a very good one. And you should be caught and punished. There are so many other ways people, like you, can earn an honest living.”

“Oh, I don’t do it for the money. Not these days, anyway. These days, I do it because I enjoy taking valuable artworks from elitist snobs who don’t appreciate what they’ve got. I actually give most, if not all, of the money I make away to charities. Homeless charities. Food banks. You know, charities that fill the void left by governments and by businesses who don’t pay people a living wage anymore. By corrupt politicians who sell out their country and people to the highest bidder.”

“Hoorah! We have another bleeding-heart liberal on the line, ladies and gentlemen! Eh?”

“Do you support corporal punishment for disgraced politicians, Colin?”

Dead air.

“Careful what you say, young man. We still have slander laws in this country. I’m not going to take lectures on morality from an ethical, fair-trade, certified-organic, latte-sipping cat-burglar.”

“I didn’t say I was ethical, Colin. But I do know what it’s like to grow up with parents that work all hours in regular jobs and still struggle.”

“Cue the violin, eh?! Let’s say we believe you, when is your next – what would you call it? – your next job?”

“I’m on a job right now.”

“What a coincidence? You just happen to be on a job right now. And where is this so-called job?””

Patronising prick.

“Berkshire, Col. Can I call you Col?”

I finish up my snack, swing my backpack over my shoulder and stroll over to the counter, where there are four sets of car keys on hooks. I take them all with my spare hand.

“And what will you be stealing tonight, Robin? The Mona Lisa?”

I walk outside, across the courtyard towards the garage.

“Don’t be silly, Col, the Mona Lisa is in the Louvre in Paris. No, tonight I’ve stolen a Turner.”

“I’m finding it hard to believe you would know a Turner from a turnip.”

I slide the large garage doors back and the lights inside come on automatically, revealing a collection of classics. It’s like a showroom.

“And now I’m going to steal a car. I don’t usually, but I’m making an exception tonight.”

“Great, tell us all about it. We’ll have the police there in no time.”

“You won’t. The nearest police station is ten miles away, and they never have patrols around here. I’ve done my homework, see? Like a good boy.”

“Keep talking, Robin. Keep talking. What car are you going to steal to make your getaway?”

“I don’t know yet.” I admire the gleaming cars. “Help me decide, Col. We’ve got a choice. An Aston Martin DB7. Very James Bond. A Porsche 911 Carrera…”

“Hold on…”

“…a Lotus Esprit…”

“You little bastard.”

“…or a Ferrari 308.”

“No! Saddik! I mean, Sanjay! Whatever your name is, call the bloody police and send them to my house.”

“OK, the Ferrari 308 it is. Good choice. Nice speaking to you, Col.”

I get in the Ferrari and start her up. What a sound.

This is going to be spicy!