CHAPTER THREE – BOY AND A BAG

      MITCHELL HAD HAD quite a day. Twice he’d nearly been caught lifting a purse from someone’s bag, and both times he had been forced to drop whatever he had his hands on and run. So yesterday he had come out into a part of the suburbs he knew, to work the commuters as they left the tube station. But they were always in such thick bunches that it was hard to get among them without arousing suspicion.

      Now the streets were really quiet and he was beginning to abandon hope of stealing anything for the day. He thought about the smell in his brother’s flat and didn’t feel the urge to rush back there. Besides, he knew how hilarious his brother would find it if he went home empty-handed again. Mitchell didn’t like being a thief, and he didn’t much like his brother either. He especially didn’t like living with him, but it was the only place he could go until he was old enough to get his own place. And his brother only let him stay on condition that Mitchell would steal for him.

      At first he’d been good at it–beginner’s luck maybe. He was certainly fast when he needed to get away, and being a kid had its advantages; it meant he stood with his head at about the height of most people’s shoulder bags. The last few days, though, had been really tough. He was tired and miserable. He didn’t want to go home, but there wasn’t much point roaming the empty streets and getting cold.

      Then Mitchell heard the soft squeak of someone’s trainers behind him and turned to look. In the dim light he made out a single hunched up shadow with a bag over its shoulder. Looks like a kid, he thought. He started to move closer, but realised that this person was shuffling straight towards him. Mitchell jumped over the low wall of a front garden and ducked down. Just a few seconds later, he watched a young boy with black grease all over his face walk past, not even a metre away. Mitchell could easily have reached out and tripped him up, grabbed the boy’s bag and run off. That’s what his brother would have done, but there was too much risk that he’d wake up the people in the houses. Mitchell was smart–a lot smarter than his brother. He decided to be patient. He so badly wanted to end the day with a big catch. He couldn’t mess this up. He would wait until this easy target was somewhere a little more open. Maybe this kid will be stupid enough to cut through the park, he thought.

      Softly skipping back over the wall, Mitchell crept along the streets, keeping step with his prey.

      Jimmy knew he had to get to the police station quickly. If those men were still looking for him, being out on the street was too dangerous. But every time he thought he had remembered the way, he turned a corner and everything became unfamiliar. It was eerily quiet, which made his steps seem horribly loud.

      He wondered whether to knock on someone’s door, waking someone up to ask for directions, but all the houses looked so sinister. Outside one, he even thought he saw a green stripe on the gatepost. He looked again, but it was just a brass number one that had rusted. It can’t be far, he thought. I’ll recognise one of these streets soon. But all the streets were mixed up in Jimmy’s head and he was really tired now. Each time he tried to pick them up, his feet felt like they had been stapled to the pavement.

      “Pull yourself together,” he whispered, and stopped outside the next house. He looked it up and down, then took a step through the front gate.

      Just as he did, a flash of movement at the end of the street caught the corner of his eye. Jimmy turned his head ever so slightly. Was it a glint of light bouncing off a car window–or did it come from inside the car? He told himself it didn’t matter–that tiredness and shock were making him paranoid.

      Jimmy stepped slowly back through the gate and into the street. He squinted at the car. He could see something reflected in its wing mirror: the faint orange dot of the end of a cigarette, muted by its own smoke. In the dark it shone out like a torch. It doesn’t mean anything, Jimmy thought. It’s just someone sitting in their car, smoking–I’m safe. But then the click of a car door opening jammed through his body. He froze. The cigarette light danced around rapidly. A man pulled himself up out of the car, and suddenly the silence splintered into a patter of noise: the car door slamming shut, the other door opening, the crackle of a walkie-talkie, two men walking towards Jimmy.

      The driver flicked his cigarette into the gutter and picked up his pace. He was running straight at Jimmy, but Jimmy wasn’t scared any more. All the fear and tiredness drained out of his body, pushed away by that bundle of strength that grew from behind his stomach. It swept through his body and shot up his neck. Jimmy still didn’t have any idea what was happening to him, but he recognised the feeling and knew this time that it was going to protect him. His feet leapt off the pavement and he broke into a sprint.

      Jimmy’s legs were possessed, carrying him and his bag as if they were no weight at all. His whole body was contorted into a running machine–arms pumping hard, head leaning intently forward. He had never moved so fast. He dashed up the street for a few metres before darting into a side alley between the houses.

      For half an hour Mitchell had followed Jimmy, completely unnoticed. When Jimmy stopped, Mitchell stopped. As Jimmy stood in front of that house, wondering whether to knock on the door, Mitchell crouched in the shadows watching, wondering whether this was the moment to strike. Just as he decided to go for it, he saw two big men running at Jimmy from the other direction. Mitchell abruptly stood upright, shocked–his one chance to salvage the week was being ruined because two other guys had decided to mug the same person. He watched, bemused.

      But then he saw that these two men were wearing suits and carrying walkie-talkies. Not even gangs dressed like that, or had such fancy equipment. The thought crossed Mitchell’s mind that maybe this boy was in danger. Then Mitchell saw Jimmy explode into a run. Wow! he thought. That boy is quick.

      The men seemed startled when Jimmy took off so smartly, and were slower to get going, but Mitchell could tell they were used to running. He waited until both men had made it to the top of the alley, then followed as fast as he could. If the men didn’t catch this boy, then maybe he would.

      Jimmy couldn’t believe how fast he was running. His breathing was hard, but regular. Even with the bag over his shoulder he could feel his muscles moving together, blood surging through them. Something in his head was telling him where to run, too. It kept him darting in and out of back streets, knocking over dustbins, leaping in and out of front gardens. A few moments ago he had been lost, exhausted and ready to give up, but now he was exhilarated. His feet tapped lightly on the paving stones, never stopping. Behind him there was the noise of heavier feet. Jimmy didn’t look back. Still not out of breath, he began to enjoy the thrill of running, even though he felt like he wasn’t in control.

      The two men were slowing down now. Jimmy could hear them dropping back. He smiled and the wind cut into his teeth. At the next corner he found himself on a main road, and then he realised why the men had stopped running so hard. Two black cars zoomed towards him, headlights blasting him in the face. He hesitated for an instant, then ran again.

      In a few seconds the cars were level with him.