One man, on his own. He sits with the engine running while he folds up a map. Tourist.
“You’re on, Vinnie,” Vincent whispers softly. He picks up his marbles and stuffs them into his pocket.
He’s still wearing his school uniform, so he’s presentable, but he’s pinned an SFX school badge over his own as a disguise. He licks both hands and smoothes them over his head in an attempt to flatten his double crown, then he rubs the grit off the knees of his trousers. Now he’s ready, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for the driver to get out so he can make his play.
In Vincent’s book, you can’t beat car-minding. It seems nobler than the rest, somehow, and it couldn’t be easier — no special props required — you just walk up, say, “Mind your car, mister?” — and agree your price. Ten new pence is the going rate, but he’ll go as low as five, if the owner decides he wants to barter. It’s a contract. The unspoken clause — the small print, if you like — is cough up the fee, or you might come back to find your car on bricks.
The man shoves open the door and hoists himself out of the driver’s seat. He’s not especially tall, it’s just that the car he’s wedged into is a Morris Minor, a little granny car. Vincent squints into the sun, taking in more details: spots of rust mar the smoke grey paintwork, nibbling at the sills and lower rims of the door. Even the wheel arches are wrecked. He curls his lip in disgust; a heap of tin — hardly even worth crossing the road for.
The man is five-nine or — ten, and spare. Collar length hair — dark brown, maybe — it’s hard to tell from twenty-five yards away. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket over an open-necked shirt. He stretches, cricks his neck, left, right, goes round to the car boot, and checks up and down the street, which gets Vincent’s spider-sense tingling.
He ducks deeper into the shadow of the alleyway, crouching behind the railings of the corner house. The man lifts out a vinyl suitcase in dirty cream. He sets it down on the road, reaches inside the car boot again, and brings out a small blue carry-all. He looks up and down the hill a second time, opens the driver’s door and leans inside. Vincent grips the railing, holding his breath. The man straightens up and — hey, presto — the bag is gone.
Still crouched in the shadows, Vincent watches him walk up the steps of the hotel. The front door is open, but he has to ring to gain entry though the vestibule door. Someone answers, the man steps inside, and Vincent sags against the wall. The bricks are cool against his back, but he’s sweating. He can’t decide if it’s fear, or guilt, or excitement, because he’s made up his mind to find out what’s in that small blue bag.
Taking money off strangers to mind their cars is a bit scally, but breaking into a car is Borstal territory. Not that he hasn’t done it before — for sunglasses left on the dashboard, or loose change in the glove compartment — small stuff, in and out in less than a minute. But this isn’t small stuff; the way the man had looked around before he ducked inside the car, it had to be something special in that bag. Money, maybe; a big fat wad of crisp new notes. Or stolen jewels: emeralds as green as mossy caves, rubies that glow like communion wine. Vincent sees himself raking his fingers through a mound of gold coins, scooping out emeralds and sapphires and diamonds, buried like shells in sand.
He is about to break cover when the lobby door opens and the man steps out. For a second, he stands in the hotel doorway and stares straight across the road, into the shadows of the alleyway. Vincent’s heart seizes. He flattens himself against the wall and turns his head, hiding his face.
For a long minute, he shuts his eyes tight and wills the man away. When he dares to look, the man is already heading down the hill, into the westering sun. As he reaches the bend of the road, a shaft of sunlight catches his hair and it flares red for an instant, then he is gone.
Vincent can’t take his eyes off the car, almost afraid it will vanish into thin air if he so much as blinks. Less than a minute, he tells himself. That’s all it’ll take. But his heart is thudding hard in his chest, and he can’t make his legs work. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Because what if the man had forgot his wallet in his hurry? What if he comes back? What if someone is watching from the hotel?
“And what if you’re a big girl’s blouse, Vincent Connolly?”
The sound of his own voice makes him jump, and he’s walking before he even knows it — one moment he’s squatting in the shadows, gripping the railings like they will save him from falling, the next, he’s at the car, his penknife in his hand.
Close to, the rust is even worse. Moggy Minor, he thinks, disgustedly — one doddering step up from an invalid carriage. Still... on the plus side, they’re easy: the quarter-light catch wears loose with age — and this one’s ready for the scrap yard. He pushes gently at the lower corner with the point of the knife blade and it gives. He dips into his pocket for his jemmy. It’s made from a cola tin, cut to one inch width, and fashioned into a small hook at one end. The metal is flexible, but strong, and thin enough to fit between the door and the window frame. In an instant, he’s flipped the catch, reached in and lifted the door handle.
A Wolseley slows down as he swings the door open. A shaft of fear jolts through him, and he thinks of abandoning the job, but the chance to get his hands on all that money makes him reckless. He turns and waves the driver on with a smile, sees him clock the fake school badge on his blazer and grins even broader. The driver’s eyes swivel to the road and he motors on to the traffic lights.
Vincent slides inside the car, closes the door, and keeps his head down. The interior reeks of petrol fumes and cigarettes. The vinyl of the driver’s seat is cracked, and greyish stuffing curdles from the seams. He reaches underneath and comes up empty.
Certain that any second he’ll be yanked out feet first, he leans across to the passenger side and feels under the seat. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Just grit and dust and tufts of cotton. But the passenger seat is in good nick: no cracks or splits in the leatherette. So where has the stuffing come from?
Frowning, he reaches under again, but this time he turns his palm up, pats the underside of the seat. His heart begins to thud pleasantly; he’s found something solid. He tugs gently and it drops onto his hand.
He’s grinning as he barrels up the steps to his house. Vincent lives in a narrow Georgian terrace in Clarence Street, less than a minute’s walk from where the car is parked, but he has run past his own street, left and then left again, crossing Clarence Street a second time, on the look-out for anyone following, before cutting south, down Green Lane, covering four sides of a square to end up back at his house.
The door is on the latch. His mum is cooking lamb stew: summer or winter, you can tell the day of the week by what’s cooking; Wednesday is Irish stew. He scoops up the Liverpool Echo from the doormat and leaves the carry-all at the foot of the stairs, under his blazer, before sauntering to the kitchen.
“Is that you, Vincent?” his mother glances over her shoulder. “I thought you were at rehearsals.” His class has been chosen to perform for the queen.
“We were so good, they let us finish early.”