What’s in your handbag?
It’s a pattern I’ve developed, a carefully choreographed set of moves. Or maybe a better analogy is stage directions, the script offering guidance on how to play the scene. Except that each performance is different, playing in different theatres, each has its own peculiarities and foibles. The overall shape remains the same, I just adapt it, flex it to the circumstances.
First it needs to be the right time of day — not too busy, rush hour is bad because there are so many people blocking aisles, sitting in the corridor. Too many eyes and there’s the risk that someone might recognize me afterwards. But too quiet, the middle day sleepers, are also not good — there’s a sense of village life about a train in this period, people have time to smile, exchange pleasantries, talk even. And with that comes the risk of remembrance. They watch too closely.
What I aim for is the shoulder of the rush hour, the train still full but not heaving, the walkways quick and unobstructed, the opportunities there for me to dart, run, slip into the lavatory, duck along past the cafeteria queue, drop temporarily into a free seat and appear deeply engrossed in my book — I’ve got plenty of escape strategies but they all depend on getting the timing right.
Once aboard I go through what I call the scanning phase. Looking out across a sea of passengers, all involved in their own diversions, not noticing me as I explore my options. Sometimes it’s all about the mobile scan, involving me sauntering through the carriage, flicking my eyes across each seat as I pass, weighing up the possibilities. The best ones are usually at the table seats, but there has to be only one occupant. I flag these as strong options and carry on, their seat numbers already memorized.
Or else I’ll do the static scan, leaning against the doorway at the end of the carriage as if waiting for the lavatory, using this as my scouting post, my eyes raking the carriage to find opportunities.
It’s important not to move too fast, better safe than sorry. You have to strike a delicate balance; hanging around doing too much planning has been the cause of too many disappointed days. I’ve learned that it’s better to act and run the risk of discovery and then evade them, than it is to wait too long.
Sometimes it’s childishly easy — I glide along the carriage, come to my target seat row, one last flick across to ensure no eye contact from other passengers (hopefully I’ve managed to find a blind spot seat, my favourite) and then a swift easy pickup. I don’t change my walking pattern, just carry on by, holding the bag close but not clutching it tightly, my body movements never altering so that if I’m in someone’s peripheral vision they won't register that I’ve just lifted it.
I sometimes think this one is like an airdrop for spies behind enemy lines, bringing in agents or supplies to support the Resistance. A moonlit night, the approach to the field risky but there it is glistening in the evening dew, a torch flashing to call me in. I ease the plane down, keep my engine idling as I taxi away from the strip and turn. The agents are already running, I open my door and we exchange packages, the plane never stops rolling. I line up, gun the engine and roll away, speed increasing slowly, engine note rising softly, inject myself neatly into the air rather than thrust myself, smoothly penetrating again the soft sky and I’m off and away….
Of course it doesn’t always work out that way, sometimes it’s the case of sitting down at the table opposite and playing the waiting game. I like this one, it’s a chance to engage with my victim and I get a real buzz out of knowing that she doesn’t know what is about to happen.
I can be polite, helpful even, but I try hard to avoid conversation or much eye contact. It’s s important that I leave her with, at best, a blurred memory, a shaky recall of someone of average height, average hair colour, average clothing, nothing which stands out or helps her fix me in her mind. A ‘Teflon encounter’ is my description of that one — nothing sticks in her mind so that when she tries to recall me she slips and slides across my surface without getting a grip.
I love the opportunities this gives me to snatch glimpses of her world, extra colour and texture to add to my later constructions. Sometimes she’ll talk on the phone and I can imagine the other party, a husband or lover perhaps, a child very often, very rarely a business call, interesting that. It’s as if she’s departing for another world and wants to ensure all is safe and well before she slips into a new place. Here she’s more assertive, replaces maternal care with a hard exterior, a shell which allows her to bump and jostle and push her way forward in her professional life.
Or else she’ll adjust her make-up in some particular, flicking open the compact mirror and touching up her lipstick, moist lips momentarily puckered and pouting, as if inviting a kiss from an imaginary lover.
Whatever she does it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that sooner or later she will get up and move. They all seem to have an inability to sit still, to pass more than a half hour without restlessly rising to walk to the cafeteria or the toilet, anything to counter the sense of being tied to the seat for the whole journey.
I used to worry that they wouldn’t move but now I’m only surprised when someone does stay the course. And once she’s gone it’s the easiest thing in the world to rise up, gather the bag and bury it in the folds of the jacket I’ve been carrying for this eventuality. In a single movement I’m up and sliding along the train in the opposite direction to the one she took.
I particularly enjoy it (though it carries an element of risk) on those occasions when she asks before leaving if I’d mind keeping an eye on here bag. I nod, avoiding eye contact, trying not to be memorable. I usually find a half smile helps do the trick, it switches her natural alert system off; she’s already thinking of her destination, the coffee counter or the relief inside the toilet cubicle.
But all these moves to secure the prize are just the preamble. I get a surge of adrenaline in their execution, of course, but the real pleasure comes later when I’m alone with my winnings. This is what it’s all for, the rush which I get. It’s what I’ve worked towards over so many years, the climax towards which I’ve constructed my routines.
If I’m lucky, the next station (or station stop as the PA calls it with an annoying degree of redundancy) is close by and I can escape with my winnings intact. That gives me the chance to make a slow but enjoyable return home, my hands sometimes stroking the treasure I’ve acquired through the shell of the polythene bag I have carefully wrapped it in. A nondescript exterior hiding a precious jewel at its heart. If not, then I’m forced to find temporary refuge in the lavatory cubicle where I can fillet the bag for what I value most. The downside of that is that I need to leave the bag itself behind, stuffed behind the basin or pan; it’ll be found but not until I am as far away as I can get, the other end of the train and out at the next station.
It’s not the money — that’s a nice bonus, helps defray my operating expenses. I toyed for a while with trying to sell on the credit cards but that seems too risky. Anyway I don’t need the cash, I’m well enough paid in my job and somehow doing it for the money would spoil the pleasure. No, the real reason I want their bags is because they offer a gateway into their lives. Exploring a bag can take me hours and the sensual thrill is hard to share but almost erotic, like stripping away layers of clothing from a victim. It gives me a sense of intimacy, of getting up close and very personal without any of the unpleasant complications which real people bring to the party.
I’ve come close to being caught, of course. You can’t do this as often as I do without risking that, but that’s part of the joy. It’s an exquisite pleasure, a sharpening of the senses, knowing that it might all end. Since they put cameras into the carriages it’s become much tougher, forced me to up my game. Knowing that someone might systematically scan the footage searching for me is both a powerful stimulus and a worry. It’s forced me to change my game, now I’m much more likely to wear scarves in winter, a hoodie (though I hate them) in summer.
That’s me, my little game, my little world. Harmless enough, nothing violent and whilst it’s not quite victimless I do try to choose my targets so no-one loses something they can’t afford. I sometimes think they should be grateful to me, I give them stories they can dine out on for months. How they were robbed in broad daylight, what they’d like to do to me if they could ever catch me. Up till yesterday I’d have laughed that one off, I’m too careful to get caught.
Trouble is that sometimes it’s not you getting caught, it's what you’ve caught. That’s why I’m sitting here, on this park bench just up the road from the station, breathing a little more heavily than I’d like, my heart racing faster than it should. Today’s bag is over there, somewhere in those bushes, I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I threw it, didn't look around first to check I was unobserved. Think I got away with it, but I’m sitting here shooting glances in every direction just to check.
It had all gone well, an easy Monday morning, a good haul I thought, nice leather bag, heavier than I thought as I lifted it smoothly and made my way along the train. Perfect timing, we were already slowing for the station as I reached the last carriage. Out and along the road, plenty of distance between me and anyone who’d been trying to follow me. It was only when I got to my park bench, began to explore today’s catch that I realised there was something unexpected amongst the usual stuff.
A cold logic began to work its way into my blood. Maybe today I’d bumped into the wrong kind of people. The kind who could follow you without your noticing, the kind who knew what they were doing because, like me, they’d played this game many times before. The kind for whom an expensive leather handbag makes a perfect hiding place for the gun which my fingers had brushed against as they scrabbled inside it. People whose profession is to watch, and follow and bring things to a discreet conclusion. The kind who invariably hunted in packs, not alone…..
