‘Eye for an eye’
I
She hugs the fox fur tight around her throat. It’s kept her warm for almost fifty years, but in November has its work cut out for it. The wind shoves her across North Bridge and down Nicholson Street. A young man scowls at her. She recognises the disapproval, aimed at someone wearing not just the skin of a dead animal, but one with its head and tail on show. She’d like to tell him it has three paws, not four, and that’s the only reason Robert could afford it; that it’s a fond reminder of a husband long gone. But it’s none of his business and besides, she gave up fretting about other people’s opinions years ago.
It was also years ago that she discovered her talent for shoplifting. Cameras train their beady eyes everywhere, even on little old ladies, but more often than not they are looking in the wrong direction; much in the same way as the store detectives who trail scruffy women in laddered leggings. She always dresses nicely, even to buy a loaf of bread. Old-fashioned, she knows, but it reminds her of happy times when people in shops called you by name. She’ll settle for politeness. All those kind security guards, returning her wrinkled smile and helping steer her shopping trolley when she aims it at a stacked display of artisan bread. They never notice how she uses the confusion to slide a can of peas into her coat pocket.
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