Irrelevant Thief

The Irrelevant Thief

He crept around the back of the house and was delighted to find a
slightly open window - he always refused to force an entry, after all
he wasn't a vandal. In a moment he was inside the kitchen of a
semi-detached family home in the respectable end of town. It was three
o'clock in the morning.
Taking out his torch he started opening cupboards and drawers, quietly
and precisely sifting out objects for consideration; Sellotape, pastry
brushes, old birthday cards, birthday cake candles, nail clippers,
batteries, tins of food, fridge magnets, pens, shoe polish, furniture
polish, oven cleaner, egg cups, saucers, saucepans, key fobs, salt
cellars, pepper mills and unwanted ornaments. He was beginning to think
there was nothing worth taking when he spied the most beautiful
porcelain thimble at the back of the last kitchen drawer. He placed it
in his coat pocket and made a cursory observation of the room, ensuring
his clandestine visit would remain a secret. A moment later he was
gone, away into the night with nothing much to say that this event had
ever happened.
It was an odd obsession for a knick-knack here, a curiosity there, or
a forgotten white elephant from the back of the shelf, but always
something worthless and always someone else's. A strange accumulator of
other people's property, though not for profit, not for gain, simply
because he, Barry Roberts, was an irrelevant thief.
His house was a private museum, dedicated to exhibiting the spoils of
his labours in glass fronted cabinets with spotlighting. Each piece in
his collection had been painstakingly cleaned and, if necessary,
restored to its former glory with records kept listing when, where, and
from whom it had been 'liberated'. He had hundreds of objects, each one
stolen from someone who, however fleetingly, had entered his life and
each one had been specifically selected to suit his purpose of total
irrelevance.

Sleeping late one Saturday morning after a good night's work, Barry
was disturbed by an unexpected knocking at the front door. He had no
friends, no interested family, so visitors were rare and invariably
unwelcome. Still, contact with someone new would mean an opportunity to
increase his collection, so he rushed down the stairs, climbing into
his dressing gown as he went and greeted his next victim.
'Hello,' said Barry opening the door.
'Good morning, sir,' said a woman no younger or older than Barry. 'I
have some tea towels, dish clothes and dusters.' She gestured towards a
large holdall she had placed on the doorstep.
Something in the keenness of her eyes and the intonation of her voice
made Barry aware of her deafness, although he could not be sure. She
produced her certification and held it up for him to read, 'Julie
Andrews is licensed to sell for and on behalf of The Organization for
Deaf Commerce,' followed by signatures, dates and the charity reference
number. Anyone could have faked it, but why bother? Who on earth would
want to make a living hawking worthless junk from door to door?
Barry didn't need cloths, of any sort, he already had more than he
could ever use and he'd never had to buy any of them, but Julie would
make for an interesting new project. He made his excuses, smiled and
wished her well. Julie made her way on up the street, never letting the
setbacks set her back.
Back inside Barry dressed quickly, choosing his inconspicuous clothes,
only stopping now and again to check Julie's progress down the street
from out of the bedroom window; he didn't want to lose track of her
now. It was time to do a little surveillance.
Barry followed Julie through street after street of unsuccessful cloth
sales. Watching from behind bushes and undergrowth, he was surprised
and a little embarrassed at the rudeness shown by many of his near
neighbours to this apparent angel of mercy. It seemed to him that by
the very act of selling items for charity, door to door, Julie had
relinquished all rights to politeness, kindness and humanity. Barry
also knew that many of these people were desperately short of tea
towels and the like because he had been in many of their homes and
stolen them.
Eventually Julie grew tired of the rejection and decided to call it a
day, having sold nothing. Barry was tired too, but he had to get what
he came for, he had to find out where she lived, so he continued
following her, watching her struggle with the heavy bag containing her
wares. He wanted to help her, but stopped himself, it wasn't in the
rules, and it wasn't allowed. Even when she struggled on to a bus,
nearly tripping on the steps and short of the correct fare, Barry had
to ignore these cries for help and sidle past her, flashing his bus
pass in the general direction of the driver. Julie eventually scraped
the needed pennies for the full fee and the frustrated Grand Prix ace
sped off before she had made it to her seat, allowing her to bash her
head on a metal safety rail, throwing her sideways before flopping in
the seat next to Barry's.
In this close proximity, Barry became aware of things he'd never
noticed in another person before; he could see the various shades in
the strands of her fair hair and smell an almost unconscious scent,
unique and mysterious. She was smaller than he had first thought and
yet her presence grew greater in his mind. He felt content to just be
near her and anxious that it would not last. Soon enough the bus came
to their destination, stopping as clumsily as it had started. Julie
thanked the driver without the tiniest hint of irony and set off again
with Barry close behind.
They walked down a street of terraced houses with white picket fencing
and gardens with gnomes. The lampposts sported neighbourhood watch
signs and children played freely in the street. It was not a part of
town that Barry had ever been to before and already its mix of
vigilance and freedom unsettled him. He felt exposed and vulnerable and
criminal. He was sure that someone was watching him, but he had to keep
going.
Julie stopped at the end terrace, fumbled for her keys and let herself
in. It was the prettiest terrace in the row and the largest, jutting
out from the normal oblong shape at an angle on the open side, with a
window where the other houses had solid, separating walls. Barry walked
calmly past having clocked the window and started off home to plan the
next stage.
It was midnight by the time Barry returned to the terrace, safe
sunlight having given way to darkness and moonlight. He found a bush to
hide behind and staked out the house.
After the last light was extinguished, Barry waited for the usual
twenty minutes, enough time to send the inhabitant away into the land
of dreams and to settle himself for the task ahead. He checked the
contents of his little rucksack, ritualistically assuring himself that
for any difficulty he may get into, the bag would contain something or
other that would get him through. A small torch, gloves, a screwdriver,
pliers and a simple homemade lock pick for emergencies were all the
items it held. It was a general rule with Barry, not to force entry and
not to break anything; he would leave no trace and take nothing of
value or importance, so he was pleased to find the side window
invitingly open.
With feline precision Barry arched his way inside, confident that the
neighbourhood watch signs were just that, signs. Going through the
motions, he closed his eyes and counted to ten, adjusting to the
non-chromatic conditions of the situation. His eyes, once open again
took in the scene, though without his torch the knowledge was still
limited. He didn't recognize anything conclusive and so delved for the
light-line in his rucksack. He found it quickly and flicked the switch
in the direction of the unknown. He was in the hallway next to the
stairs with the front door to his left. Two other doors led off, one in
front, probably to the lounge and another to the right, probably the
kitchen. He didn't want to climb the stairs - it wasn't his style to
get so close to the occupiers - and he'd filched more than enough
kitchen ware recently, so he stepped toward the door in front and
slowly turned the handle. It was locked.
For Barry this was dilemma. He didn't like to intrude on his victim's
privacy - a locked door was a locked door - but with Julie it was
different, he'd felt something that afternoon and wanted to feel more.
He wanted to take up the challenge she'd, however unconsciously, laid
down, the challenge to take the next step and breakthrough the
unacceptable, excepting the dare before him. He knew how to use the
lock pick, he'd practiced time and time again, but he'd never used it
out in the field. He sniffed the air, recognized that same mysterious
scent first discovered that day on the bus and reached inside the
rucksack. A few tinkerings later and the still closed door was at least
unlocked. He need only turn the handle and capture his hearts desire,
whatever that may be. He turned off the torch, blinked his strained
eyes and opened the door.
He didn't need the torch now, for as the door swung back it revealed a
beautifully lit room, spotlights shining on each and every item in each
and every glass fronted cabinet. Piece after irrelevant piece of
pointless memorabilia shone out proudly with the joy only a loving
curator could bestow. He buzzed with excitement and shook with
disbelief, moving from display to display; a green plastic soldier, a
tiny Eiffel Tower, a place mat, two balls of wool, a 'Frankie says
Relax' T-shirt and an unused miniature picture frame. In the next
cabinet lay biros, Clipper lighters, handkerchiefs and a copy of 'A
Brief History of Time' by Stephen Hawking. Such wonders!
'Hello Barry,' said Julie, somewhere close behind. 'I thought you'd be
impressed.' She stood in the doorway, smiling, holding a small
porcelain thimble in her thumb and forefinger. 'I've been watching you
for a while and I love your museum. I'm so glad you've finally visited
mine.' She began to walk around the exhibits, pointing out a piece here
and an item there. When she reached Barry, she handed him the thimble
and kissed him. This was one thing she didn't have to steal as Barry,
in all his innocence and inexperience, reciprocated.

They never left each other's company after that. They combined their
collections and found a new home together in a respectable part of the
town and although they never returned to their thievery, they never
forgot why they did it and they never forgot what it meant to be an
irrelevant...

Epigram

It is likely that Barry or Julie have stolen something from your
house. It is unlikely that you will ever know what it was. The author
apologizes for any inconvenience caused.
The Irrelevant Thief

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