[ WP ] You are a professional pickpocket . You 've just picked someones pocket only to discover that the thing you have stolen is truly horrifying .

This will probably get buried as i'm late to the party, but could n't resist - the prompt is too good! This is n't that horrifying either, I just came up with it in traffic and kind of went with it. Good practice I guess. 
 
 Bank station. The busiest on the network, nearly a hundred thousand passengers each morning travel through here, arriving to make their daily trudge through the city of London to their jobs. 
 
 Most of them work in banking. They're easy to spot, with suits from Saville Row, shirts from Jermyn Street, and morals darker than the deepest recesses of Soho. Profiling a target is a doddle, and the execution comes naturally. 
 
 Growing up on the estate, I was never going to be allowed into the rarefied air of the Bank of England or Lloyds of London. Once Mum had her benefits cut, I had to pay my way, it's not uncommon. Lads on BMX bikes move weed and whatever else they can get their hands on, but I was never tough enough to look after myself in those gangs. I ended up shoplifting, a quick stroll over to Oxford Circus, snip off the tags and tailgate a tourist out. Easy. 
 
 Too easy. There's no skill to shoplifting, not like pickpocketing. I had a good teacher, a modern day Fagin if you will, though the flat caps of Oliver Twist were replaced by snapbacks, tags still attached of course. 
 
 After a few years I went solo, still staying in touch with my old mates to make I was n't stepping on anyone's toes. You rarely get a nicely worded letter from these boys if you're on their patch. 
 
 Bank is so busy I can act with impunity, plenty of bankers for everyone. This one was perfect. I saw him run through the barriers, flustered, late, fumbling with his oyster card. 
 
 He carefully checked his wallet before throwing the card in there, a flash of blue still visible as he slid it into his inside jacket pocket. This was almost too easy. 
 
 I moved towards the door where he was stood, ostensibly to pick up a discarded copy of the Metro from a seatback. I did n't feel like reading, but it looks natural, and a freesheet is a bloody good prop, even if it is plastered in the latest story of debauched footballers. 
 
 He was lost in his own world, checking his phone every five seconds, looking for the red blinking LED that has enslaved so many in this city. Even easier. 
 
 He goes for the door, I watch his shoulders, tailing him through the barriers as he taps the wallet on the reader. He's going left, towards the exit for the Bank. I feint left and go right, my shoulder crashing into his chest. A flutter of newsprint and a thousand tuts from the commuters and I'm home and dry, the soft leather wallet nestling in my jacket now. I cross the platforms and jump on a tube heading east, time for a spot of lunch and a bit more work. 
 
 Westfield Stratford, a hell of a shopping centre, and close enough to home to know shorten my commute back. I'm in need of a new t-shirt and I guess old habits die hard. 
 
 Maybe a quick lift to top up the beer kitty for tonight. Quick scan and boom. A yank, can spot them from a mile off. They always dress like they're going into battle, rucksacks, sunnies, hat, bottles of water, as if anywhere outside of the USofA lacks even basic amenities. Not that I'm complaining, all those pockets make theft a doddle. 
 
 I stroll past to get a look at the bag, but before I can she turns, and I freeze. `` Hey, can you help me?'' I was right, definitely American. Right, new tack. The accent goes on, no more wide boy charm, time for the full Cumberbatch.'I certainly hope so my dear, how can I be of service to you?' She smiles sweetly, and asks for some advice. Do n't hang around with reprobates like me would be a good start, luv. 
 
 Keep it moving `` Let's walk and talk, it's a big place and we wo n't see it all from standing still''. I introduce her to a few shops, she's in London for 2 days before her friends fly in. `` Well it's a terrible shame for a lovely lady like you to be all alone. I would n't be much of a gentleman if I did n't offer to keep you company for a while. Fancy a spot of lunch?'' 
 
 She's in. Wahaca. Chelada. Tostada. 
 
 We chat, it beats eating lunch alone. She's tidy, decent chassis on her in a pair of shorts and a hollister tee. Long blonde hair and a tendency to use'like' as punctuation, I'd guessed she was from California long before she divulged that fact. Whether it was the light glinting off her straw coloured locks, or the refraction of it through the amber beer, I felt good. I pay for lunch and take my leave, demanding only a hug as payment for her company. As we embrace I slide fifty quid out of her unguarded pocket, which covers lunch and my time. 
 
 Off home, stopping on the way to pick up a henry and some king size rizla for the evening ahead. 
 
 Through the door, trainers off and jacket over the chair, time for a brew. 
 
 Fucking hell, I almost forgot, that wallet I took this morning. Chatting to that American bird distracted me more than I thought. Good job I wrote my number on the back of a tube ticket for her. 
 
 I try not to bring evidence home if I can help it. Wallets get stripped of the good stuff and binned, phones are fenced down the local before I get home, the more unusual stuff I take a view on. 
 
 Let's take a look at the wallet. It's nicer than I thought. Hand stitched, the leather is softer than I've ever felt before. The tip of the oyster card still peeks out from it. Two hundred bats cash. Nice. American Express Platinum, standard, and a nice way to assuage my guilt. Anyone with one of these can afford to lose a few bob. Few more bits and bobs. Mostly crap. Still, no stone unturned and all that. There's a slip of paper tucked inside, folded carefully. 
 
 It's a photo. Who even carries photos any more? A photo of a baby in an incubator. Shit. That's what he was looking at. On the phone. He was n't waiting for notification, he was looking at the wallpaper, the very same photo. 
 
 Fuck it, he's got a digital copy of it then, nothing fifty pence at Boots ca n't solve for a reprint. 
 
 There's more paper on the other side of the pocket, but it does n't look like cash, I take a quick look so I can bin what I do n't need on the way to the pub. 
 
 Order of Service. 
 
 Oh Christ. 
 
 She was called Molly. 
 
 He buried her yesterday. 
 
 Poor Bastard. 
 
 His driving licence is still in the wallet. I have to send this back. It's not fair. This is never what I set out to do. 
 
 The address goes on the envelope, I'll throw it in the post box tomorrow somewhere in the city. Not popping evidence in the box at the bottom of the tower. 
 
 For now, let's work on this henry. 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 I'm at Oxford Circus today, I do n't want to go back to Bank in case I see him again. I'm not afraid, just ashamed. 
 
 The letter goes in the postbox, swallowing at least some of my guilt in its wide red mouth as well. 
 
 Time to go to work. Same routine, I take a seat and wait for some idiot tourist to advertise themselves. Another yank dressed like they're off to battle Rommel jumps on, and I grab my prop. No footballer today though. Seems some banker decided to take the quickest route from the top of the walkie talkie to the slabs below. 
 
 I've seen that name before. Not half an hour ago as I dropped it through the slot. 

