It was dark and I was heading home from the gym: past the Salvation Army church, past the housing advice office, past the bus stop and Tesco Express, past William Hill, past the dead phone kiosks and the seemingly eternal builders' fencing hiving off where Don's Cafe used to be. And then this man sprinted past me, crop-haired, small, bearing a little rucksack. I didn't see his face. I recognised his run, though. It was the frantic, panicky sprint of man fleeing trouble and my first thought, of course, was "knife crime." Someone was going to catch him and stab him, and the question was how soon and how close to right under my nose.
That reflex lasted for less than a second before I made out the two men in pursuit: one wore the dark uniform of a security guard, the other the midnight blue shirt of Tesco sales staff. They caught their prey just beyond Palm 2. He'd slowed suddenly, perhaps defeated by the prospect of having to burn off his pursuers like a long distance runner and opting to cut his losses instead. Perhaps he was just knackered, simple as that. Either way, he stopped. The men from Tesco collared him, and his short body shaped into hunched, complaining and yet accepting resistance to their grip and their hands delving inside the little rucksack.
The Tesco men frogmarched him back the way they'd all come, though stalled at intervals when their capitve made some sort of effort at twisting away and when the one in midnight blue produced his phone. I saw its lights come on and blink. There was a crowd of lads nearby, cheerful and guffawing at this pitiful entertainment. They seemed friendly enough, busy doing nothing though they were. They seemed to send out a condescending empathy.
I assumed it would be policy to always prosecute shoplifters. This meant the police would be coming soon. I followed the trio back to the Tesco Express. They went inside. I hung around outside, kicking my heels, making a half-pretence of waiting for a bus. I didn't want to be thought of as one of those people who gets off on loitering near crime scenes, or anything. I wondered what sort of arrival the cops would make. By car? By bike? By van? With siren screaming or without? I pictured three of them trooping in, all dayglo yellow and vaguely space-age with their radios, stab vests, batons and the rest of it as they passed through the apron of weak light that fell on to the pavement from the illuminated inside of the store.
Five, ten minures passed. No cops. Then the pale, cowed figure re-emerged. He was still under escort, framed by the backdrop of fruit and veg and beguiling offers of three boxes of Celebrations for the price of two (or something like that). He still had his rucksack. Again, I couldn't make out his face which was turned down and away from me. Released back into the night, he sloped swiftly away.
I went inside the store. The Tesco men were just inside the door, still pumped up from the chase and whatever had gone on concealed from public view
"What did he steal?" I asked.
"Beer," said the one in midnight blue.
"Didn't you call the police, then?"
"Nah, no," he replied. He explained that sometimes they called the cops, sometimes they didn't. It depended. "Sometimes, they take food. You know, if they're hungry, they got no money, what can you do?"
The security guard backed him with a nod and a shurg. They knew this guy. He was Polish. With him, it was always alcohol: grabbed a couple of cans and legged it.
At that moment I realised I hadn't been the only voyeur. There was a guy behind me, listening in.
"Not being funny," said my fellow loiterer, loud and clear. "But you know the Poles." He mimed knocking back a glass. "They like a drink."
There was a bit more than "like" involved in this case, it seemed.
"Anyway, brilliant," the new arrival said. "Well done. You got your man."
They had, and I could sense their satisfaction as their breathing and their speech returned to more normal speeds. Later, I speculated about the decisions they had taken. Tesco was not their shop, as Palm 2 round the corner is Abdullah's and his family's yet they hadn't hesitated to defend its stock. Yes, an obligation to do so came with the job, especially the security guard's. But maybe pride was involved too, because every shoplifter who gets away with it will have put one over on them. Even so, it occurred to me that they might might have had a thought about a knife - the possibility of their quarry turning and producing one. Such things are not unknown.
Most of all, though, I reflected on the moral judgements the Tesco men seemed to have excercised and the glimpses of reality they provided. One, that a recognition of pennilessness and addiction and a compassionate duty to make allowances for these were embedded in even these dedicated law-enforcers. Two, that no one has a clue how much crime goes unreported to the police, including the police themselves, and that this might make you wonder if the statistics the police and politicians produce have even a passing acquaintance with reality.
As for the Pole who got off pretty lightly, it turned out that he's been chased out of Palm 2 too. Each time I think back to his flight and humiliation I speculate about the life that he might lead, and picture him in my mind's eye walking swiftly and shiftily up Lower Clapton Road, wondering which shop to snatch his beer from today.
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