Free The Time of Our Lives by Jane Costello Page A

he begins wiping my shoulder with a tea towel, attempting to get rid of the debris.
    I smile awkwardly, not wishing to appear ungrateful, but uncomfortable with physical contact from a complete stranger.
    ‘
Gracias! Gracias!
’ I announce, nodding in that British way we reserve for pronouncing languages we know we’re crap at.
    I am about to direct the girls away when an array of recently learned facts click into place, and I freeze.
    I can’t believe I fell for this.
IT’S THE BIRD-POO DUPE!
    I quickly scrutinise the ‘poo’ again, and from its consistency and colossal volume deduce that there’s absolutely no way it’s real. And am I seriously expected to believe
some bloke would happen to be strolling along Las Ramblas with a tea towel at the ready, prepared to leap to the rescue of recently shat-on maidens?
    As these thoughts flood my brain, I open my bag and register that my purse is gone. I glare at the man.
    He freezes and glares back, the eyebrows twitching nervously. He knows that I know.
    ‘I’d like my purse back, please,’ I hear myself saying.
    ‘
Que?
’
    ‘I said I’d like my purse back.’
    He shrugs and puts on a flimsy display of bewilderment as Nicola starts spluttering. ‘Imogen! What makes you think he’s got your purse?’
    ‘Oh, he’s got it,’ I reply, coming over all Cagney and Lacey.
    ‘Are you sure?’ Meredith scrunches up her nose as she looks at me.
    ‘I’ve read all about this,’ I snarl, refusing to break eye contact. ‘This is a tried and tested trick, isn’t it?’
    The man shakes his head and backs away.
    ‘You’ve messed with the wrong tourist. Give me my purse back.
Now
.’
    ‘Imogen, you’re being hasty,’ Nicola protests.
    At which point, the guy turns on his heel and attempts to make his getaway. But I’m too fast for him – before he’s taken four steps, a queasy wash of adrenalin races through me
and I leap through the air like a novice long-jumper, landing on him in a demented piggy-back. He attempts to push me off, but I squeeze my legs around his waist and tug at his neck, grappling him
to the ground. We are a violent jumble of legs and arms as he attempts to wrestle me away but, despite his size, I manage to grip on, hard.
    ‘
POLICIA! POLICIA!
’ I bellow, as he finally pushes me off and I land on my backside on the pavement. Miraculously, two police officers appear almost instantly. But the man
doesn’t get up and run away.
    ‘Officers, arrest this man,’ I chuff, as I brush myself down and step aside so they can spring into action. Except they don’t spring: they barely even twitch. On the contrary,
they actually help him up and allow him to straighten his clothes while he delivers a frenzied rant in Spanish that appears to be directed at me.
    When he’s finished they turn to me. ‘Why did you assault this man?’ one asks, in a robust Spanish accent.
    ‘
This
man robbed
me
,’ I reply, open mouthed at his audacity.
    The two police officers frown simultaneously before putting my allegation to him. It prompts a series of wild gesticulations that make it a wonder he doesn’t dislocate something. I
don’t precisely know what he’s saying, but when he starts whirling his hand around his head then jabbing his finger at me, it’s clear I’m not coming out overly well from the
description.
    I feel I need to speak up for myself. ‘He put fake bird . . .
doodoo
. . . on my shoulder, and used it as a diversion to pinch my purse.’
    The officer looks at me sternly. ‘Doo-doo?’
    I squirm. ‘You know. Poo.’
    He looks at me blankly, at which point I am forced to perform an elaborate game of Charades that involves simulating how a large bird might look while excreting its lunch midflight.
There’s no dignity involved, but I think I make my point.
    ‘You believe this man covered you in shit?’ the policeman asks, poetically.
    ‘
Fake
shit,’ I clarify.
    ‘
Señora
—’
    ‘
Señorita.
’ I correct him,