Free Being Me by Pete Kalu Page A

an expensive small bottle of perfume in the store with a roll of Euros. She opens the packaging there and then and starts spraying all of us with it. Suddenly the perfume sellers love us. We waltz away from their plastic, pouty smiles.
    The fifth floor sells electronic goods. Cakes wants an iPod. We could buy it, but she wants to lift it.
    Cakes and Mikaela go up to one end of the counter. The shop assistant takes out the tray of iPods. That’s the cue for me and MC to saunter up to the other end. Cakes tries a bit of hair twirling and batting of her eyes but it doesn’t distract the shop assistant. MC does a loud ‘excuse me’. The shop assistant is torn. He looks over at MC then he looks back at Cakes. Cakes has already taken an iPod from the tray when he turned to look over at MC. Cakes sticks her bottom lip out and frowns like she’s saying she doesn’t like any of the iPods. The assistant shoves the tray back under the glass without counting the iPods, and scoots over to MC Banshee and me.
    MC does good Geek and she asks lots of questions about digital radios. I look around as MC is chatting this rubbish to see if there are any store detectives following Cakes and Mikaela, who are on the move towards the stairs. If there are, I’ll text them to dump the stuff in the toilets. It all looks good though, just grannies and granddads gawping at big screen TVs and a few Anoraks on Playstation consoles. I nudge MC. She makes excuses to the assistant and we take a couple of escalators down, making sure no-one’s trailing us. Then we meet up with Cakes and Mikaela in Kitchenware.
    Cakes looks calm. Mikaela’s eyes are swishing like windscreen wipers.
    Anyone followed you?’ asks MC.
    They shake their heads.
    ‘Anyone watching us now?’ MC scratches her cheek as she says this, turns and picks up a frying pan. She examines it, glancing around in the pan’s reflection for cameras and people.
    ‘Who’s she?’ MC says, under her breath.
    There’s an old biddy in pearls and a fur coat, looking at sieves.
    ‘I seen her before,’ says Mikaela, ‘I think she’s shoplifting herself actually. She’s really shifty.’
    MC Banshee pauses. We glance over. Sure enough, the old biddy drops an egg timer into her pocket.
    MC Banshee’s eyes are screaming with laughter, but she gets it under control.
    ‘Let’s do this,’ she says.
    Both me and MC make to take the iPod off Mikaela. That way if they are onto us they can’t be sure who has it. From a distance it just looks like three girls in a huddle, greeting one another. I’ve got it but MC peels away from Mikaela and takes the escalator for the Dior exit. She’s doing the show run. It flushes out anybody who’s been following us. We wait. Nothing happens. I examine a couple of pans. Mikaela peels off. Then Cakes. I’m on my own. Ninety seconds later, I take the stairs for the Hermes scarves exit. The iPod is snug in the back of my trouser waistband.
    There’s something about that moment before you go through an exit door when you’re shoplifting that is the biggest thrill. You’ve checked the tag is off. No scruffy guys in jeans are waiting at the Exit doors. No Uniforms are lurking. Still, your senses tingle. It’s the moment. You can always, at this point, back down, retrace your steps, pretend you’ve forgotten something and go back, dump the goods. Or you can panic and suddenly make a run for it. That might blow your cover, but if they’re on to you, it might give you an edge. Decisions. You’re in the zone. Maybe they’ve installed a new security system this day, or got some new theft alert stuff hidden in what you’re robbing. A shoplifter, like a striker, has to keep her head, accept the pressure, but never forget the goal. Shoot. Score. Lift.
    I’m through the detector panels and no alarm. I’m three steps away from the double Exit doors. They swing either way. Yet something’s not right. It’s the old lady with pearls. She’s coming up fast. Why