Free London Noir by Cathi Unsworth

was a virtuoso performance—just me, my rucksack, and my pair of dextrous pals: Right-hand Man and his partner, Leftie. Dab hands, the both of them. Digitally precise, you might say. Got to keep them at arm’s length though. You see? It’s called style, cunt. Wit! Something those fucks will never have. I take and I give. It’s art, fucking art.
    True, the actual pickpocketing was pretty much the same as I’d done in my act a hundred times before. Same technically, anyway. And I’d picked pockets for real before, illegally that is, a couple of times. But it hadn’t given me quite the buzz I’d expected it to. No sense of occasion. This was different though. The river bit might have been shit but there were still two million happy, stoned, drunk singing people all squashed up together. All mesmerized by a few colorful lights in the sky. And everyone happily embracing their fellow man, getting up close and hugging, like they didn’t actually hate each other, like they weren’t all cunts for one second. I’ll give you “Auld Lang Fucking Syne,” you twats. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot …” Forgot to keep an eye on that, mate, thanks very much. “And never brought to …” Mind if I take that off you, sir? “Should auld acquaintance be for …” Gotcha! “For the sake of auld lang …” Signing off now, gotta go!
    All in front of about a zillion boys in blue. It was a good night. A new beginning. The way forward.
    After the show I figured I’d go for a celebratory fuck. Vanya would still be working. I’d been going to her for about six months—since she’d come over from Croatia. She was very good value for money—extremely pretty face and a good body, but still reasonable rates. If she were English she’d probably have charged twice as much. Maybe three times. But then I guess that’s one of the benefits of immigration. Cheap, efficient labor
    I started slowly working my way through the throng. Up the Strand, past Trafalgar, and on toward Piccadilly and Shepherd Market. Made up a little song on the way, to the old Robin Hood theme tune: He steals from the thick/And gives to the whore/Robbing’s good!/Robbing’s good!/Robbing’s good! Sometimes, Jonathan Marcus Tiller, I thought, you really are the wittiest fucker in the world. In the fucking world.
    I was just taking in Piccadilly Circus—the glitz of Burger King, the glamour of Dunkin’ Donuts—when I was approached by an American tourist: “Hey there. Could you direct me to Piccadilly Circus?” He said the last two words uncertainly, as if no such place with that name could possibly exist.
    I didn’t reply, just announced the thing with outstretched arms, then turned to him with an expression I’d hoped conveyed: What the fuck do you think that is, cunt? Now fuck off.
    It didn’t work.
    “Only, I’m kinda here to make this movie and I was told Piccadilly Circus was where to look.”
    I glanced up and down his face as he spoke.
    “Look for what?” I said, mildly intrigued.
    “To meet actors. Only, I’m filming the thing in my hotel tonight and I thought you might like to …”
    Suck your cock? “Don’t think so, mate. But yeah, this is the right area—just a decade or so too late …”
    I left the Yank fruit to it and carried on up Piccadilly. Walked along the north side. It’s lined with imposing gray-stoned edifices, like gigantic doormen keeping an eye on things, keeping the undesirables out. Raising a suspicious eyebrow at anyone who dares venture near the promised land of Mayfair. Perhaps sir would be more comfortable taking a different thoroughfare? A street more suited to sir’s … position, shall we say?
    Not tonight though. Tonight I wasn’t being hassled by them. It was as if I’d passed some kind of test. Like I was okay now. They hadn’t exactly handed me the keys, but at least they were going to turn a blind eye while I picked the locks for a while. It was definitely a new beginning.
    I took a right