The Uninvited Guest
Entry by: quietmandave
12th July 2016
From years of travelling, Peter knew never to look at a map in an isolated place; it showed you weren't from 'round here'. He had expected this area to be moneyed, impressive semi-detached suburban houses with freshly painted windows and manicured front gardens. But the reality was quite the opposite. Peeling front doors, small front gardens once laid with cement and now pierced by thick weeds. There had been no door number for several houses. He counted back, the house he was looking for must be one of the three to his right.
A dog barked. He had expected electronic alarms, not dogs. He was ill prepared, and he hated being ill prepared. The train fare had been twenty seven pounds, a high price to pay, but if this worked out, he would make a profit. Anyway, it was the principle that was more important to him. And he wanted to know if he was right. He was certain he was right, and it was important to prove this.
Just beyond the third house, a small alleyway jumped away from the road. He checked behind, and all around, but there was no movement. It was dark, and of course he was wearing dark clothes. He felt in his coat pocket and touched the cold cast metal.
He leaned as far back against the wall as he could, and unfolded the colour printed map. He moved it to find a half light strong enough to read, but without the risk of someone catching the white of the paper. On the back, a PayPal receipt; he liked to save paper. If he took the lane running behind the houses, it was the second house on the right, he was sure of it.
The gate was unlocked although rotten and he had to push it hard to open up a gap large enough to squeeze through. To the right, a first floor light shone, probably a bathroom given the frosty effect. To the left, dark. And ahead of him, completely dark. He felt confident, and scanned the rear elevation to work out his best route in. It was to be a drainpipe, which made him laugh very quietly, but he crossed himself for being unprofessional.
Two floors up, Peter leaned into the open top window, and cocked his arm over the ledge to gently flick open the larger window underneath. It slid silently under his armpit, and he deftly transferred his weight onto the stone ledge and slipped inside.
It's a question of getting into the mind of your target. There was an arrogance with this one, which suggested the ground floor. And there had been books in the photograph, the faintest trace of coloured spines in the background. He took off his shoes and expertly walked across the hall, feeling each footstep to detect any creaky floor panels.
Once downstairs, Peter looked around the hall and smiled; no alarm panel, but he could have dealt with that. It was too easy. He immediately identified the living room, with its heavy brown sofa and flat screen TV defining the space. To the far side, he found the display cabinet, just where he had expected from the clues in the photograph. He knew it; he had known all along. The front panel slid back effortlessly, and he gazed at the collection of - he counted - thirty two Matchbox cars, all with their perfect, original boxes behind. And there was the cement mixer, the original 1953 version.
He pulled from his pocket a model vehicle that looked virtually identical, but he knew there were differences. On the shelf was the true original, which he had purchased online, except that what he received was slightly different. He looked at the imposter in his hand, a version from two years later that Mr Trevor Graves, the owner of this house, had tried to pass off as the original.
He swapped the two die cast vehicles and placed the one that he rightly owned, because he had paid for it in good faith, into his pocket, the soft lining cushioning the piece. He slid the glass panel back into place, and for a moment he wondered if he should leave some tiny sign that he had been there. But he decided no. Mr Graves would find out one day, perhaps two years, perhaps ten. That thought made him smile.
Peter saw the front door keys on the side and let himself out. The road was still dark, but less threatening now, and he didn't need a map to find the station. He checked his watch; he had been quicker than he had expected, he had ten minutes to spare.
A dog barked. He had expected electronic alarms, not dogs. He was ill prepared, and he hated being ill prepared. The train fare had been twenty seven pounds, a high price to pay, but if this worked out, he would make a profit. Anyway, it was the principle that was more important to him. And he wanted to know if he was right. He was certain he was right, and it was important to prove this.
Just beyond the third house, a small alleyway jumped away from the road. He checked behind, and all around, but there was no movement. It was dark, and of course he was wearing dark clothes. He felt in his coat pocket and touched the cold cast metal.
He leaned as far back against the wall as he could, and unfolded the colour printed map. He moved it to find a half light strong enough to read, but without the risk of someone catching the white of the paper. On the back, a PayPal receipt; he liked to save paper. If he took the lane running behind the houses, it was the second house on the right, he was sure of it.
The gate was unlocked although rotten and he had to push it hard to open up a gap large enough to squeeze through. To the right, a first floor light shone, probably a bathroom given the frosty effect. To the left, dark. And ahead of him, completely dark. He felt confident, and scanned the rear elevation to work out his best route in. It was to be a drainpipe, which made him laugh very quietly, but he crossed himself for being unprofessional.
Two floors up, Peter leaned into the open top window, and cocked his arm over the ledge to gently flick open the larger window underneath. It slid silently under his armpit, and he deftly transferred his weight onto the stone ledge and slipped inside.
It's a question of getting into the mind of your target. There was an arrogance with this one, which suggested the ground floor. And there had been books in the photograph, the faintest trace of coloured spines in the background. He took off his shoes and expertly walked across the hall, feeling each footstep to detect any creaky floor panels.
Once downstairs, Peter looked around the hall and smiled; no alarm panel, but he could have dealt with that. It was too easy. He immediately identified the living room, with its heavy brown sofa and flat screen TV defining the space. To the far side, he found the display cabinet, just where he had expected from the clues in the photograph. He knew it; he had known all along. The front panel slid back effortlessly, and he gazed at the collection of - he counted - thirty two Matchbox cars, all with their perfect, original boxes behind. And there was the cement mixer, the original 1953 version.
He pulled from his pocket a model vehicle that looked virtually identical, but he knew there were differences. On the shelf was the true original, which he had purchased online, except that what he received was slightly different. He looked at the imposter in his hand, a version from two years later that Mr Trevor Graves, the owner of this house, had tried to pass off as the original.
He swapped the two die cast vehicles and placed the one that he rightly owned, because he had paid for it in good faith, into his pocket, the soft lining cushioning the piece. He slid the glass panel back into place, and for a moment he wondered if he should leave some tiny sign that he had been there. But he decided no. Mr Graves would find out one day, perhaps two years, perhaps ten. That thought made him smile.
Peter saw the front door keys on the side and let himself out. The road was still dark, but less threatening now, and he didn't need a map to find the station. He checked his watch; he had been quicker than he had expected, he had ten minutes to spare.
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