The Perfect Theft - Halloween Edition

“Trick or treat!” the school aged children chant. All their costumes are so bright and terrible, stinging my eyes. They would never blend in on a normal night, and it would be very inconvenient to wear it for a normal mission. But tonight, I am clothed the same because sometimes the best way to hide is in plain sight.

The gangling group doesn’t even noticed I’ve joined their posse of candy-seekers. Absent minded fools. I am told, however, this is how normal children act. Most children just dress up for the fun of it and don’t look twice for anything. If someone were trying to infiltrate my cohort, I would notice straight away and I certainly wouldn’t let them stay. They would leave scared at best, infringed with death at worst. We come up to the largest house on the street, the one I’ve committed to memory. Cream walls, about 50 meters long, simple wooden door. Even under all the Halloween decorations I would have recognised it. My posse, including a pirate, a wizard, a dancer and a dragon, approach the house as another bumbling group leave. The dancer up front knocks on the door and as one, myself included, chant the time old catch phrase.

“Trick or treat!”

The kind faced grandmother smiles, lighting up the street more than all the fairy lights.

“Oh, what a cute little group! Everyone is dressed up so perfectly!” I wish I could say she was lying, but she shows no tells. It disgusts me that she would say this to everyone and still mean it. I am told this is uncommon, as grandmother figures such as Mrs Sutton, are the back bone of our society and ‘people enjoy being in their presence.’ She gives a few pieces of candy to everyone, admiring their costumes personally. When she gets to me, I plaster on the phoniest smile I can.

“Trick or treat!” I grin, and with my six-year-old, gap tooth smile, I’m sure I look adorable. She chuckles down at me.

“Don’t you make a cute little princess. So adorable. Here,” she says, dropping two pieces into my bucket, giving me a sly wink. I grin up at her in amusement. As I turn to walk down the small stairs, I take this as my moment. Now is the perfect time. I fall down, tumbling and screaming. Panic stricken her face as she rushes out, running as old ladies do, to crouch painfully down beside me.

“Oh dear, you poor thing. Aw, your little knee is scraped,” she coddles as I summon tears to my eyes. I wail and whimper a little to sell it over the top.

“Do you want to come inside until the bleeding stops? It will be quick?” she offers, kindly. I nod feebly. Yes, I’ve gained access to the target.

She walks me over to a sofa patterned with little flowers. It smells and feels so nice, so warm and kind.

“Here, have some tissues. Press them on, there you go,” she talks as she tends to my wound. I’ve got to keep up the pretence. That’s how most people get caught, they don’t play the pain card long enough. I, being a child, can play it as long as I want. Now I just have to wait, not to long because any second…

“Trick or treat!” There. More little kids come, demanding the attention of Mrs Sutton. She looks worriedly between me and the hall.

“It’s ok, go and give them some candy. I’d hate to be the reason they missed out,” I stutter pathetically. I would gladly take all their lollies and laugh in their faces. However, she bites into the lie and hugs me.

“You’re such a precious thing, I’ll be right back.” She waddles back down the carpeted hall, to more brightly dressed children. Now is the window of opportunity. I give myself five minutes to get to the target, grab it, and get back. That’s not a lot of time to work with, but I’ve had harder.

I leap from the couch and run to where the kitchen is definitely located, judging by the design. All house of this style have it wedged in the back. I start flinging cabinets and rifling through as silently as I can. Looking through everything. All I find is cereal and bags and some old hard candies that no one likes. I open the last cabinet and am about to close it when I see the glint. I groan.

Up on the top shelf, the package is hidden. I’ve made harder climbs, but much do my dismay, my knee does hurt a little. I knew something so precious wouldn’t be easy to get. I soldier on, wedging a foot on either side of the wall. I shimmy my way up, dropping a few times, feeling my stomach sink to the floor with fear. By the time I reach the top, my heart is pounding, sweat beading on my forehead. It’s taking all my upper body strength to keep me up, but I need to reach out. Another frustrated cry escapes my lips, hopefully too silent to be heard. Improvise. Adapt to your situation. What can I do? What can I do? Wait, my back is free. Slowly and painfully, I rotate my body so it’s like I’m sitting in a chair in the door way. Now, using the support of my spine and a little from my legs, I grab the tin. Quickly, I open it up, silently and quickly, snatching the contents. I quickly stuff it in the bottom of my princess purse, not a costume prop but a well-planned escape route. I place the tin back on the shelf.

Now the time is running out. I quickly drop to the floor, landing much harder than is good. My knees buckle and I almost cry out from exhaustion. I limp towards the living room. I hear the door closing, the resounding goodbyes of content children. Come on, and with the last of my will power, I drop to the couch, sweating through the effort. Mrs Sutton enters a second later.

“Oh, sorry I took so long. Your knee doesn’t look much better. How about a little longer?” I nod my head. Another common mistake made by thieves is leaving in too much of a hurry. It instantly alerts the victim that you have something to hide. So, when the next posse of children come, I get up and join their flock, blending in seamlessly.

The brisk air of freedom tousles my hair and the moon looms overhead, guiding me back from a mission well done. I go to the rendezvous point and wait. Finally, another shadow comes to sit down on the park bench.

“Did you get it?” she asks, not yet looking at me. I open my purse and pull them out.

“What, did you doubt me?”

My sister cheers.

“Whoop! You did it! Now, to see if it’s all cracked up as she makes them to be.” I hand one to her and take the other. On the count of three, we take a big bite. All four seasons flutter in my stomach, all the sensations at once. I can hear colours and see sound. I can taste emotion. And this, this tastes like someone bottled all the best emotions and put them in one biscuit. Happiness, glee, euphoria.

“Oh my god, Mrs Sutton really does make the best Anzac bickies!” my sister exclaims. When Chelsea Sutton came bragging to her that her grandmother made the best biscuits, my sister was sceptical and wanted to show Chelsea up, so she hired the best thief she knows (that’s me by the way) to steal them from the most secure vault known to man. Now, we knew for sure.

They were the best.