Ross George January 2024 Shoplifter

Walking out of the store entrance, I heard sirens. Turning round, I saw a burly store
detective towering over me. “You” he said “stop right there, we have reason to believe you
have taken merchandise without paying”. “No, you’re wrong” I said, “ I haven’t taken
anything, I don’t do that sort of thing.” “We know what your sort gets up to” he sneered,
“you and your junkie mother.” I felt a tingling spaced-out mix of panic and detachment.
Detached because I had learnt how to keep calm in all those threatening situations with my
so-called junkie mother – how did he know about her? - but panicky because I needed the
scholarship, and a shoplifting charge would put paid to that. The law course in America
would put distance between me and my troubles, both at home and in this shitty little Essex
town. “Open your bag” growled the detective. “I’ve nothing to hide” I said, opening it: and
there on top was a rolled-up silk dress I’d never seen, magnetic alarm tag still attached. I
recalled noticing Bryson earlier, and realised the kid could have sneaked up and dropped the
dress into my bag, as retaliation for the time I exposed him as a disgusting racist bigot. My
debating ability on the school team had persuaded the head to endorse my scholarship
application. I knew my rights. I needed to argue my case, for real. “Show me your security
camera footage” I said “and I want a police officer present. Now.”