Allergic to Copper

I don't like coppers. I'm allergic. They always put me on edge. But for this, I made an exception.

I watched the uniforms from the parked car. The air hummed with anticipation. I'd hoped they would arrive like a SWAT team, bust down the door off the storage unit. That would have been satisfying somehow.

Instead, the anorak was there, dipping his head to the pigs and twisting his hands together nervously. Every inch the bewildered citizen, helping the police with their inquiries. Fumbling in his pockets. Fiddling with the key. Go ahead, dork, stall for time. It won't make any difference.

It looked like the police reassured him, can you believe that? One patted his arm. One said, sorry about this. They addressed him as Mr.

Two of them, there were. In those beastly uniforms. I imagined their faces when they found it. The case. The toe.

I waited and waited for the trio to re-emerge, him trusted and poutimg; the uniforms looking fierce.

They didn't pin him to the ground yowling or snivelling. They didn't frogmarch him away and accidentally on purpose clout his head as they were getting him in the car. They didn't until years of that yellow tape and leak the whole story to journalists. They didn't cuff him. Didn't even arrest him. Their mouths framed words that looked like, sorry to have bothered you, and thank you for your time. He stammered a bit, acted embarrassed. I use it for storage... bit of a hoarder... More reassuring patting.

The wind went right out of my sails. The urge to sprint across there and grab that little turd by the lapels was insane. It bubbled under my skin. I thought I might boil over with it., or go mad from keeping it in.

How did he do it? How did he hide it? Did I get it wrong? I'd been so sure.