That Little Twerp

I've no reason to suspect the guy, really. I say, "guy", I mean anorak-touting dullard.

The lengths he'd have had to go to, to get his hands on my suitcase. Even just to be in the baggage claim at the same time as me! No, it's bonkers. But... he's just so weird. The contents of the case don't feel real. They feel contrived. Like a prank. Someone trying too hard to be strange. The more I think about this, the more my brain itches, and the more his pale, gawky face floats around in it.

I'm so tempted to mention the fact there's something incriminating in it, and watch his reaction. Not that I'm convinced I could read it well, since he doesn't act or react the way you would expect a normal person to. I decided not to. He could look for it. Find it. And then find a way to use it against me.

No, if he already knows about the toe, he will be able to moderate his reaction, won't he? If he doesn't know about it, then I'm showing my hand by letting on. This is even assuming that he is the one who stole my case. But I think he is. I'm sure of it.

I thought back to what I did and how I felt right after opening that suitcase and realising it wasn't mine. Flustered. Angry. A bit indignant. Nervous, too, I suppose. Nobody likes to think a toe they severed is going off and doing its own thing. I probably stalked, stiff-limbed, with my nostrils flaring, and banging doors just slightly too hard.

I decided to keep doing that. Let him think I was still cross about it, rather than suspicious.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him watching me. That odd smile on his face Sitting in his usual spot. In the same old anorak. Does he ever take that thing off? Does he sleep in it? Those glasses making his eyes look bigger, like an insect. Twirling something small shiny between clawlike fingers. Twist, twirl, twirl... and it's gone.

Then last night, I got up to get a drink, and it hit me. I walked, soft-footed, out to the living area, pausing to listen for any clues as to whether he might be awake or asleep. Kept going, towards the door. To where the coats hung... There it is! So he doesn't sleep in it then.

I felt around in the pockets, fingers curling around something metal. I pulled it out into the gloom. A single shaft of orange light was slicing through a gap in the blinds. I held up my find for a better look, but I already knew what it was. A key. Not one for the flat either. Not a padlock key, or a bike lock - it was too big for that. I wondered if he had another flat somewhere. There was no convenient key ring with an address on; most inconsiderate of him.

I was just going to have to watch him, wasn't I? Without him noticing. If I find out where he goes, I find my stuff. Probably. Maybe I'll leave an anonymous tip with the police and have the little twerp arrested for that toe. That would be funny.