Chapter 1: The Man With the Cane
The first time I saw Arthur Whitmore being arrested, he was holding a tin of tomato soup in one hand and his walking stick in the other.
He was crying.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just two thin streams of tears running down the deep wrinkles in his cheeks as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry.""
The police officer standing beside him looked uncomfortable.
The shop manager looked furious.
And Arthur, who was one hundred and one years old, kept apologising to everybody in sight.
I'd known Arthur for thirty years. I lived next door to him in a quiet little street where people still waved from their front gardens and brought each other Christmas cards.
His wife, Margaret, had died eleven years earlier.
They'd never had children.
And since her death, Arthur had become one of those people who seemed to grow quieter every year.
He had a small brick house with a green front door, a perfectly trimmed hedge, and a brass letterbox that he polished every Sunday morning.
He also had a walking stick.
A dark wooden one with a silver handle, worn smooth where his hand rested.
He could barely get along without it.
But there was something else about Arthur that nobody at the supermarket understood.
He kept stealing things.
Not expensive things.
Not televisions, jewellery, or bottles of whisky.
Soup.
Bread.
Batteries.
Teabags.
Washing powder.
Hand cream.
Cat food.
Light bulbs.
And birthday cards.
At first, the shop staff thought it was an accident.
The first time, a young cashier called Sophie noticed a packet of batteries tucked beneath Arthur's cardigan.
"Mr Whitmore?"" she asked gently.
"I think you've forgotten to pay for something.""
Arthur stopped.
He looked down.
Then he looked at the batteries.
"Oh," he whispered.
"Oh, goodness.""
He reached into his pocket with trembling fingers and handed them over.
"I'm so sorry, dear. I didn't mean to.""
Sophie smiled.
"That's alright. It happens.""
Arthur nodded, thanked her twice, and shuffled out.
A week later, it happened again.
This time it was a tin of soup.
Then bread.
Then a bottle of hand cream.
The manager, Graham, began watching the security footage.
"He's doing it deliberately," Graham told his assistant.
"Look at him. He checks the aisle before putting anything in his coat.""
But Sophie disagreed.
"He's a hundred years old, Graham. Maybe he gets confused.""
"Then why does he always take different things?""
Nobody had an answer.
And the strangest part was that Arthur never tried to run.
Whenever someone caught him, he stopped immediately.
He apologised.
He handed everything back.
Sometimes he even offered to pay, although he struggled to remember where he'd put his wallet.
Then he would leave with his head bowed and his walking stick tapping against the floor.
It went on for months.
I heard about it from Sophie, who happened to be my niece.
One afternoon, she came to my house with a worried expression.
"Aunt Eunice, do you know an old man called Arthur Whitmore?""
I nearly dropped my teacup.
"Arthur? What about him?""
"He's been caught stealing again.""
I put the cup down.
"What did he take?""
"Cat food. Three tins.""
I stared at her.
"Arthur hasn't owned a cat in years.""
"That's what I thought.""
"Did he say anything?""
Sophie shook her head.
"He just apologised. He looked absolutely heartbroken.""
I went quiet.
Because there was something I knew about Arthur.
Something I had promised never to tell.
And every time I heard about those little thefts, I felt that promise becoming heavier.
That evening, I crossed the garden between our houses.
Arthur was sitting at his kitchen table, carefully folding a piece of paper.
His reading glasses rested at the end of his nose.
A mug of tea sat untouched beside him.
"Evening, Arthur.""
He looked up.
"Oh, Eunice. Come in, love.""
I stepped inside.
On the table were several tins of soup, a loaf of bread, a packet of batteries, and two tubes of hand cream.
"Been shopping?"" I asked.
He glanced at the items.
"Yes.""
"Did you remember to pay?""
His hands stopped moving.
For a moment, he looked like a little boy caught doing something wrong.
"Of course.""
"Arthur.""
"I did, Eunice.""
I looked at the paper.
It was a list written in his shaky handwriting.
Nine items.
Each one had a little mark beside it.
At the bottom was one word.
PAID.
Underlined twice.
I swallowed.
"Why are you writing these lists?""
He folded the paper quickly.
"Just a habit.""
"Since when?""
"Since I started forgetting things.""
He pushed his glasses up.
Then he smiled at me, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Margaret always said I was hopeless at remembering shopping.""
I sat opposite him.
"Arthur, you know people think you're stealing.""
His smile disappeared.
"I know.""
"Then why don't you explain?""
He stared at his hands.
"I promised someone I wouldn't.""
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Who?""
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached for his walking stick and slowly stood.
"Would you mind helping me put these away, love?""
I did.
I opened the cupboard beside the refrigerator.
And froze.
Inside were dozens of tins of cat food.
Not three.
Not ten.
Dozens.
Stacked neatly in rows, all facing forward, arranged by expiry date.
I turned around.
"Arthur...""
He stood in the doorway, gripping his cane.
His eyes filled with tears.
"Please, Eunice.""
I looked at the cupboard again.
"Who are you buying all this for?""
Arthur lowered his head.
May you like
And whispered four words that made my blood run cold.
"She'll come back hungry.""
