• Home
  • Brooches
  • Podcasts
  • Stories
  • About The Casket
  • About Joanna
  • Competitions
  • TubeFlash

The Casket of Fictional Delights

Brooches Podcasts Stories

Fishing for Keys

by Liam Hogan

Short StoryPodcast Amusing, Uplifting

The hook was two foot through the letterbox before I clocked the old geezer.
I’d been aiming for the keys. I always go for the keys.  With a key, you can let yourself in nice and quiet-like, pick up wallets and iPhones and anything else you take a fancy to, on the hall table, or beyond. That’s the upside. Downside. If the keys are at home, so’s the owner. Doesn’t matter much, you wait ‘til Corrie or Enders, or come back later when everyone’s tucked up safe and sound, like in this gaff. Only, this guy wasn’t tucked up at all, was he? He was stood as still as a statue, at the bottom of the stairs, watching me, watching him.

He hadn’t been there when I lifted the letterbox to take a look see. Okay, yes it was night, so yes, ‘course it was dark, but enough yellow light spilled from the street to show the keys AND the empty hallway, I’m not a muppet! He must’ve crept down, while I was unfolding the folding tent pole. Who’d a thought a big guy like that could move so quiet?

I crouched down so instead of the letterbox view of the midriff of his dressing gown, I could look up an’ see his barrel chest and bearded, grizzled face. Like I said, he was just stood there, watching. Well, blow this, thinks I, and as he didn’t seem in no particular hurry to raise the alarm, I inched the pole even further in. Still no reaction. I wondered if maybe the old coot was sleepwalking. My Nan used to do that, though I never saw it. Maybe he thought he’d heard a noise and got up to investigate. It was freakin’ freezing, maybe I hadn’t waited long enough before making my move, or maybe he was just a light sleeper.  I’d thought I’d been pretty quiet. In fact I’d been busy congratulating myself on how super-ninja silent I’d been, right up to the point I saw I was being watched.

But, hell, who just stands there as they get robbed? I decided that until he actually DID something, I might as well continue as is and pushed the tent pole the rest of the way.

You can’t pick up a key lying on its own. Just not possible.  Defies the laws of physics. I know some who say you can.  You just need to stick a wad of chewie on the end. I’ve tried it and guess what? It don’t work. But a key on a key-ring never sits flat and the little hooked piece of coat hanger at the end of the pole doesn’t need much of a gap. You still have to be careful.  It is always best hooking away from you than towards you. Towards runs the risk of a heavy bunch of keys clattering to the floor. If there was a back to the table you could make it a lot easier by pushing the keys across till they can go no further, they always rise up some at that point. But I guess I wanted to do this one as quick and neat as I could.  Given I had an audience. I was aiming to pick up the keys exactly where they lay. The bunch wasn’t big. Two keys, one Yale, one Chubb and a little metal key fob. Prob’ly a St Christopher, or a badge from some antique car long since crushed. Maybe even one of those fake coins for shopping market trolleys. My Nan used to have one of them, saved her rooting for a pound at the supermarket. But that was just detail, the key-ring was sitting high and proud.  Simple!

Well, kind’a. It’s still like threading a needle from six foot away, the good news being the eye is pointing towards you. I gave the owner-occupier another once over. As far as I could see, he still hadn’t moved. Static. As fixed as an East End boxing match. The hook was hovering over the table now. Every tiny movement, my end, made it waggle in the air like a drunkard. I had to concentrate. No sudden movements. There! I thought, but damn it. Not quite. There was something… behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck were quivering. I kept trying to look out of the corner of my eye.  When, like bloody Luke Skywalker, it was done. The keys were on the end of the pole. Hallelujah! I lifted them clear of the table to check they was secure.  Then and only then hazarded a look over my shoulder. The hedge that was hiding me from the street twitched and then a head emerged, small and black. Two gleaming yellow eyes jerk in my direction.  The cat freezes and its body seems to shrink. We stare at each other for a moment, then the cocky little bastard lifts its head once again and strolls out of the hedge and down the little side alley, lord of all it surveys. My heart was pounding and I began to think that my leg had gone to sleep, but you know what? During it all I kept that pole as steady as can be and there wasn’t a single jingle, not even a clink. How cool is that?

Once the cat had gone it was quiet again.  Real quiet. I wasn’t surprised. It was brass monkey weather and there was absolutely no-one about, ‘cept me, the cat and I suppose, the old man.
I began easing the pole back, towards me. Still waiting for the old man to finally wake up and come running over and knock the keys off the hook. But nothing. I didn’t bother folding up the pole as I pull it out. I kept my eyes on the prize, making sure they don’t go slipping off, now that I’m so close. Worst thing in the world, if they slipped off just next to the door. No way in hell to get them up from there, even if they didn’t go waking the dead in the fall.

Then a Hello Kitty badge dangled just in front of my nose.  Close enough for me to hook the keys with the rest of the coat hanger. I stopped. I’m thinking to myself.  I’m thinking all kinds of things to myself.  Maybe he’s called the Police? Maybe he’d done that, from upstairs, where I wouldn’t hear him and then come down to watch what happens? I mean, if he tried to stop me, I’d run off, wouldn’t I? Down the alley and into the allotments beyond, scot free. But if he let me continue, until the cops arrived, I’d be toast, next stop, a guest slot on the ‘World’s Stupidest Criminals’. Also, what if I DID get the keys? I was hardly going to use them, was I? I mean, I’d be opening the door and there he’d be, waiting. And he was a big bloke, you know? Not exactly tall, but broad. He wore some sort of a belt, instead of a cord round that old fur trimmed dressing gown. I bet he’d been wearing that antique during the war, maybe both wars. I’m not talking Gulf, here. What would there be worth stealing from his pokey little end of terrace anyway? Another thought, Hello Kitty. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a guy with that much facial hair. Presumably, he had a kid or, given quite how long and white the beard was, a grand-kid. There’s nothing that prods an honest citizen into self-defence, like having someone else to defend, especially a nipper. I should just drop the damn keys and show a clean pair of heels. Then yet another thought occurred to me. How cool, how ‘Return of the Jedi’, would it be, if I put those keys back where I got them?

I slowly eased the keys back out over the void. The pole going away from me seemed to jiggle and I was beginning to feel the strain.  The Hello Kitty tapped against the sideboard edge with a little clunk. I tilted it slightly, eased it on a half foot more and slowly lowered. Perfect. Hardly a clatter – super stealthy. As it lay there I twisted the pole gently ‘til the hook came free. I took a deep breath and this time removed the pole at speed. I was just about done, when I thought to look up at the old geezer.  One last time. His face was as impassive, his eyes   sparkling and as I watched he slowly nodded, turned and went back up the stairs. A pair of black boots instead of slippers the last thing I saw.

Well.

If this were a ghost story, I’d pass by the next day and find an ambulance parked outside, the driver would casually mention someone had complained about the smell, and they’d broken in to find nothing but a red cloaked skeleton, the wearer having died months back. Or a thriller I’d read in the paper about a violent siege, a crazy gunman shooting up the neighbourhood, killing bystanders, the cops and eventually, himself. Distraught locals saying how he always kept himself to himself, such a quiet, jolly man, wondering what triggered it all.

But it ain’t either. I didn’t ever go back. I never heard nothing more about it. I’m sure you think I’ve gone soft. Thing is, I’m glad I didn’t take those keys. Glad I didn’t break in. Sure, I’d gone there looking to take, to steal. But instead, he’d given me more than he knew. Or maybe he did know. Because that nod -was respect.  More than I ever got from my Dad. More than I ever got from my Mum, for all that she loved me. And a hell of a lot more than I ever got at school, or on the YTS, or when I worked down Homebase. The only person who ever looked at me like that, like I was a person, not a walking screw up, was my Nan, God rest her soul.

And besides, I always thought it was a bit shitty robbing someone Christmas Eve. Know what I mean?

Now, does anyone want to buy a top of the range DVD player?

  •  
  •  
  •  
Hear

You are listening to
Fishing for Keys
by Liam Hogan

http://media.blubrry.com/the_casket___new_short_stories/content.blubrry.com/the_casket___new_short_stories/Fishing-for-Keys.mp3

Story read by Kieran Phoenix Chantrey for The Casket of Fictional Delights.

About Liam Hogan

Liam was abandoned in a library at the tender age of 3, only to emerge blinking into the sunlight many years later, with a head full of words and an aversion to loud noises. He lives in London and dreams in Dewey Decimals.
Visit Liam Hogan on the web

You’ve reached the end of this story. Please do explore further. And if you’re feeling generous today, donate to The Casket and help keep the fictional delights flowing. Want to know when more stories arrive? Make sure you sign up for regular updates.

A little tin-rattle

The Casket is a platform for new, fresh and enjoyable short reads. We don’t receive any grants and your generosity helps us provide FREE accessible ad-free content. Any donation is hugely appreciated. If you would like to contribute, donate by PayPal by submitting your name and an amount.

Sending

One response to “Fishing for Keys”

  • Ross says:
    December 16, 2015 at 12:56 pm

    I loved this, a proper Christmas antidote story. I was a bit slow, didn’t get it till the end (I thought it was going to turn out to be Santa’s house!). Nicely maintained pov too.

    Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

If you choose to leave a comment on The Casket of Fictional Delights, in addition to the comment you provide we collect a little data, including your IP address, in order to check it isn't spam and to publish the comment. Following approval, your comment text, name and website URL (if provided) are visible to the public. To find out how your data is used, check our Privacy Policy

Everyone at The Casket is hoping 2021 will be a better year than 2020.  We have some great short stories and flash fiction lined up for your delight.  We kick of the year with a story by Lydia Unsworth “The Smallest Boxes” and then for Valentine's we have a story by Dylan Brethour which will also be available as a podcast. Later in the summer we have a new Flash Fiction Summer Collection which will be published online and as podcasts read by Menna Bonsels and Richard Hodder.  We hope you enjoy the stories we have for you and look forward to welcoming you back regularly.

Joanna & The Casket of Fictional Delights Team

 

Help Keep Us Going

Please consider making a donation to The Casket of Fictional Delights.  All content on the website is free and widely available to audiences worldwide.  We do not receive any grants and all our content is Ad free.  The Casket of Fictional Delights specialises in producing high-quality podcasts which are recorded by professional actors/voiceover artists from around the world. We hope you enjoy reading and listening to the stories and finding out about Joanna’s varied brooch collection.

DONATE

Tweetings

  • Right excited just booked my #COVID19Vaccine for tomorrow. I have never been so excited about having an injection https://t.co/5ECw5mX3gn, 2 hours ago
  • RT @eveeeeeeey: A final hope of trying to locate my darling precious rescue kitten Daisy (7-9 months old) who went missing from our home in Stretton, Warrington, UK. Please retweet if you can. She is so dearly missed. Last seen Saturday 13/02. Thank you. @PetsLocated https://t.co/EnE3zkQvuO, Feb 19
  • RT @BDAdyslexia: Dyslexia is likely to be a combination of both abilities and difficulties. Many people with dyslexia show strengths in areas like reasoning and in visual or creative fields. #DyslexicStrengths #Dyslexia https://t.co/e9wqaMsZeo, Feb 17
Follow The Casket on Twitter

Podcasts

Prefer to listen? - from the beginning The Casket of Fictional Delights has specialised in producing high quality podcasts of short stories and flash fiction compilations. The podcasts are recorded by actors and voiceover artists and produced by a professional studio manager ensuring we maintain a consistent high standard. I’ve chosen three to highlight the variety and quality of work we have to offer - visit our Podcast page for more. I hope you enjoy listening to them.

Casket podcast highlights

Listen!

  • Apple Podcasts
  • Android Podcasts
  • Spotify
  • Stitcher
  • Tunein

Sign up for our Newsletter

The Casket of Fictional Delights newsletter delivers the latest story or brooch of the month fresh off the press, and keeps you informed about our competitions and other Casket news periodically.

No spam, ever - and we never use your details for anything but sending your newsletter. You can change your mind at any time by clicking the unsubscribe link in the footer of any email you receive from us.

View our Privacy Policy

  • Stories
  • Authors
  • Podcasts
  • Brooches
  • Birth of a collection
  • About The Casket
  • About Joanna
  • Liu Xiaobo
  • Privacy Policy
  • Contact
  • Donate
  • The Casket on Facebook
  • The Casket on Twitter
  • The Casket on Pinterest

Text & stories © Joanna Sterling 2021
Stories © various authors
Audio by Menna Bonsels
Brooch photography by Mark Colliton
Other photography by Rosie Marks
Maintained by Brighton WebTech