Someone Else's Conflict Read Free

stopped in his tracks. A translucence tinged the air at the edge of his vision. He fought the feeling down. The youth seemed to hesitate for an instant, watching him, before he turned and moved quickly off through the market. He soon disappeared from view among the shoppers.
    Jay collected himself and walked over to the sandalwood-scented stall.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ he said to the woman who was quite obviously the owner now he came to look, ‘That lad in the leather jacket who was here just now. Do you know him?’
    â€˜Sorry, never seen him before.’ She smiled. ‘You’re the street entertainer, right? I really enjoyed listening, between customers.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ he smiled back. ‘I think I’ll be here again before too long.’
    He left more abruptly than he’d intended, unable to resist heading in the direction the youth had taken. He knew he’d already lost track of him and told himself his story-heightened senses had overplayed the resemblance anyway. Normality began to settle around him. After scanning the streets for a few moments, he shrugged it off as uncanny but impossible and went in search of a newsagent’s to buy some pipe tobacco. A snatch of overheard conversation in the shop confirmed that storms were on the way, borne out by the gathering clouds, so his next move would be to find somewhere to spend the night before the rain arrived.
    Marilyn sat down on the bench the busker had vacated and went through her bag again, trying to be systematic about it while not attracting attention. She checked every pocket – jacket, jeans – even though she knew her purse was not in any of them. The Keep calm and… range of mugs and teatowels in the window of a nearby gift shop attracted her attention. Keep calm and kill buskers . She’d been glad she’d stopped to listen, but the magic was soon supplanted by the nagging suggestion that perhaps the guy had an accomplice and did this routinely. At least being unable to find her purse meant she hadn’t thrown him any change; that would have added insult to injury. The clouds that had been gathering all day finally conspired to hide the sun as a fleeting image came to her mind of the teenager standing nearby in the small audience. She clearly remembered his sharp features softened by a dark floppy fringe, with a stud earring just visible. Her annoyance transferred to herself. Why suspect him just because he was a youth? It wasn’t so long since she’d been that age. Or was it the hint of a foreign accent in his ‘Excuse me’, as a boisterous child had jostled him against her? He’d been friendly enough to apologise, and returned her accepting smile with one of his own. It was obvious he’d been as entranced as she was by the performance, not some thief alert for a mark. No, just because she felt a residual resentment at having to spend the morning in the spare workshop at Matt’s craft centre, with no inkling of when her own place would be ready, didn’t mean she had to go pointing the finger indiscriminately.
    It wasn’t as if she had anything too important in the purse – just enough cash, a few receipts and only one card, which she’d phone and cancel as soon as she was certain. What really riled her was the inconvenience and blush-inducing embarrassment of it – Mike the greengrocer’s patronising show of understanding as he offered to keep the bag of goods behind the stall until she, the scatty woman, sorted herself out. And the fact that if she did want to claim them she’d either have to go back and borrow from Matt, or waste the good part of an hour, and half a gallon of petrol, going home and back. The first was unbearable and the second impossible – she had an appointment at four with a new outlet for her pottery, and reporting the theft was a priority for the little time she had left.
    She was fortunate to catch an officer in at