Liar Liar

His front door is blue, but I head around the back as usual.

There are all sorts of lies.

White lies and small lies and lies so epic in scale that it's almost easier to bend reality until they become truths than to come clean.

I specialise in lies.

For all you know, I'm lying right now.

There are usually locks; all the trust seems to be gone. What happened to the good old days when people left their back doors open and kids played in the street? Not that I can remember that personally, but I've been told it was nice. A time before we all curled up alone, afraid of what's waiting in the dark. I'm what's waiting in the dark, and I'm not so bad. Usually.

Anyway, locks or not, I always find a way into the house. Then I just have to choose.

They say that everything comes with a price.

They don't usually mean that literally, and yet here I am.

It's a nice house tonight, I think the art on the walls are originals. Shelves of books too. Some of my favourites, some I think I'll check out. It's a bit of a mess, but I don't want to judge. It's strange to be such an uninvited guest.

I met a guy at a bar once who read peoples' gas meter. He understood. That feeling that feeling of spending ten minutes of your day in the centre of someone's universe. We talked about whether it's okay to snoop, whether we were ever surprised by what we saw. I wonder if he got bored after a while like I did.

I'd like to ask a postman about glancing into people's hallways as they sign for packages but I haven't had the chance to meet one socially yet.

I can't tell you how I know which house I have to go to, or how I get inside, or how I do what I do. I'll let you decide whether that's because I don't know myself or because I just don't want to share. That way, I haven't lied, and if I haven't lied, I won't have anything to pay.

You'd think there'd be more connection between the lie that was told and the thing I take. Sorry about that. I tried for a while, but it gets tiring, trying to work out some grand plan for everything.

Maybe I'd be more motivated if people knew that I was doing it, or noticed the things I took. If I knew people realised what was going on I would probably dedicate more energy to being a force of karmic justice. At the moment though, I strike at random. Mostly.

The bedroom's upstairs. I can always find my way through the house, even in the dark. There are dirty clothes on the floor, and dishes, and books, more books, but I don't put a foot wrong. He's bald, the man I came to see. That's a shame; recently I've been taking hair, and now I have to think of something new. Not that it's a big decision, I usually get a pretty strong gut feeling.

Like now. Three steps, across to the wardrobe. It's a big jumble; suits, jeans, a couple of coats, some stuff he must have outgrown a long time ago but that he's still hanging onto. I run my hand across sleeves until I feel leather, right where I knew it would be.

It's a long coat, black, still stiff and new-smelling. I doubt he's ever worn it. It looks exactly like something you would buy in a fit of confidence that dissolves the second you got home. There's a receipt in the pocket, so he didn't want to return it either. It's in coat limbo.

The one thing I do miss about twinning lies to loss were the occasional chances it gave me to play the hero. When I got someone who'd told a white lie, or a scared lie, or said that they were fine to friend after friend whilst they screamed behind their eyes. Then I got to take something that they wanted gone. A lot of nightmares, over the years, of course. A handful of debts. Once I took a sofa that she'd been trying to get rid of for years, the springs gone, leaking stuffing. When she woke up she assumed her room mate had done it.

For a while after that I made up patterns, or games, anything to distract myself. I took left socks, single matches, memories of June third, the nail polish from thumbs. Repeat customers lost one millimetre from their height until they got close to noticing. Still, it's amazing what you can get away with.

I slide my hand down the coat's front, each button falling between my fingers like ripe fruit, no resistance, till I reach the bottom hem. Eight in total, beetle black, the glossy plastic reflecting the street light outside his bedroom window. I close my fingers over them and they're gone, and I carefully replace the coat. Close the door. Like I've never been there.

He rolls over in his sleep as I leave the room.

I haven't noticed yet. Every time I tell a lie, I try and prepare. Before I go to bed I photograph my flat, photograph myself, I make lists and draw chalk outlines and lay traps. I haven't noticed anything go missing, yet. I think the other guys must be better at their jobs. Subtler than me. Or I'm just unobservant.

I wonder about truths too. Every time I find something I was sure I had lost, or remember something I was sure I had forgotten. I can't help but wonder if I'm being rewarded for telling a particularly thorny truth, but it seems pointless to speculate.

Every time I catch a cold, I tell a lie in the hope I'll lose it.

Shortlisted for the BBC Young Writers' Award 2016