[Content warning: Reference to substance abuse and child neglect]

It was evening and had been dark for several hours. A cold wind was blowing in from the sea and occasional drops fell on the poor souls forced to be out at this hour. Poor souls like James, who was cold and shivering in the oversized coat he had tied shut with a cord around his waist, because the buttons had come off. His feet were bare and dirty. He had a home to return to, but mother was drunk, and father was shouting at her, and it was colder than usual there anyway, since somehow part of their roof had come down, and father had chosen to spend his time being angry and cursing Claude for not being home and cursing some 'tart on the roof', rather than fix it.

He was looking for something to eat though. He had heard one of the new teachers was handing out food to hungry children, but he didn't want the man to make him go to school. He had heard that one constable was nice to kids, so maybe he could stay the night indoors there, but he had been taught not to trust coppers. He had heard the Catholic priest was giving left-overs to street urchins, but he hadn't seen the inside of a church since the day of his christening - if his parents had even bothered to have him baptized, coming to think of it.

So all in all, picking some fool's pocket and buying his own food seemed like a responsible thing to do. There were still many people on Church street, outside the several pubs. Drunk people were always easier. Experienced as he was, James stayed close to the walls, almost invisible, and when he was close enough to a potential victim, he swiftly, but carefully slipped his small hand into the pocket of the man's coat.