Storytime with Houdi – False Alarm Twiggy…

She drives me crazy

Like no one else

It was as if the Fine Young Cannibals were singing this song just for me, from the piped music in the department store I was managing in 1989. The building was situated in a housing estate where unemployment was widespread. This resulted in the store experiencing an inordinate amount of shoplifting. I was promoted from a much smaller store in Newcastle, Co. Down, as the company wanted to stymie the haemorrhaging losses. Houdi, the Young Turk manager, needed to sort it out.

When I got there it was easy to see why they were losing money. The security man at the front door had the motivation of a tortoise with a hangover. This fella was stationary for so long I was going to buy him a Mass card. The staff called him KitKat as he was always going on a tea break. One day in disbelief I watched a couple push a trolley of unpaid groceries past him.

—Are you not going to challenge them?

—Oh, I thought they paid for them.

I went out after the thieves inviting them back into the store. On my way back in he said:

—Boss, do you know the tax disc has expired on your car?

He promised to be more vigilant. Soon after, he caught a young fella stealing a handful of chocolate bars, escorting him to my office. I tried interviewing the young lad but he just stared at the wall leaving me with no option but to call the RUC. Fifteen minutes later, two grey police Land Rovers, accompanied by what appeared to be a battalion of the British Army, landed in the car park. Complete overkill. They took the lad out. Not not via the back door, but the main entrance of the store, in full view of all the customers. After they left I was accosted by an angry group who demanded to know why I called ‘those RUC bastards’ to arrest a child. I was just about able to pacify them but it was a close shave. One irate individual, in particular wanted me lynched.

A strong cup of tea got my nerves settled. On my return to the shop floor I was approached by a Sinn Féin councillor. Although civil, he wanted to know why I called the RUC. I explained that we had a serious theft problem in the store. He sternly advised me:

—We don’t do that here.

—Where are you from anyway?

—Clones, Co. Monaghan—I’m just new here.

 

— Ah look, see those boys are not like the Guards down south.

—They’ll just try to turn that young fella into a tout.

—What am I supposed to do then?

—Find another way.

—We don’t want to see that trash anywhere near here.

He left me standing like a pupil outside the headmaster’s office waiting to be disciplined.

I was given the budget to hire an incognito store detective from a local agency. A week later, at the reception desk, I was introduced to a very slim woman, who was wearing a dress with shoulder pads you could have landed a helicopter on. A hairstyle from the TV series Dynasty kept in place with so much starch it would have kept water out of the Channel Tunnel. If you ran your fingers through it you’d have needed the fire brigade to cut your hand free. With a conspiratorial tone she told me:

—I’m Sharon, I’m with Shield Security.

—I’m your store detective and I’m inconspicuous.

—I’ve caught loads of ‘tiefs’ in the shopping centre up the town.

 

I wasn’t convinced about her inconspicuousness, but maybe if she stood sideways in the aisle, shoplifters might think she was an ornamental plant. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see her but advised that I didn’t want to get tarred and feathered in the car park. Her instructions were to prevent theft as best as possible, while avoiding all conflict. If potential shoplifters dumped the stock I would consider that a catch as that’s how store detectives’ productivity was measured. Soon, Twiggy, as the staff now called her, was firing on all cylinders, catching her tiefs left, right and centre.

However, word soon circulated around the estate about who she was, rendering her more than a bit paranoid about every customer, her confidence dropping faster than her actual catches. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t get me called to the front door to help with an arrest, only for me to observe the putative thief pay for the goods at the checkouts. Pretty soon, colloquial humour kicked in with the staff renaming her, False Alarm Twiggy.

Every single day she told me that someone suspicious was in the store.

—We’re going to get robbed.

—We need to erect iron grilles at the reception desk that contained the safe.

—Why do you not have steel doors en route to the cash office?

By now she had promoted herself from store detective to security consultant. I told my assistant manager Paddy that going forward he had to deal with her on a one-to-one basis, as she was frying my head. The next day, Paddy and I were in the centre of the store, when False Alarm Twiggy scurried down to us.

—There’s two men in the menswear department putting on gloves.

—Yis are going till get robbed.

—Yis are going till get robbed.

—Sharon, people have to try on gloves before they buy them.

 

I chased her out of the aisle. About two minutes later I felt something solid pressed against my left side. A soft but stern voice advised:

—Don’t do anything stupid sir.

I looked at Paddy, his face now candle wax. He was in a similar predicament standing tightly beside a smaller man. A latex-gloved hand issued me with a note written in a style that would have got a child in P5 put in detention:

—Diss is the Professional IRA. We wants all de money. Put in bag.

With nervous energy I joked to him:

—You didn’t spend too long in St Columb’s, did ye?

The comedy ceased when I felt the gun at my throat. Very subtly, they took both of us over to the reception desk. My new friend stayed with me, his gun deep in my left side whilst the other watched Paddy fill the bag with notes. Inexplicably Paddy said:

—Do you want the pound coins as well, boss?

—Yes, we want them.

—But they are heavy?

—Okay, you can carry them for us.

They took us over toward the exit door announcing that one of us was being taken hostage until the coast was clear. Just then, John Brennan, the textiles manager, passed us. Paddy, in a mercenary but clever move, said:

—See that fella there.

—He’s the big boss of the whole place.

—You’d be better employed taking him with you.

To my astonishment, they dropped both of us, taking him with them. Brennan was oblivious to what was happening. After about five minutes an unmarked police car landed in the car park. The officer asked us for descriptions of the robbers. In shock, we were not the most helpful. He wasn’t pleased:

—Right, both of you, jump in the back.

—We will drive around the estate to see if you recognise them.

—Now hold on, we have to work here.

—We can’t be seen to be collaborating with the RUC.

—Would you ever grow a pair and take some responsibility?

In we got into the car but the search was pointless. The robbers had evaporated into the ether. The cops drove us back to the shop with not a word spoken by either, their disappointment tangible. We never told them about Brennan being taken hostage.

Back in the shop we headed to the canteen for some refreshment. John Brennan was already there staring into space as if hypnotised, nursing a strong coffee. The poor man was in an awful state. They had just taken him to the chapel which was adjacent to our car park telling him to wait two hours, but he bolted as soon as they left.

—Why did they take me, boys?

—They must have thought you were the general manager, John.

On the radio the Fine Young Cannibals were reminding me that she drives me crazy, when the door opened. It was False Alarm Twiggy looking like she had won the Pools. She declared:

—I told yis.m

—I told yis.

—Yis was gonna get robbed.

—Yis wouldn’t listen, would yis?

—Oh Lord, why could they not just have taken her?