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I’d just come out of Bute Park and was crossing North Road
when I saw it, a debit card lying in the street, abandoned by its owner,
ignored by passers by, basically left for dead. But I am no Levite, I could not
a let a poor defenceless debit card fall into the hands of thieves and bandits.
So I picked it up, looked at it and put it in the back pocket of my jeans,
wondering what the hell I should do with it.
I supposed I had three options, I could destroy it making
sure no one else could use it, I could hand it in to the police, or I could
take it to the bank from whence it came, but I was late for class so all of
that could wait.
‘Have you heard?’ Katie said as I walked into the classroom.
‘No,’ I replied, I might have heard but she wasn’t given me
much to go on.
‘A second year was murdered last night,’ she said, her voice
almost enjoying the news.
‘Shit!’ I said.
‘Yeah walking home from the pub, he was knifed by a man who
stole is wallet and ran off, terrible isn’t it?’ Again her voice didn’t sound
like it was terrible, it sounded like it was quite exciting, something that only
usually happens on the news was happening here.
‘Shit,’ I said again.
‘David Tammerman, only 19, such a waste.’ She looked down in
respect, mirroring the words and actions of a million friends and relatives
interviewed on TV after a tragic loss.
The name almost burned a hole in my pocket, I could feel it
digging into my backside; David Tammerman was dead and I had his debit card in
my pocket.
Our other class mates drifted in, solemn looks on their
faces and tears in their eyes like they’d lost a best friend not someone they
might have seen in a corridor of the Psychology department .
It’s weird, I should have left class there and then and
found a policeman to hand the card to, but I didn’t. No, I kept the card in the
back pocket of my jeans, a dead man’s debit card, evidence, a potential clue. I
told myself I’d go to the police later, but I didn’t. No, I went home and
cooked my dinner, a dead man’s debit card sitting on my bedside table. I told
myself I would go to the police the next day but I didn’t. No, a dead man’s
debit card in my wallet. I don’t know why I did it, it just felt cool having
something so important in my possession. I was keeping David alive somehow.
Three days I carried that card around with me, three days I ignored police
pleas to come forward with any information, three days I told myself tomorrow
I’d turn it in.
On the fourth day I went for coffee with Kate (who was
wearing black) and miserable Mark, they looked like they had mourning sickness.
‘I’ll pay,’ I said hoping to cheer them up. I got my card
out and tapped it on the contactless machine but as I did another card fell to
the floor. Mark helpfully picked it up but he looked at it.
I could see his brain working, processing, computing, not
wanting to believe but having to.
‘Tony,’ he said eventually, ‘why on earth have you got David
Tammerman debit card in your wallet?’
I felt the eyes of the café turn to stare. My two friends
and the 20 customers looked at me waiting for an answer. But I didn’t have one.
' I could see his brain working, processing, computing, not wanting to believe but having to. '
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