"Morning Jack," Skinner carolled as he strode into the bar. Jack merely grunted, and scowled at the white-faced form.
"Whadaya want, Skinner?" he said, practically spitting out the words.
Skinner raised his eyebrows. "Why Jack, that's no way to treat a customer!" he said in a hurt voice.
"Pah," snarled the burly bartender. "Customers pay. You don't. Now get out."
"Ah," said Skinner. "But I have money." He reached into a pocket of the coat and pulled out three coins and waved them at Jack, who just glared.
"Yeah, you have money, but how much of it are you gonna give me, eh? Nothing! I know your tricks, Skinner. Either I get nothing at all, or something more valuable goes missing. Get out!"
Skinner leaned on the counter and tried to look innocent. "How do you know I haven't changed, mate? I could be all respectable now." Inwardly, he cackled at the thought.
Jack leant over, pushing his face right up against Skinner's. "For the last time, you stinking turncoat, get out of my bar!"
Skinner backed away, hands raised. "Okay, okay, you only had to ask. I'm going." He turned and walked out of the bar, waving cheekily at Jack as he went.
Once outside he chuckled, and checked the inside pocket of his coat. Yep, the Scotch was still there, nicked from Jack's counter as he leant on it. Stupid blighter never learned. Now, what else did Pete want? Ah, that's right, milk and bread.
He strolled down the street, whistling a little tune as he went. No one would have guessed he was invisible. They would have thought he was strange, but not invisible. He and Pete had perfected his day-wear, so that he almost looked like a regular Londoner. The coat, buttoned up, covered his body, and the coat's collar was turned up to hide his neck and par of his head. The white greasepaint plastered his face, and black glasses hid the absence of his eyes. A hat covered the top of his head. A pair of tall boots hid his legs up to his knees, where the coat took over. Gloves hid his hands. Perfect.
But there were several people who did know he was invisible, no matter how well he hid. They had orders to catch him. And they planned to obey those orders to the letter.
Skinner ducked into an alleyway to prepare himself for his next theft. He slipped the hat, gloves and glasses off, stepped out of his boots and wiped off the greasepaint. He was about to unbutton the coat, when someone tackled him
Skinner hit the ground hard, the air in his lungs crushed out. He rolled onto his knees, completely winded. The person who had tackled him lunged again. Skinner threw himself out of the way, scrabbling backwards. He heard glass crunch behind him, and rolled to the side, just in time to avoid the second man.
What was going on? He clambered to his feet, eyeing the two men in front of him warily. The stared back. It would have made an odd sight. Two toughs facing off against a floating coat.
Skinner knew he couldn't get out of the coat and go invisible in time. It was buttoned up too well. Damn buttons. He'd have to fight this one out.
He charged forwards, ramming the very same man who'd tackled him. Skinner took the guy by surprise, and slammed him to the ground. He tried to run, but the second bloke grabbed his arm. He threw himself into the man, sending them both hurtling to the floor.
Skinner climbed to his feet yet again. This was getting annoying. The two thugs were still getting to their feet. Because Skinner was lighter and leaner, he'd been able to extricate himself from the tangle quicker. He backed away, planning to make a break for it.
Skinner never saw the third man. All he felt was something crash into the back of his head, sending him instantly into darkness.