Your Mam thought it was endearing to you name you Robin. Granny Mary had always loved the old Robin Hood film with Errol Flynn and the name Robin had lingered in the family as a promise to the next baby, so you became the barer of it. You didn’t really like it, but the idea of an outlaw appealed. You were good at nicking stuff. It was your superpower. 
   So, when it came to Christmas and Mam announced there was no money for presents you thought, right, time for me to do my thing. She was working three jobs just to avoid being on Universal Credit. You were well-read enough to know, she was shamed for being poor and treated like a scumbag by the neoliberalist government. You spent a lot of time listening to the likes of George Monbiot. You were trying to be good, but couldn’t stand to see your Mam upset, so you would have to steal from the rich. You hoped George would understand.
   Your friend Jake said he could help. Though he tended to get caught over the slightest thing, like the time he stole the magazine from Marks & Spencer.
   ‘Robin, you need to brush your teeth.’ Your Mam points up the stairs as you stand defiant, all bed hair, in a dishevelled school uniform.
   ‘I have.’
   ‘Haven’t.’ That was Mark, your younger brother. He was a little git.
   ‘Robin?’
   ‘Mam, I’m doing it.’
   You thump upstairs, making each step dramatic. Then get bored, run up the rest, brush your teeth and run back down to eat toast with dairy free butter. Mark shakes his head and you give him two fingers when Mam isn’t looking.
   ‘Robin, can you walk Mark to school?’
   ‘What?’
   ‘I haven’t got time this morning, please.’
   You roll your eyes but know it’s for your mam, so you’ll do it. Mark looks unhappy about it, but weirdly says nothing. 
   As you say your goodbyes and walk into the cold street, you realise Mark's head is nearly at your shoulder. But he’s still much weedier than you were at eleven. You’re fifteen in two months. You resist taking his backpack, though it looks heavy.
   There’s no usual goading from him. Robin…You are so weird…All that vegan crap etcetera. 
   ‘What’s up with you?’
   He sniffs, and you think, oh crap he’s bubbling. Just say nowt. But you can’t stop yourself. Besides, George Monbiot wouldn’t ignore someone that cried. Even his twat brother.
   ‘Mark?’
   ‘Dad’s not coming back for Christmas. I heard Mam talking on the phone. And he’s not giving her any money. So, we’ll have nowt.’
   Dad was turning out to be a bigger arse than Mark. Mam said he was busy with his job down south, but you knew he had a new girlfriend. It was hard to hate him. He was Dad.
   ‘It’ll be fine.’ You say.
   ‘How?’
   ‘I can nick some things.’ 
   ‘You get caught again and Mam will ring the coppers.’
   You grin and shrug, taking his heavy bag. 
#
There’s a new girl at your school called Ava. She’s pretty in an emo goth kind of way. Hair dyed black, brown eyes, with enough eye makeup and pale foundation to pass for the walking dead. She gets away with it and the teachers don’t bother her because rumour is, she tried to kill herself back in infants. 
   Your mam shakes her head. ‘Don’t be bloody daft. What little bairn knows how to commit suicide?’ 
   ‘YouTube.’ You mutter.
   ‘What?’
   Ava doesn’t seem to notice you, no matter how many times you attempt to talk loudly and politically in her direction. Some days it’s depressing, others, it inspires you to be a better man.
   ‘A better man?’ It’s your brother and he’s laughing, sticking his head around the door of your bedroom. 
   Your friend Jake is here, looking his usual bored self but does break his silence to say, 
   ‘Get lost, Mark.’
    Mark laughs his way down the hall, yelling, ‘Oooooh Ava, I love you.’
   Jake mutters, ‘I thought we were doing something serious. A global environmental thing, not a girl thing…Robin, what are these?’ He’s pointing at a new pile of books you picked up from a charity shop. Okay, so pinched them, not your proudest moment.
   ‘The Art of War, Chicken Soup for the Soul…But you’re a vegan.’
   You shake your head. ‘It’s not about chickens.’
   He drops it, as if it’s contaminated. ‘I’m not reading anything about soup. Robin, why don’t you read more stuff online?’
   ‘Mam says print will die if we stop reading real books.’
   ‘It will frigging die if they keep writing books about soup.’ He moves over towards a bean bag and with an air of drama collapses on it with a deflated psssssssh, as a small spurt of filling comes out one side. 
   ‘I told you not to sit on it, hard.’ 
#
There’s an old woman, Mrs. Dixon, and Mam’s known her for years. She lives two streets and another life away. The big houses are for the rich and nothing like the council estate. Mam checks on her every other day. You think she’s an old cow and has nowt nice to say about anyone. The last two visits Mam has sent you over with food. 
   On night three you say, ‘This is shite, Mam.’
   ‘Don’t swear.’ She’s stressed but means it.
   ‘Sorry Mam.’
   ‘Doris has no one around here. She’s lonely. And I don’t have time to visit tonight.’
   As you wander along the road, dark and threatening despite the gloomy streetlights, there’s no one about. The shop over the road has closed early due to the constant aggro from the mental kids on the estate up the hill. You count yourself apart from them. They’re idiots and shoot air rifles at each other and throw gloss paint over pensioner’s windows. Mark got hassled a few weeks ago when one of the lads started at school. You sorted it, unbeknown to your little brother. And your hand still hurts from smacking the lad in the gob. Mam wasn’t fooled though and said no more fighting, violence solves nothing. You nod at the time, but disagree, he had a big stick and calm words would have done little. Even his Holiness the Dalai Lama would have taken action. 
   When you arrive at Doris’, she lets you in with a grumble. How many visits have you done now, ten, twelve? And never a nice word or kindly granny gesture. She’s frosty, and no doubt will stay that way till she dies. She snaps at you to pour the soup from the Tupperware box into the pan. You heat it, muttering,
   ‘Lazy bag.’
   The TV blares from the living room and assured she won’t hear, you continue to curse under your breath. Later, when you’re dismissed with another grunt, you pause and notice an old photograph on the wall of a beautiful woman, like a film star from those black and white films Mam sometimes watches. This woman appears happy on the arm of smiling man. It can’t be her, can it, Doris? You ask her but she shoves you out. 
   Eyeing the closed front door, you say, 
   ‘Bloody looney.’ 
#
After school, Mark is waiting and instead of slapping him on the head for embarrassing you in front of your footy mates, you walk with him, though secretly hoping he’s not planning another heart to heart.
   He says, ‘I know a lad who nicked some good books.’
   ‘What?’ 
   ‘Says, he’ll sell them for twenty quid.’
   Your mind rallies. It’s better than going to the Metrocentre and trying to pinch something Mam would like from one of the clothing shops. But if you’re gonna gravitate up the ladder of life, taking stolen goods from yet another book shop, just feels…well wrong…and George wouldn’t approve.
   ‘It’s not right. We’re supposed to be better than that.’
   ‘You took those books from Oxfam.’
   With a stab of guilt, you push him and he pushes you back, laughing.
#
Doris is agitated today. She’s looking for something and keeps circling the living room.
   ‘Where is it?’ She grabs your arm and it hurts. But something in her expression makes you sympathetic.
   ‘What have you lost Mrs. Dixon?’
   Her eyes are wet. You’ve never seen her cry.
   ‘If I could find it, they wouldn’t take everything away from me.’
   ‘What?’ You notice she’s holding that photograph.
   ‘Just go home Robin…Go on…and thank your Mam.’ It’s the softest her voice has ever been.
#
The school term is over, but relief is not forthcoming. No more Ava for one thing. Mark comes into the room and brings a cardboard box. Before you can object, he drops it on your bed and tells you it’s those books.
   ‘Where did you get twenty quid to pay for them?’
   ‘I swapped him for a few old PS3 games. Look, there might be something Mam likes.’
   It’s an odd collection. The covers are old.
   ‘Jesus.’ You say.
   ‘What?’
   ‘Look at this. These could be worth something. Howard Pyle, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood.’
   Mark sniggers. ‘It’s you, Robin Hoody. Only you nick stuff from everybody.’
   ‘I don’t. Shut it.’ You search on your phone and Mark forces his head near the screen and says, ‘How much?’
   ‘Fifty quid.’
   ‘Cool.’
   The rest, as you trawl through, turn out to be worthless. But the last book takes a while to locate. Your mouth drops open. 
   ‘That can’t be right.’
   You put down the book and stand up, afraid.
   ‘Bloody hell,’ yells Mark, seeing the estimated value.
#
You realise too quickly where the books have come from when the next night the lad, Matty, turns up again, this time, with a box of antique silver spoons. The lid has a small plaque, engraved with D. Dixon. Turning him away, you go back upstairs and sit down on your bed and tell Mark everything. 
   ‘So, do we have to give it back?’
   ‘No Mark. She’s rich…and an old cow. And no one is looking out for us or Mam.’
   Mark unconvinced, stares at you. ‘But what if we get caught? What will happen to Mam?’
   ‘We won’t get caught.’
#
You decide to tell Jake, but he only laughs and says,
   ‘Don’t be mental, that can’t be worth two hundred grand. It looks like a piece of old crap.’ 
   But that night you dream George Monbiot comes to your room and watches you from the doorway, shaking his head. You wake up sweating.
   Another trip to Doris’s that day and this time you can see a lot of her things are gone. God, is Matty stealing everything? As it turns out later, Doris is moving out. The house will be put up for auction.  She’s short on the mortgage, borrowed against it to pay off her debts. The living room is sparse, there’s only two chairs and a large dining table, the rest of the items are in boxes. She’s standing by the bay window, watching the darkened street.
   ‘Mrs. Dixon?’ She doesn’t answer. It’s then you realise there’s someone else in the house. The clink of a spoon in the kitchen.
   ‘Here, Gran.’
   She comes in and you gape. Ava, in her wonderful dark glory. 
   She nods at you, ‘Robin, do you want a cuppa?’
   She knows your name? You follow her into the kitchen and hand over Mam’s food. Saying little else and listening as she explains the state of things. The house was burgled but they found the idiot that did it. Her gran didn’t want to press charges, not yet. You feel sick. If they trace that box back to Mark. 
   ‘Your Mam is lovely though. Giving Gran food and checking in on her.’
   ‘Mam thought she had no family.’
   ‘We’ve just moved up from Derbyshire. She wouldn’t leave this house and now…well, Dad’s had to intervene…He’ll do anything for Gran.’
   ‘My Dad is a proper git.’
   She raises her dark pencilled eyebrows.
   There’s an awkward silence. She passes you a mug filled with tea. You don’t even like tea. 
   ‘They sell really good vegan sushi in Morrisons.’ She ventures.
   ‘Do they?’ You know they do, you are always bleating for it to be put on the shopping list and Mark is always saying it’s not fair. 
   ‘It’s only two quid, twat face.’ You reply to him.
   ‘I like what you’re into Robin,' continues Ava. 'I thought it was gonna be all boring and crap up here.’
   You smile. 
   She leaves you in the kitchen, saying she has to sort more of her Gran’s things upstairs, and while you wait unsure of whether to go, Doris walks in. She sighs and asks how your mam is doing? 
   ‘Ya Mam didn’t deserve to be cast aside like that…poor lass…and working all those hours. I wish I could have helped her. Could have,’ she pulls out a stool and sits, ‘if I had managed my finances better…’ She trails off.
   You don’t know what to say but mutter, ‘I better be going really.’
   ‘I haven’t been very nice to you, Robin. To anyone really. You see, when my Bill died,’ she holds up the framed photograph, ‘I just hated everything and everyone.’
   ‘Mam likes you.’
   She raises an eyebrow.
   ‘I mean we all do.’
   She makes a hmph sound and says, eyes fixed on you, ‘Today I learned something. I know about the book. Matty’s not a bad lad, just a little slow. And I’ve known his mam for years, so I won’t be pressing charges. I just want it back…I know what it’s worth. I’m not a total idiot. My husband Bill kept it safe for years, only for me to lose the damn thing. I can understand why you and your Mark would want to keep it, who wouldn’t. But Robin, I’m not the rich villain. If you return it, I will reward your family. Your mother deserves so much more from me.’
   ‘Mam’s got nowt to do with it, she doesn’t…’ You stop talking and begin to hotly deny any involvement.
#
When you’re back home, you run upstairs and lock the bedroom door. Mark is staying over at a friend’s and Mam is still at work. You think of Mrs. Dixons’ wrinkled face and the gleam of her penetrating eyes. 
   You lift the copy of William Shakespeare’s, Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. Published as a first edition, second imprint, 1647. 
   George would do the right thing. Sighing, you place every book back in the box. Doris will sometimes wonder if you would have returned the book, it if she hadn’t caught you out. You would have. The guilt is too much. Mam deserves a few quid though for her kindness, and maybe you’ll be nicer to Mark and stop stealing things. And as for George Monbiot, well maybe he won’t turn up in your dreams anymore. Point taken George; point taken.