I felt guilt wash over me in waves as I walked away from the place. I had a cold certainty that the arm of the law would descend on me within seconds, twenty riot vans skidding to a halt before I reached the first corner, dragging me off to some Dickensian jail cell for the combined offences of being a thief and being penniless.

Not penniless, I thought. I still had the one from my change. As I walked by a charity shop, an elderly man with a shock of white hair stepped in front of me, “Help the homeless,” he said, holding a collection tin out towards me.

I shrugged, digging out the penny and dropping it into his tin. He smiled and nodded. “Thanks, love.”

I didn’t tell him I would probably be one of the homeless who needed help by the end of the month. Or that I’d given him my last penny in the world. What was the point?

The house.

It was scary to think about losing the house. But I couldn’t see any way out of the predicament. I would just have to go home and break the news to them that it was all over. The bank had won. The arrears were just too much. The repossession was going ahead. I didn’t have a good enough credit rating to get any kind of help, no one would lend me more than a couple of hundred. We were ruined.

I couldn’t help but think that it was all my fault. If only I’d worked harder at school, found a better job, done what the woman in the bar had clearly been doing, grease my way up to a sugar daddy, then it might have been all right.

What if he had money in the wallet? I could use that. It was a dark thought and I didn’t like it. He was rich, there might be a wad of banknotes in there. He’d not miss them. I could use them to help my family.

I shook my head, continuing on my way, the guilt pressing down on me. I was penniless but I wasn’t a criminal.

Yes I was. I had stolen a wallet. I was a thief. What if they had CCTV in there? What if they’d filmed me? It wouldn’t be hard to track me down. A man like that, he’d probably have the most expensive lawyers in the country, just waiting to walk all over me, send me away for the rest of my life.

What was I doing?

I stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. This was a mistake. I was an idiot. I hadn’t made his life harder. He would laugh about it. I’d made my life harder, an impressive feat given everything that had happened recently.

I looked around me. Was he watching right now? Had he seen me take it? I was stupid to even think I could get away with this.

Spinning on my heels, I headed back to the pub. I thought I could feel someone behind me, following me, but when I turned round there was no one there but shoppers, none of them giving me as much as a second look.

I reached the charity shop. The old man with his collection tin took one look at me and then looked away. I guessed he could tell I had nothing left to give.

I carried on, again feeling sure there was someone behind me, watching. I resisted glancing back for a few seconds before spinning on the spot. Still no one. I was clearly getting paranoid, expecting the police to descend on me at any moment.

I made it back to the pub, stopping outside and taking a deep breath for a second to gather my thoughts. I’d just go in, hand it over, tell them I’d found it. Then I’d walk away and everything would be all right.

Well, not everything. Nothing would have really changed. I’d still have the bank breathing down my neck, I’d still have to be the one to tell Grandma and Granddad that their last days would be spent on the streets, freezing to death, that would still have to happen. But at least I wouldn’t be in prison.

A cold wind picked up, as if to emphasise how hard my life was about to become. I pushed open the door to the pub, stepping back into the warmth.

A quick glance round told me the man hadn’t come back. I approached the bar, feeling his wallet weighing me down, like the chains of a convict. The bartender watched me cross the floor, his eyes narrowing. “Another Merlot?” he asked, his voice cold. I could hear loud and clear what lurked between the words.

You don’t belong here.

He was right. I didn’t belong here. All I was going to do was hand over the wallet and get the hell out of there. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. As I did so, I heard a cough behind me.

A finger tapped me on the shoulder. With a sense of absolute certainty that I was about to be arrested, I slowly turned round, the wallet in my outstretched hand, a spluttering apology already forming on my lips.

But it wasn’t the police. It was him, the man I’d stolen it from.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, taking the wallet from my hand, his fingers brushing over my wrist as he did so. I shuddered at his touch. What the hell? Why had I reacted like that?

My mouth fell open but no words came out. He stepped round me and turned to the bartender. “Two glasses of the 2009 Château Margaux.”

The bartender nodded as the man turned back to me. “You like red.”

It was a statement, not a question. I tried to reply but I still couldn’t get any words out. A smile flickered across his lips as he opened his wallet and slipped out three twenty pound notes. “Here,” he said, holding them out towards me. “A reward.”

I managed a half frown, saying in a bare croak,” What for?” as I tried to shake the feeling this was a terrible distraction while he waited for the police to arrive.

“For finding my wallet,” he said, pressing the notes into my hand, folding my fingers over them, his hand lingering over mine for the briefest of seconds. “I think you’ll like the 2009, a good year for Margaux.”

He slid one glass towards me before taking the other and lifting it into the air. “To good wine and good Samaritans.”