Man On The Roof (Take 2)

A TRUE STORY

Do I dream of footsteps?

It is the unmistakeable sound of tin bending under the weight of a man.

Clunk.

The hour is unfriendly. Streetlight slips through venetian blinds. I lie in bed, next to Brian.

Clunk.

My boyfriend snores like a sleeping dog. Occasionally he twitches.

Clunk.

But who could it be?

Clunk.

The footsteps aren’t determined, they are confused. Like a zombie staggering in the dark, the footsteps descend at odd intervals. It couldn’t be a robber. A robber would take more care.

I elbow Brian, but he does not stir. I climb out of bed and pad across the floor.
In the hallway I cock my ear towards the ceiling.

Clunk.

The sound comes from the kitchen. Our house is an old Victorian. It stretches long and skinny. A single hallway on a small block. There is no space between us and our neighbours. There are few places to run - out the front door, out the back door, or back into bed and under the covers.

I creep slowly into the kitchen. The roof is split level. Separating one ceiling from the other is a linear window. I see a pair of legs standing, then staggering, upon the corrugated iron.

Panic, not reason, propels me to action. I flick the lights on, then off, on, then off, as if to say ‘I see you. Now go away. Go away I tell you!’

The legs stand still. They are petrified.

I run back into the bedroom and rouse my partner from sleep. I shake his feet.
‘Wake up! There is a man on our roof!’

Brian is a warm landscape of blankets.

‘Wha?’

‘There is a man on our roof.’

‘Man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Roof?’

‘Yes.’

Brian fumbles his way from the blankets, then clutches for his tracksuit pants. Without them he is a large man in a pair of blue jocks and a t-shirt, with them he is slightly more imposing. He follows me into the kitchen. I look up. The legs are gone.

Instinct sends us to the back door. We peek through the curtains. The intruder lies spreadeagled on our herb garden. He struggles to raise his body off the ground. He is surrounded by the shards of a broken pot stand and spilled potting mix.

It is cold outside. There is condensation on the glass. It is difficult to make out whether he is hurt.

‘Get the keys! Get the keys!’

I rush to the keeping place, then unlock the door. Brian flicks on the outside lights and blunders into the cold. I shelter behind the protection of his bulky frame.

The intruder staggers to his feet. He wears a grey pinstripe lounge suit and a dark tie.

‘What were you doing on our roof?’

‘Don’t call triple zero!’ he begs us. The smell of alcohol wafts into the air.

‘What were you doing on our roof?’

‘Don’t call triple zero.’ He is handsome, but laddish. His short brown hair is spiked in a fashionable style favoured by footballers and their imitators.

Brian is not angry, but his looming size means that he intimidates without effort.

‘Don’t call triple zero! I pulled the short straw. That’s all.’

‘What were you doing on our roof?’

‘My mates. I pulled the short straw.’ He trembles on his feet. ‘Don’t call triple zero.’

My heart quietens. Fear turn into indignation. I shake my head and hiss ‘idiot’ under my breath. ‘You could have killed yourself!’

He looks about twenty. Just the right age to fall victim to bravado and beer.

We release the intruder through the back gate. He is free to make his mischief elsewhere.

Later, I call the police.

“Did he steal anything?”

“No.”

“Call us back if you find that something is missing.”