Half light Two

Half Light

“...And then I came back to the house, and realised that all my stuff was gone,” Jim Walker said.

“Are you sure?” the lawyer said, looking unsympathetically at him. “Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

“Well, yeah,” Jim said. “Why would I make it up? To get money? I’ve had to replace all my furniture because it was all stolen. They even stole the fridge.” He looked nervous inside the courtroom.

“Why would I make this up? For a start, which of my friends would take my stuff? Where would I hide it? My loft’s not big enough...” Suddenly, he looked as though he was about to cry.

“You are aware, no doubt,” the lawyer said. “About the epidemic of false burglary allegations that are sweeping our nation.”

“But I’m not like that. Why would I lie about being burgled? You don’t know how hard it’s been for me – having missed all my favourite TV programmes. Every time we’ve got friends round – a few weeks ago – I had to sit on the floor...we had no food...why would I? Why would I lie about something like that?”

“You were drunk when you came home that night, isn’t that right?”

“Well, no,” Jim said. “I’d had a bit to drink. But I think – I could tell when I got back and I wanted to turn on the television...and it was gone – you know – and then I went to my computer and I – I found out ... I found out that was gone as well – and that was...that was 500 quid and I’ve got to replace it all...I think I could tell! I think I could tell if I’d been burgled or not!”

“You were drunk, weren’t you?” the lawyer said. Across the room, a man dressed in a hoodie and cheap trainers smirked at him. His crack pipe was hidden under his clothes.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Jim said. “I mean – you know how it is – had a bit of a night on the tiles. But I came back to find everything missing – my laptop, my PC, my sofa – everything...and I was always so careful – I closed the curtains, I double locked the front door – I didn’t...”

“Of course,” the lawyer said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been “burgled,” is it?” She opened a large file. “In February of 2004. You reported another so-called “burglary” to the police.”

“Well, yeah,” Jim said. “But I – I was burgled then as well. You know. He – they – you can go back – you can see – they completely ... they completely ransacked the place! And my housemate was burgled as well – you can ask her, if you don’t believe me...”

“The trouble is, Jim,” the lawyer said. “You and your housemate both have a history of lending valuable items to friends. In March of this year, you lent five quid to another flatmate. And, shortly before this so-called “burglary”, you simply gave away a few unwanted CDs; you sold them on a car boot sale.”

“Look – they were CDs – and I didn’t want them any more! I didn’t want to be burgled! You’ve got to believe – I didn’t want it...I didn’t want it...”

Across the room, the crack-smoking teenager started laughing, but was glared into silence by the policewoman standing by him.

“On another occasion,” the lawyer continued. “You were in a pub. You stumbled out, so drunk you could barely stand up. Upon going to the taxi, you realised you had left your wallet in the pub. When you couldn’t find it – you immediately assumed it had been stolen. Would it be fair to say this is what happened in this so-called burglary, Jim? You came home, pissed out of your mind, realised the furniture was in a slightly different place, and seizing the chance to make some money out of a fraudulent insurance claim, you immediately rang the police...”

Jim stood there, looking progressively more shocked and upset.

“This young man,” the lawyer said, indicating the teenager who was now staring into space, nonchalantly holding a teaspoon. “This young man has his whole life ahead of him. He is a promising student. He has just accepted a place at Croydon University, studying Fine Art Appreciation. Your accusations of burglary are going to ruin his life.”

“But I’m telling the truth,” Jim said. “The week after – after it happened. I was walking in my local high street. And I saw a shop – a dodgy cash converter type shop ... and it had – it had my television in it...”

“How do you know it was your television? I am sure there are lots of televisions just like yours. What made you so sure this one was yours – unless you took it to the shop and sold it yourself?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! OK? I just know when I got back my television was gone and then I went to the shop and saw it there! Don’t ask me why or how I know, I know it was mine! I – I went in there and my fridge was there too! And I went in there and said, oi, mate, that’s my TV! I was burgled last week! And they didn’t believe me...they didn’t...”

“Perhaps they didn’t believe you, because you were making it up,” the lawyer said. “I mean, these days, a man can’t get very far without being accused of burglary.” She looked sympathetically at the teenager, who was now getting some foil out of his pocket.

“It had – it had a crack in the casin’,” Jim said. “That’s how I recognised it. That’s how I knew – I knew it was mine...”

“The problem we have,” the lawyer said. “First you said you didn’t know how you recognised it. You don’t pay much attention to the state of your television, obviously. On the night in question, it was left on. Whereas more responsible citizens would close their curtains before they went out, you left them open, which may have acted as a great source of temptation. This is assuming you’re not lying.”

“This young man has a medical condition,” she said. “He is addicted to crack cocaine. It impairs his judgement, and he was an easy target because has a tendency to act before thinking. To look at him, would you think he is capable of committing such a crime?”

The answer, of course, was “no”.

A few weeks later

“It’s a disgrace,” said a man reading the paper, sitting on the steps of the local church, a bag of white powder on his lap. In his other hand was a syringe. The title of the paper was “Man acquitted of burgling house”.

“It’s a conspiracy against crackheads, this “burglary” nonsense.”

His friend Bradley nodded sagely. “I know, Bo,” he said. “I mean, if they leave windows open, what do they expect? And do you know what?”

“Yeah?”

“You know, when one of your mates is in a tight spot; they haven’t got any more money for heroin or anything. You lend them money, don’t you? And that’s a good thing. It makes a bond.” Boletus nodded, as he pulled down his sock and prepared to inject himself.

“So, I don’t see how burglary’s any different.”

“Nor do I. Something like rape,” Boletus said. “Now, that’s a real crime. Or murder. But the police waste their time with all this burglary nonsense and meanwhile...”

“I agree,” Bradley said. “I’d far rather be burgled than raped, or attacked in the street or something so I went into a coma.” He laughed. “It’s ridiculous.”

“First it’s burglary, now it’s credit card fraud,” Boletus said. “What’s the problem with that, then? It’s not like they notice anything until it’s gone. I know someone who was done for lifting three grand out of his wife’s account. That’s bloody ridiculous, that is. She must have wanted him to have it, otherwise she’d have stopped him.”

“Bloody hell. Poor bloke. The last time I pulled a knife on someone at a cashpoint – they were at a cashpoint? What did they expect? They agreed straight away to give me the money. And, you know, it’s not like they tried to stop me or anything. It’s not like I was actually violent.”

Boletus Jefferson, folded his paper up and opened the bag of powder. He emptied some of it onto the pavement and then rolled up the paper and took a big sniff. It would keep him going until he found more crack, and from here he could watch the crowds. One middle-aged man had his mobile phone peeking out of his pocket. Boletus felt a surge of anger. The man was asking for it. Did he not realise what it was like to spend a week without a mobile phone? The last phone Boletus had had, he had sold. He was beginning to have a craving for heroin as well; it had been a while since he had last “chased the dragon”. I had only managed to get around £15 for that thing, he thought miserably.

“Oh, God. Look at him.”

“In the good old days, they’d have left their phones at home if they knew what was good for them.”

Boletus watched as his friend, Bradley, put his pipe away. He spread out the newspaper again and threw it on the ground, wondering momentarily whether to throw up all over it.

The two men walked down the street, in search for open windows. It had been a rather good day yesterday. They had made off with a box set of DVDs, an expensive folding armchair, and a plasma-screen television, and flogged them in a pub. Of course, no court would convict them, because everyone knew how common false allegations of burglary were.

Sometimes, Boletus felt slightly guilty about what he was doing. But, nah. It was OK. Why should I feel guilty, he thought. It wasn’t his problem people were stupid enough to leave their windows and doors open, and tempt him with valuable electrical goods. The latest thing had been ridiculous. What a fucking lunatic. He had been watching television with his next door neighbour. It wasn’t as though his neighbour didn’t regularly invite him round to watch television. So what made this time any different?

And all those adverts you saw on the television about how to keep your valuables safe. Just keep your windows and door shut, for fuck’s sake.

He’d gone off into the kitchen to make himself and his neighbour a cup of tea. What a lazy bastard his neighbour was, Boletus thought disgustedly. Just waiting for someone like him. How easy that had been. He poured his “special sweetener” into the tea and the neighbour fell asleep. Like a dream. He’d left the neighbour’s house with an MP3 player, an IPod, and about twenty DVDs. I didn’t hurt him, Boletus had thought. So, he can’t really complain.

He had got a call on his landline a few hours later. “You fucking crackhead bastard,” his neighbour had yelled. “You stole my mp3 player and my DVD collection. Do you know how much money that cost me? You’re fucking scum – I’m going to tell the police!”

Fortunately he’d sorted it out; one of the local police officers owned the local crack den. They saw eye to eye on these matters. “Just be a good lad,” the policeman had said, winking at him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Still, not all of them were like that. These days, you had to be careful. The last thing Boletus wanted was to appear in court charged with burglary. You could destroy a man that way. He might never be able to smoke crack again.

But he was clever. He knew never to leave fingerprints on any of the goods; that was how they got you.

“This one?” Bradley said, stopping outside a small bungalow.

“Yeah,” Boletus said, trying to stop himself drooling at the thought of the goods inside. The curtains were tightly drawn. Whover owned this house wanted to give off the impression that the appliances inside were not for sale. It was just a big con, really. They loved it. As soon as they were gone, they’d be on the phone to the insurance company with details of what they’d lost, and all their friends, and have a cup of tea and loads of attention. People like that, they always said no and accused you of robbing them and invading their privacy, when in reality they were gagging for it. They were desperate to get rid of whatever crap was cluttering up their home.

“Wow, nice one, mate,” Boletus said as they left later, admiring Bradley’s crowbar. “Got to go back later and do the shed. It’ll be fine. If they try to make a fuss the police will never believe them. “

“What I don’t understand,” Bradley said. “You know how homeowners always complain about how they’ve got nowhere to put everything? Like everything’s too cluttered and they can’t tidy it all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’re actually doing them a favour,” Bradley said. “Think of all their nice spacious rooms. And all the nice new phones they get given. That last one we just did – I wonder when the last time was that they had a good clean out? Place was filthy.” They both laughed. “They love it really.”

“Let’s go to a nightclub or something and then hang around until someone will let us in,” Boletus said. “We’re bound to be able to flog the stuff there.” As they carted the spoils of their visit down the street, no passers-by said anything. One man gave them a dirty look. He doesn’t know what he is missing out on, Boletus thought. What a killjoy.

“Nightclubs are great for going a’thieving,” Bradley said. “All those pissed up people – nobody takes any care...in and out of the pocket, they never remember it the next day...”

Boletus Jefferson stood on the opposite side of the street to the nightclub, watching as people walked past. He almost had to physically restrain himself as he saw a rather ugly-looking fellow carrying a briefcase. He couldn’t do it here, not while the bouncer was around, but his withdrawal symptoms were starting to kick in. He felt nauseous and agitated. Someone looked at him nervously as he began to twitch. That bastard, he thought. They’re out to get me. They’re all out to get me.

“Excuse me,” he said to a young woman walking by. “Do you want to buy a new mobile phone?”

“I’m OK thanks,” said the woman, grabbing her bag and holding it close to her. It infuriated him how people would do that. It was because of all the hysteria about burglary.

“How about a DVD player?” he yelled.

“No,” the young woman gasped, and started running.

“Come on,” he yelled, running after her, while Bradley sat at the bus stop with a rolled-up five pound note. “Come on. You know you want it! You know you want to buy something!”

“No! I don’t want to buy anything!” the woman screamed, as he caught up with her and dug his hand into her purse. “I’ve got a phone! I’ve got a DVD player! I don’t need anything more! Get out of my purse – that’s my money!”

“Oh, you love it really,” Boletus said, handing her the mp3 player, as he inspected the woman’s purse; a hundred quid, and her credit cards. “There you go. A brand new mp3 player. You’ll enjoy that. All those songs you can listen to on there.” He looked at her, as she stared at him, furious and upset. She couldn’t speak.

“You know, if you ask me, darling,” he said, pocketing the hundred quid. “You should put your money into a safe. Then crackheads like me can’t find it. I could help you find a safe right now if you wanted.”

“No,” the woman yelled. “Go away!” She dropped the mp3 player on the ground and sprinted down the street. As he was watching her, a police van drove past. He looked away; it was just as well they hadn’t seen him. The pain inside his stomach was getting unbearable now. If any bastard looked at him funny again he’d have to sort them out. He would have to go and find a dealer.

“Thank you, mate,” he said to the dealer as he was handed a large plastic packet. These prices were a rip off. He’d have to go and get some more; it would take a few days to run out, if that.

“Look,” the dealer said. “You still owe me a hundred quid. You’ve given me a hundred, but I need another hundred by Sunday. I’ve got a crack habit of my own to feed, you know.” Boletus nodded. Where was he going to get the money from? He already owed the other dealers £50. It was all right for those fucking homeowners, he thought. They don’t know what it’s like for a man to be starved of crack, not even having the money to pay his dealers. I’d make one of those false accusations of burglary, he thought. I’d be rolling in it then. Maybe he could do it anyway, for a laugh, he thought, as he walked towards a public toilet. He was desperate.

Funny how you started small, Boletus thought, as he took out some aluminium foil and the teaspoon he always kept with him. That teaspoon was a man’s best friend.

Boletus had started small. It had started, in the days when he still had a job in an office, stealing pencils from work. Borrowing them, rather. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. Everyone did it. It was like teasing, really. He had lost his job when one day an entire collection of pens disappeared from the boss’s desk. If the boss hadn’t wanted him to have them, surely he would have put them in the drawer and not tempted him with them constantly by taking them out all the time?

From then on, his whole life was governed by one uncontrollable, irresistible urge. The urge to buy crack cocaine. A man had needs. Needs that had to be fulfilled, one way or another. He had tried to hold the urge off for a while, but it kept coming back. He had graduated from borrowing pens to entering people’s sheds, garages and homes. He had become steadily more skilled at covering his tracks, but there was always room for a bit of complacency. You didn’t have to let the bastards win, with their politically correct garbage ruling everyone’s lives.

By the end of the night, they had sold everything. It was still not enough to make up the two hundred quid he owed to his dealers. It was more like a hundred and seventeen quid. Life was good when you had plenty of money for crack. If not, it was terrible. A living hell. People were less willing to pay good money for a TV they brought from the “crack converter”, no matter how new it was, than one they bought from a shop. Why did they have to be so snobbish? Were they too good for him or something?

Boletus’s eyes dilated as he inhaled deeply. Of course, that would make another 15 quid to add to the 83 quid, but the dealer would never tell him that. It was all a conspiracy. A conspiracy to keep crackheads down. As he stumbled towards the stairwell of the hostel where he was currently staying with Bradley, someone stepped out from the shadows into the half light.

“Oi,” a guy, far younger than him, said. “Give me what you got. Or I’ll shank you.” You look familiar, Boletus thought.

“I think you ought to give him the money,” Bradley said. “Hey, mate. I know you – Aren’t you that guy who got off on a burglary charge recently? I saw you. You were in the paper.”

“Yeah, man,” the teenager said. “That guy didn’t have a chance. No court woulda convicted me. He was proper asking for it. With being drunk and all. Weren’t the first time that happened, either. He’s bein’ charged for wasting police time. Trying to get out of it by sayin’ he got False Burglary Syndrome.”

“Good on you,” Boletus said. “These homeowners – they’ve got to be put in their place.” He began to tell the story of his next-door neighbour.

“You know man. You fucking pussy, man. I wouldn’t take that shit, he wouldn’t let me watch his television. It’s my right. I sold my television for crack, gotta see Coronation Street, somehow, man. I’d fucking deck him one.” He laughed. “So, yeah. Where’s my money, man?”

“Look – all my money – that’s all for crack,” Boletus said. “You can’t have that. I’ve gotta pay my dealers. I owe them two hundred quid.”

“Two hundred quid,” the teenager laughed. “That’s nothing, man. Get a plasma TV or two or you’re sorted.” He waved the knife in Boletus’s face. “Come on, man. Fuck’s sake. Cough up. Come on, you’re gaggin’ for it really. Might even buy you some crack. As a present.”