Find enclosed part five of the novel I wrote for twitter.
Okay, I’m staying up in the middle of the night so I can tweet Mervyn breaking into a house in real time. This is when I went a bit mental.
Okay, I’m ready.
Got fresh batteries for my torch, and I’ve made sandwiches. What time does it get dark these days?
I think the most dangerous part of this expedition is relying on London public transport on a Sunday.
I’d better check National Rail Enquires to see if I can get there, first.
Hell’s bells, the Metropolitan and the Hammersmith lines are completely all right today. A miracle! The Gods are smiling on me tonight.
Okay, the tubes are fine, sunset’s at 19.40, and I’ve even checked Mary Guffin’s facebook page to see if she’s still at the convention.
God knows how burglars managed before the internet…
Looking at her facebook page, Mary is quite a strikingly attractive woman.
She’s got a lot of scary goth accessories; streaks in her hair, nose rings, black fingernails – but it doesn’t quite disguise how beautiful she is.
She and Alistair make – made – an odd couple.
@BadWolfLil: @mervynstone you got a walkie talkie?
@BadWolfLil Why should I have a walkie talkie? I’ve got no-one to talk to! Apart from twitter followers, of course.
Balaclava! I might need a balaclava!
I haven’t got a balaclava.
I’ve got a ski hat and goggles. I could wear them.
If I’m stopped, I could pretend I’m a Scandinavian tourist.
I thought about climbing over my garden wall a few times, just to get some practice, but I think that might look suspicious.
So I went to the kid’s soft play area at the bottom of my street.
Strictly speaking, you’re not allowed to play in it if you’re an adult.
But if you look harassed, and shout ‘Dominic, we’re going home now!’ every few minutes, they let you clamber around inside for hours.
Well it’s 7.40 and it’s still light outside. That’s the last time I believe the internet.
I’m setting off anyway. TFL says it’ll take about an hour and twenty minutes. I’d better take a book.
I’m here. Just a short walk from the tube, and I’m outside Alistair’s place.
I’ve decided to forego the ski hat. I’m just turning my collar up. Nothing suspicious about that.
Oh. Okay. Now I feel a bit of a nana.
Sorry about that. It was an automatic light. I though I’d been discovered before I’d even started to ‘case the joint’…
As we house breakers say.
My lightning reflexes kicked in, and I slammed myself against a wall. I’ve got stuff all over my jacket.
Corduroy and masonry dust are deadly enemies. I hope I can brush it out.
So I’m facing his flat, trying not to get impaled by the glare from the streetlights…
Now I’m looking at it, Alistair’s place is not really a flat, more like a three-story maisonette, if there is such a thing.
With the kitchen, sitting room and master bedroom on the upper floors, and more bedrooms and main bathroom in the ‘basement’.
You have to go down steps to get to the front door, then through the hallway, past bedrooms and bathroom, and then up the stairs to the big room adorned with sic-fi collectables. And from there, there are more stairs leading to the big bedroom, the one with the disturbed drawers.
I wonder why Mr burglar picked this place, of all places?
I’m feeling really conspicuous standing here.
Perhaps I should buy and eat a kebab, or have a drunken wee against a tree or something.
Anything to make it look like I have a good reason for loitering.
I can’t just stand outside this flat looking gormless
Like I’m one of those in-bred property show presenters.
I’ll go round the back.
Okay, there’s a high wall and a locked garden gate. No houses overlooking this part.
Here goes nothing…
This is where my crack training with a dozen of London’s meanest six year olds will come in handy.
Let’s drag a dustbin across to the wall, and use it to bunk over.
Up, up and away!
Note to all prospective burglars: using a dustbin to bunk over a wall may work…
If you live in the 1930s and the bin is made of metal…
But not if you’re in the 21st century, where the bins are all made of some floppy, rubbery, flimsy plastic.
I’m getting out of the bin.
Okay, there must be something I can use…
Who needs dustbins when there’s a handy SmartCar in the vicinity? Just the right size to stand on.
I’m standing in the Garden
There’s nothing much here. No gnomes. There are little stone Orcs instead. They are all pointing at each other, frozen in mid-snarl.
There’s a shed. With ‘Hobbiton’ written above the door. So far, so predictable.
What? Oh that is just ridiculous!
The back door – wide open?
I thought April the first was last Friday.
This is just too good to be true. Or maybe the phrase should be ‘this is just too bad to be true’? Because now I have no excuse, do I?
I said I was going to investigate, and now I find I’m pushing at an open door. Har har.
In I go. Wish me luck…
It’s dark. Of course it’s bloody dark, you idiot. There’s no one here.
Or maybe the burglar’s come back!! Steady Merv…don’t let your bowels fail you now…
There’s that Xena sword hanging on the wall in the sitting room. If I’m quick I can grab it and use it as a weapon.
What are you gibbering about, brain? It’s a sword! It’s already a weapon! You’re going to grab a weapon and use it as a weapon? Duh!
I’ve got the sword. It’s hard to twist with it in my hand so I
There was a voice downstairs.
A man’s voice. It said something about pizza.
I’m hiding behind the sofa.
The man is in the room. He’s shouting about pizza. He’s calling for Mary to come upstairs…
Mary calls back; she’s on her way up. I feel like such an idiot. The man must have popped out for pizza – he didn’t have keys so he left the back door open. He must have bolted the gate and did what I did – climb over the wall.
Mary must have been here all the time – in one of the bedrooms below.
While he’s waiting for Mary to come up, the man is looking around the room. He sees the Klingon head on the wall and pulls the mask off…
He’s putting it on. Now he’s looking for somewhere to hide! Please God! Don’t pick behind the sofa!
He’s gone behind the curtains.
Mary has arrived…
He’s leapt out and grabbed her, and she’s squealing. He’s growling and making noises – I don’t think he speaks Klingon…
Oh no. They’re going to have sex.
Right by my head.
It’s going to be dirty Klingon-on-human sex.
This is going to be a long night.