I’ve never hurt anyone physically. I don’t have the upper-body strength, for one thing. Again, it’s just not me.
I’m not doing this to make a point. I’m not Robin Hood, I’m not a rebel against the state, I’m just doing what anyone in my (unique) position and with my (unique) skills would do.
With that said … screw it. I may as well write what I think, it’s not like they can jail me again. There are so many thousands of beautiful homes around the country, completely unoccupied, and there are so manymillionsof young people who are never going to get themselves anywhere nice, or anywhere near their friends and families, or anywhere better than a mouldy rented two-room they have to spend half their wages on, paying someone else’s mortgage … so in that sense, yeah. I’m doing it to make a point.
And that’s me. I’m Al. Obviously that’s not my real name, but I’d be a bit disappointed if you thought I was stupid enough to let that slip. In fact, given what I’ve told you about myself, Al is the one name you can rule out.
Any questions?
How did you get into this?I’d prefer not to say.
Don’t you have a proper job?I certainly do. Or at least, I do at this point in the story, although it only lasts another week because of the huge bucket of trouble about to fall on me as I walk into my next place.
Why don’t you just get a place of your own?Can’t affordone. Not to buy, certainly. And once I worked that out some years ago, I reasoned that I had two options: I could spend half my time working to hire a matchbox, saving jack-all, while dealing with some of the worst criminal scum on the planet (lettings agents), or I could take up a new mode of life, stay in some of the country’s most beautiful homes, and develop a niche set of skills into the bargain. It’s no choice at all.
Any further questions? No? Good. Anyway, it’s helpful to remind myself the job is fun, because once I’ve retrieved my bag and got clear of Casa Lethbridge, it’s still about twenty minutes before my heart rate returns to normal. Things don’t often get that close. I do a fair bit of blagging, but normally with neighbours, staff, that kind of thing. It’s rare to come into contact with the actual homeowner.
I get off the bus in the centre of town around 3 p.m., a couple of hours after leaving Mr Lethbridge to tidy his coasters. I spend a bit of the afternoon in a café, sorting some work emails and rigging up a few jobs (proper jobs, not interloping jobs), and then look at the time. At this time of year – this all happened in April – if I’m going to get to my lodgings in daylight, I’d better hurry.
I’m heading for the one place which has never let me down in the past: good old 17 Balfour Villas. Named for the former PM – haunting to think that one day people might actually live somewhere called Truss Crescent and not even find it funny – it’s a beautiful road, even if the stucco’s gone a bit soft since the unveiling.
Imagine a row of art deco mansions, looking like ocean liners with their lovely lines and curves. This isn’t the famous north London Millionaire’s Row of crumbling mega-money mansions, although I do have an occasional bolthole at one end there. Balfour is about half a mile from its famous cousin, but it’s much more discreet. Walk halfway along, under the ubiquitous plane trees, and turn left at the tattiest of the lot. That’s number 17.
The front garden’s a state, and the place is largely unfurnished, barring a few slight improvements I’ve made. It’s been in a probate deep-freeze for years now, surrounded by legal undergrowth – I spotted it in a court report once and worried the press coverage might untangle the thickets and destroy my safe haven. Fortunately, the coverage did absolutely no good and the place remains my private fiefdom.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not just live here, Al, if it’s perfect and empty? Why not improve this place, do it up, at least until someone finds you and kicks you out?
I wish I knew.
It’s sunset as I approach, and although the clouds are promenading before a beautiful tangerine backdrop, somehow the lovely evening only makes me even glummer. My twisted ankle feels the size of a grapefruit. If I’d been cleverer a few hours ago, I’d still be in Mr L’s mini-mansion. I could have got onto the golf course at the end of the garden. I’ve always wanted to try golf.
Really, I’m annoyed with myself. I was sodumbback there. How could I have failed to notice the stupid passport on thetable during the initial sweep? Have I just got too confident? Or – more troubling thought – am I losing it?
I don’t like to admit it, but things have been getting harder for the last couple of years. It’s not just the doorbell cameras everywhere, although if I’m honest it’s mostly the bloody doorbell cameras. What sort of joyless people need a feed of their front door? What happened to taking a chance, seeing who turns up, taking the universe as it comes? Ugh. People.
Fortunately, plenty of the places I end up in are – weirdly –toonice for an Amazon Ring. And their existing security arrangements are very circumnavigable from my point of view. But every year more and more places have upgraded. I’ve known some absolutely gorgeous houses, about as hard to get into as a poached egg, only to come back a year later and find out they’re now off-limits, all because of a couple of rubbishy devices knocked out in China for a total value of about three quid. They’re anti-enterprise.
Lately I’m feeling a bit … past it. Which is mad, because I’m young, I’m skilled, and I have a lot of fun. But the feeling remains. The last book I read was an old sci-fi novel about a guy who turns out to be the last human alive in a world of vampires, and realises eventually that in the new world,he’sthe freak. All a bit close to home. (I decided to switch and am now on a much more entertaining biography of Princess Margaret, who as far as I can tell spent her entire life staying in other people’s houses unchallenged. An icon.)
Maybe it’s time to give up. No, Al, don’t think like that. 17 Balfour Villas won’t let me down.
Except that as I walk the cracked flagstones (Rule 29:Approach head-on in case of residents), I spot something I’ve never seen here before. Something horrifying.
There is a shadow moving back and forth in the front room. It’s not a curtain or a door. It’s person-shaped.
This was the last moment I could have avoided the whole mess. If I’d turned round at this point and gone to backup #2, a lovely former coach house in Dulwich whose owner is in a Malaysian prison, I would not now be typing this document in the Information Suite of a medium-security prison with Gertie the IT instructor on my left and the Croydon Tram Flasher on my right. But I had to know. Was the probate knot finally untied? Was today about to go from merely bad to totally unsalvageable?
There are always ways to learn what you need without anyone realising you’re asking for it. I walk up to the door, grabbing the clipboard from my rucksack, and press the (dumb) doorbell.
Footsteps approach, then pause, as if considering whether to let me in. I feel like I’m beingconsidered, in a rather creepy way. Then, at last, a young woman opens the door, and I begin my spiel.
‘Hello there, madam. Are you the property’s owner, Mrs’ – I consult my board again – ‘Olive Hooper?’
‘I am.’
That’s interesting, for two reasons. First, the woman who owns the property isn’t called Olive Hooper, as I know perfectly well. And second, unlike the actual owner, this woman has clearly not been dead for eighteen months.
She’s a few years younger than me, with dark brown eyes, and dark brown hair too, nearly down to her shoulders. She keeps looping it behind her ear as we talk, as if it’s in her way. She’s not unattractive – more on that later – but there’s something slightly off-centre about her features, and she wears a knowing expression. If I was being bitchy, I’d say she looks sly. Even so, it’s an easy face to like.
