Neighbours by Chloe McCormack

“How long has he been up there?”

The neighbour shook his head. The man had been there last night when he was taking the bins out. It had been a clear night and he’d assumed the man was stargazing, telescope out of sight.

Dangerous, he’d thought. There were patches of exposed felt on the roof where the tiles had slipped off with age, falling out like baby teeth.

“Do you know him?”

The neighbour shook his head again. He’d seen the man move in several years ago. A moving van unloaded unremarkable furniture. A few boxes. But they’d never spoken.

Now the man was balanced precipitously on the edge on the roof, clutching his head in his hands, as if in despair. A crowd had gathered. People yelled from the street. He remained frozen, seemingly deaf to their impeachments.

A megaphone was produced and a pleading voice was projected.

“It’s not worth it!”

An ice cooler filled with small cans of beer and fizzy drinks was handed round. There was a convivial atmosphere, neighbours back slapping and catching up. Even the usually secretive Agnes at no. 94 pulled back her curtains to get a good view.

A window cleaner with the requisite ladders approached the house. He clambered up to cheers.

Holding out a hand as he inched towards the immobile man.

“C’mon mate,”

A few steps closer. He scrambled up onto the the roof. Then a ferocious crunching like autumn leaves underfoot as the guttering fractured beneath him. He plummeted to the ground with a sickening crack, where he lay amongst the bushes groaning. An ambulance took him away, blood spatters Jackson pollocking the rose bushes.

An hour after the ambulance’s departure, Neighbour no. 2, emboldened by alcohol, decided to scale the ladder. This time he moved them directly beneath the man.

“Be careful!” mouthed Agnes.

Just as Neighbour no. 2 arrived confidently at the top the ladders, in terrible slow motion they slid slowly away from the wall like they were greased. Neighbour no. 2 hit the pavement at an awkward angle. The crowd surrounded him in a clamour. Blood gathered in a puddle and lapped at their feet. The paramedics covered him with a sheet.

The crowd turned on the man.

“Murderer!”

By then it was night and the first torch was a fiery crimson licked with gold, moving like a sprite outlined against the dark.

The brickwork struggled to catch fire of its own accord. The window sills burned easily, but the

brickwork itself remained stubbornly unburnt. The front door smoked and charred promisingly, but the fire never caught. At midnight, disappointed by the smoulders, the crowd gradually dispersed.

Throughout the man remained immobile, face hidden.

At 1am he rose, almost casually Agnes thought, scaling the roof with a spidery ease and clambering through a window open like mouth. She thought she caught a faint laugh.

Chloe McCormack

Image by Hans from Pixabay – tiled roof and guttering