The Midnight Caller

The police car pulled to a stop outside the house. The sight of a young man climbing through the front bedroom window in the middle of the night, would catch anyone’s attention, never mind an on-duty police officer driving down the street. The officer climbed out of the car, and marched over to the house. He stared up at the man, framed in the orange glow of the streetlight. On an empty midnight street, the figure was the only person around.

‘Excuse me, sir. Could you come down from there?’ The officer called out.

The young man paused, half turning, clinging to the window frame. He swore, the game was up. With resignation, and ready for trouble, he climbed back down the drainpipe and padded over to the police officer. He was somewhere in his late teens, a mop of reddish hair poking out from under the baseball cap. He glanced up and down the street, debating whether to make a run for it, to make a get-away from the police. 

‘Would you mind telling me just what you think you are doing?’ The officer asked.

Before the young man could speak, the front door of the house opened and a man appeared in the doorway. He was around fifty years old and wore a dressing gown. He peered out into the darkness, still half-asleep, his greying hair sticking up in random directions. He had clearly been woken up by the altercation on his door-step. The police officer was about to explain that he’d just apprehended the young man attempting to break into his property, and that the police would be dealing with the matter. The last thing the officer wanted was for the man to try and take the law into his own hands. The man glared at the young man, anger on his face. The officer raised a hand in an attempt to calm the guy down. Everything was being taken care of.

‘Billy? What are you doing?’ the man called out to the would-be intruder.

‘You know this gentleman, sir?’ the officer asked.

‘Yes, of course I do. He’s my son. He’s always forgetting his keys. I read him the riot act last time, knocking on the door, waking me up at all hours. I told him, that was the last time. I’ve got work in the morning.’ 

‘So, you were breaking into your own house?’ the officer asked the young man.

‘Well, it was either that, or sleep in the shed.’ The young man shrugged. ‘I knew dad wouldn’t answer the door.’

‘Come on, Billy, get yourself inside, son. We’ll have words in the morning.’ The man said.

The young man shuffled down the path and into the house.

‘I’m sorry about all this. I’ll have a word with him. He’s not a bad lad, really, but he just winds me up.’ The man said.

The police offer waved a hand, goodnight, and headed back to his patrol car.

The man gave the police officer a wave and closed the front door, the young man hovering in the hallway behind him. 

‘Thanks, man, you really saved my skin. And saying I was your son, that was genius.’ The young man said, smiling.

The man locked the door and turned to face him.

‘I don’t know who you are, but you were breaking into the wrong house.’

The smile faded from the young man’s face. That same face would be plastered all over Missing Persons posters in the weeks and months that followed.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom