Page 2

Hauling the flowerpot closer to the door, I pause for a second to listen out for anybody who might be in their back garden nearby. Anybody who might hear the almighty crash that is about to occur. But I can’t hear a thing. Nobody is here. Everybody is at work or inside their home.

It’s all so predictable.

Having always been one to prefer a little unpredictability in my life, I decide to create some chaos, and with all my strength, I launch the flowerpot at the window on the back door.

It smashes through the glass easily, shattering the pane and landing on the other side with a heavy thump. I peer through the broken window to see the broken pieces of the pot on the floor, a large smattering of soil streaking out around it in all directions. The flower itself is also looking worse for wear, although I think that it actually looks better now than it did before.

It’s a total mess, but it’s also a total success.

I can get inside now.

I can do what I came here to do.

And nobody can stop me.

2

The lack of an alarm blaring out after the sudden intrusion is silly but predictable. While the homeowners do have an alarm installed here, they don’t use it. The little white box fixed to the front of the house is more of a deterrent to put off any would-be burglars than an actual safety measure to guard against them. Like most people around here, theft is the last thing they expect, and I noted how the homeowners were careless when it came to activating their alarm. They are so careless that they have never noticed that if they did activate it, there would be a blue light shining underneath the white box outside. But no light means no alarm is on, and if I could figure that out, I’m sure an intruder far more qualified than me could do so too.

But I’m here first.

I climb through the broken window on the back door, having been careful to clear any shards of glass that could cause me potential problems or pain. As my feet land on the kitchen floor, I hear the crunch of glass beneath my shoes before I kick a large piece of the plant pot to the side. Stepping around the shards and the soil as much as I can, I make it onto a part of the kitchen floor that hasn’t been covered in evidence of my entry here. Now I’m closer to all the evidence of breakfast that I saw from outside, and the first thing I do is pick up the almost-empty glass of orange juice. I am thirsty and could do with some quick refreshment before getting on with things, but before the glass touches my lips, I smell it.

There isn’t just orange juice in this glass.

There’s whiskey too.

Putting it back down on the table, I shake my head at the fact that one of the homeowners who got into their car to drive to work this morning was doing so under the influence of alcohol. Not only is that illegal and morally the wrong thing to do, but doing so at this time of day feels so much worse. It’s so early in the day, not late at night when most alcohol lovers would partake in their favourite drink. Getting drunk at dawn is a dreadful and destructive habit. Then there’s the fact that this time of morning is one when so many cars on the road are full of children being driven to school, or children in uniform trying to get across roads or catch the bus.

What if the drunk driver were to hit one of them? What if they hurt or killed a child? What if they ruined an innocent family’s life all because they didn’t possess the willpower to make it through breakfast without reaching for a bottle?

I look around for the offending item, the bottle from which the alcohol in this orange juice was poured. At first glance, there is no bottle to be seen, but that’s only because the person who uses it has gone to the slight trouble of making their alcoholism less obvious to the naked eye. But when I look upwards, at the top of the fridge, I see the top of a whiskey bottle poking out from behind a four-pack of sports drinks and a spare packet of kitchen roll.

I reach up and take the offending bottle down before marching to the sink and pouring the entire contents away. I assume it wouldn’t have been long until this bottle was drained a different way, but at least my way, it can be disposed of without putting a schoolchild’s life at risk.

With the bottle empty, I return it to its ‘hiding place’ on the top of the fridge, feeling amused that when the drinker reaches for it again, they’ll be shocked and saddened to see that they can’t get their usual fix this time. Maybe they’ll think the person who broke in has consumed it, or maybe they’ll be so drunk by then that they’ll get confused and assume they already finished it themselves. Whatever the case, I’ve made that alcoholic work harder for their next bit of substance abuse.

Leaving the kitchen behind, I walk on into the hallway, my feet moving from hard floor to carpet as I do. I glance down, wondering if any of the soil that might have stuck to the bottom of my shoes when I walked past the broken flowerpot is now being deposited in here, and yes, there are a few traces. But I don’t care about that. It’s not even a nice carpet. It’s fading and dated and has certainly seen better days, much like the couple who decided to buy it.

From the hallway, I glance into the next room I pass, which is the living room. There are two small sofas in here, a wooden coffee table with cup rings stained onto it, and of course, the obligatory flat-screen TV that all the other houses around here have as well. Other than that, the room is about as interesting as most of the TV shows the couple probably watch in here, so I move on until I’m in the dining room.

A solid oak table with four chairs around it. Family photos on the walls. And a drinks trolley in the corner with, yep, you guessed it, more bottles of alcohol on it.

I won’t linger in here, looking at photos or being tempted to pour the rest of the booze away. Instead, I will move on to the part of the house where most people would hide their valuables.

Upstairs.

Ascending the staircase, I pass more photos whilst hearing the creak of the steps beneath me. The fifth step in particular is loud, definitely loud enough to wake somebody up if they were sleeping when somebody should pass down it. Why wouldn’t the homeowners get that fixed and save themselves the annoyance of it? Then again, why would they not use their house alarm or stay sober long enough to make it to work without putting other people’s lives at risk?

I reach the top of the stairs and am met with the sight of four doors. Anybody who has been in a house before could confidently guess what is behind each one. A bathroom, a master bedroom, and either two more bedrooms, or one bedroom and one room that has been converted into either a home office or a home gym.

Predictable.

I push open the first door, and it’s the master bedroom. This is where the couple sleeps, and sure enough, at least one of them slept in here last night because the duvet is pulled back and the sheets are strewn across the mattress. Many successful people talk about the importance of beginning each new day with the simple task of making your bed. The thinking behind it is that you gain momentum from completing such a simple chore, but it also demonstrates that you are organised and orderly, and if you care enough about your bed, you are likely to care enough about the rest of what your day might hold.

Therefore, it is no surprise to find this bed is unmade.

I move over to the large dressing table and open the top drawer before rummaging through the contents. But all I find in here is ladies’ underwear. The second drawer is just as uneventful. Socks. The third and bottom drawer seems just as boring, containing various pyjamas and scruffy T-shirts, although I do find an unopened bottle of whiskey beneath it all.