Aftermath
Discovering you’ve been burgled feels like a literal kick to the stomach. There’s a delayed reaction, your brain refusing to take in what the eyes are seeing. All of your drawers pulled out and emptied, all of your jewelry thrown on the bed, boxes of mementos - photos, old movie tickets - scattered everywhere. There must be some other explanation, there must be. Maybe Boy was looking for his keys, or his passport, or something. Then a frantic run through the house searching for what they’ve taken, where they got in, are they still there - all the time crying and trying to get hold of Boy on the phone. Discovering the window they broke through, the ipod they stole, the missing bottles of champagne, the sentimental jewelry gone forever.
A conversation with Boy. A phone call to the police who promise to come round and strict instructions not to touch anything. Nothing to do until Boy comes home but walk around the flat, trying not to look at the mess, or think about the burglars who have been through all our possessions. Wanting to tidy, to clean, to remove all traces of the invasion of our lives, but knowing that to touch anything could destroy any chance of catching the people who did this. So sitting and crying helplessly at the crime, at the invasion, at the missing items, at there being nothing you can do.
The police don’t come that evening. Nor the next morning. Nor the next evening. Two days of sleeping in the middle of a crime scene. The police remain very friendly, very polite, very apologetic about not having been round. And as each evening we hear sirens racing in the near-by streets we remain understanding. Our crime has already happened, crimes that are currently happening take priority.
The policeman who finally comes is friendly, apologetic, he looks around, takes notes, promises to send a team round to take finger prints. But we still can’t tidy up. We can pile things they have touched into a corner in each room for the scene of crime officers to take finger prints later. Days later we’re still living in the mess they made, unable to remove the evidence of what happened, unable to return to normality.
The scene of crime officers come. They dust for fingerprints. They take our fingerprints for elimination purposes. They are friendly and jovial and like the policeman before and the landlord as well, full of tales of crimes in the area, even previous incidents at this flat. Tales told off-hand of bungling burglars and the incomprehensibility of the items they take, but which leave you feeling more insecure than before.
Washing off the sliver finger print dust from the furniture they touched, from where they climbed in through the window, from the boxes they picked up, tore apart and discarded, takes a while, hours and days. It takes a week from the break in to finish cleaning and tidying to remove all traces.
Two weeks on and still I jump if there is an unexpected noise. Still I have to walk around the flat when I get home to check that no one has broken in. Each time I turn the key in the lock on my way home I worry about what I will find on the other side.
Conversations with the police: 7
Chances of them catching the people who did this: slim
Listening to: Move Away, The Killers