True stories:Saying it with a plunger

It's half-past midnight. I drive home through slanting rain, walk through the door and think: what are my clothes doing on the floor? Was I really in that much of a hurry to catch the train to London this morning? And then: oh, no.

The video is gone, of course. Easy to transport. It's a professional job. In through a levered bathroom window and out the same way. My books and computer are untouched. And my expensive leather jacket is still hanging in the wardrobe.

I call the police the following morning. Have you touched anything, they want to know. Well, yes; I tried to put everything back because... you know, I didn't want to wake up and have to view the signs of outrage again. A pity, they say. We could have taken fingerprints. The police also saythere is very little chance of anyone being apprehended. I comment that I've lived in some of the roughest areas of London for 10 years and nobody had ever touched my property. Then I move to this upmarket area of Bristol... Ah yes, sir, the constable says, but did you ever live in a ground-floor flat in those areas? I hadn't. I shrug: now that they knew where I lived, they'd be back again. The constable tut tuts. Don't ever think that, sir, he admonishes. Just treat it as a one-off. I decide that's the best policy, and put it out of my mind. I don't want it affecting my life.

Two months later I arrive back at my flat. Muddy footprints lead a track over the living-room carpet to where the video once was. They then retrace a pattern to the bedroom and stop before the wardrobe. My leather jacket is gone. Intuitively I know it was the same person who'd previously visited.

But here's the disconcerting, the weird, the silly bit. On my bed is a rubber plunger, the sort used to unblock drains. It's been picked up from the bathroom and cast into its present position. It's just lying there. I stand looking at it. I think there's something this guy is trying to tell me, and he's getting right inside my head to do so.

I pick up the plunger and deposit it on a chair. I have the ludicrous thought that if I leave the bedroom and come back in, the plunger will be on the bed again. I try to laugh but can't.

I call the police. They ask if I've touched anything. No. I tell them about the previous entry; the same intruder giving me two months for the insurance cheque to arrive so I could replace the video. Only I hadn't. So he took my jacket instead. A souvenir. The police say the fingerprint team will be around later. They turn up, and, of course, they find nothing of significance.

As they're leaving I say, oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I moved the plunger. I tell them about where I found it. Is there some kind of criminal vernacular at work here, some underworld code?

No, I'm told, impatiencerushing to meet my paranoia. They're not that clever. If they wanted to tell you that, they would have crapped where the video was supposed to be.

I'm not so sure. I think I'm dealing with somebody who is very clever. I think this is only the beginning of our relationship.

So now I inhabit a flat knowing that I'm a fly trapped in a web of crime. The only positive aspect is that I can (supposedly) predict the next break-in on the basis of previous experiences. I ring my estate agent to tell them, and to see if something can be done about security. They are sympathetic and promise that the most modern locks will be installed.

And I can't stop thinking about the plunger. It's an absurd thing, an absurd image, I know, but there you are: I fixate. I think about it and think about it and about the person who put it there.

You see, I used to live alone. And now I don't. I have this flatmate. He doesn't come home very often, and when he does, I'm always out. But that's OK, because I know he'll leave a message. I tell myself that I'm a free agent. I can run my own life. I could change my address. Move to another flat. And buy a new video. Yes, that's it.

Only, only... I know that one of these nights I will return home and - isn't this a scream - there'll be a rubber plunger on the bed. Just lying there, saying nothing but saying everything. Letting me know that my flatmate came back... again.