The Rooftop

They said it would be simple; harmless. “The easiest five thousand pounds you’ll ever make,” they told me. I admit, I was bedazzled by the way their Brioni suits hugged their sculpted arms. The tall one leaned forward over the counter, close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips. He smelled of smoke and sandalwood. The shorter one spoke softly of all the things they knew about me: where I lived, who my parents were, how empty my bank account was. His voice was as smooth as top-shelf scotch; his intimidation sounded like poetry and somehow, I didn’t feel threatened.

“All you have to do is leave a door open,” he sang.

“A door?” I asked, bewitched.

“One door.”

“And you’ll give me five thousand pounds?”

“Have you ever had so much money at one time?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I can’t say that I have,” I replied sheepishly.

The tall one slid a piece of paper to me and when I took it, he held my hand in his. In that moment, I would have done anything for them, with or without the money. In that moment, the possibility of seeing them again was more precious to me than any wealth or glory.

As quickly and unexpectedly as they appeared before me, they were gone and I was left alone with my intrusive thoughts and a piece of paper, which I had nearly forgotten about. I unfolded it to find a single word scribbled down in red ink:

Rooftop.

“Curious. Why would anyone want the door to the rooftop left open? There’s nothing up there,” I thought to myself. “Maybe they just want to gaze at the stars like I do sometimes on my break. The view is pretty spectacular. And for five thousand pounds, it couldn’t hurt. Right?”

I had made up my mind. When I took my mandatory break a few hours later, I would do what they asked of me.

The graveyard shift was such a strange concept. I don’t think most humans were meant to be aware of what goes on in the early hours of the morning. My very superstitious grandmother always used to warn my cousins and I of “the witching hour” and all the terrible things skulking around in the dark. She would say there was a reason our bodies naturally woke with the sun. I never believed any of those stories, of course; I was raised by people of science and medicine. We didn’t have time for mythology.

But I liked working late. I wasn’t good with people. I never was. My parents, on the other hand, were charismatic and brilliant. It’s no wonder they were always so ashamed of me—their one shot at carrying on the family legacy and I couldn’t even get through my first semester at University. There was no place for me in their world, so they encouraged me to find a place to live that was more suitable to my “lifestyle” and I obliged, eager to regain some of their favor.

So I got an honest job. I manned the security desk of a building in the financial district from 9:00pm-5:00am. There was rarely any excitement. Once, a homeless man wandered into the lobby and had a heart attack and the paramedics came. Another time, a dog was left tied up outside in the pouring rain. I brought him in and gave him half of my sandwich, but my landlord was categorically against pets, so I had to find him a new home. An elderly couple in Chelsea took him in, named him Gordon, and promised to spoil him the way he deserved to be spoiled. Each morning after my shift ended, I went back to my flat and fell asleep, dreaming of a day when I would finally be chosen for some grand adventure.

At long last, it was time to clock out and my relief arrived right on time like usual. Always reliable, that man. At 5:00 every morning, we brushed past each other in the lobby and with a friendly nod, he took my place behind the desk and I was free.

The crisp morning air embraced me like an old friend. There was something unusual about heading home to go to bed whilst the rest of the city was waking to start their day, like I knew something they didn’t—like I held all the secrets of the night. I was happiest in those twenty or so minutes it took me to get home, but that morning, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Although I walked the same path, took the same train, climbed the same stairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was remarkably off. It was similar to looking through fogged-up lenses; my head felt heavier on top of my shoulders.

“Probably just tired,” I told myself convincingly and wandered wearily home.

The London skyline was illuminating; night was handing over watch to the day and the birds were beginning their song to announce the arrival of a new dawn when I finally reached my flat. I craved the soft pillows and fluffy comforter that awaited me, but I had been given a second wind. I made myself a cup of tea and turned on the news, hoping to bore myself to sleep.

A despondent voice reverberated throughout my tiny kitchen. I stopped pouring the steaming water into my favorite mug to hear it more clearly.

“Again, authorities are issuing words of caution, encouraging everyone to stay in doors. If you are just joining us, at 3:30 this morning, multiple sink holes opened up simultaneously across the globe. The death toll is unknown, but entire cities have vanished in the blink of an eye. First estimates are in the thousands, but as more reports come in, we fear the worst. Hold your loved ones close.”

My hands shook so violently, the hot tea sloshed over the brim of the cup and burned my flesh. I quickly let go of the handle and it crashed to the floor. I wept as I frantically cleaned it up. I tried to replay the events from the night in hopes that I had misheard the newscaster, but it was so vivid.

3:30 was the exact time that I left the door to the rooftop open.

My phone chimed from my pocket and I pulled it out, desperate to see some good news. Through swollen, bloodshot eyes, I read a notification from my banking app. It seemed someone had deposited five thousand pounds into my account.