ONCE UP ON THE ROOF

I wear my chase-me-fuck-me shoes. But better than sex. You know. You want. You need. I want only for metal and fire, to breathe. Chase me. Chase me. Then I get you.

Piso 3#, third floor, the door to the apartamento was ajar, the bathroom door wide open and, hunched over his throne, trousers scrunched up around his ankles, was his nibs, in a stupor. He frequently was. It was good for him. It kept him off the roof.

The hum of the motor and the turning of the cement mixer usually calmed me, but not that day. That day the brick inside my head clanged against the sides as it chipped off the crusted excess. In tandem with clunky cranky head state was generalised nausea. Up on the roof where I loved to be. I looked out, across the descending expanse of London brick and slate. Foreign train passengers from Gatwick stared out in half-disbelief at its seeming never-endingness, a cliché all the way to Queen Victoria and her station. Of course, they didn't know I was in league with the Spartacists. Usually I waved, but not that day.

He wouldn't be able to get up onto the roof, but nor could he make it out of the bathroom. I retched as I lifted him off the toilet, which like most on the island located more than few metres off the ground, was backing up. He slumped on the couch. Then he perked up. He yanked up his trousers, leaving his belt undone. He slurred, laughed and offered me coffee. Lava java. Of course I'd have to make it myself.

Do you know yet? Soon. You chase. You chase. I creep. I creep. Up onto the roof. Once up on the roof. Once upon a time. I play. I smother, slowly, niggardly, adverbially. Winding up the stairs. To where you crouch. You survey the scene. Peace of mind. Piece of mine. Chase me big boy, chase me. I'm a work in progress. Come and get it...

The stacked-up washing-up wouldn't allow the kettle under the tap. Then I spotted the cafetiere. I went to the fridge, took out a litre bottle of water and used it to make his potent brew. When I returned to the room, he was gone. I went to the front door and looked up the stairs, but the roof terrace door remained closed. I caught sight of him slumped over the balcony railing. I hauled him back inside and got him onto politics, to keep him talking and conscious. When he wasn't in noddy headland, he loved to talk about how he had rebelled against his privilege. His Victorian antecedents, a one Baron von Saxon-Coburg, or whatever, were responsible for the Whites' insurgency against the Oktober coup long before the capitalist involution made the KGB into captains of post-industrial oligarchy, apparently.

That day I had flu. Or the beginnings at least. As the only (minor) public school educated roofer in Gypsy Hill, my inculcated stoicism surpassed even Borstal ingrained steeliness. I wouldn't be hostage to man flu, nor open to the charge of effete toff by my house mates. And it was after all my own roof I was fixing. It was in lieu of a stack of rent I owed. But this was a bad one. So I came down off the roof for a Beecham's Powder and a coffee.

What was the difference between Leninism and the Spartacists? But J. wanted to talk about the roof.

My dragon's breath emanates from the hot metal. A beast quest. A viper's nest. A test. The first. And the last. They roll into one for many. For you. I wait. I wait. You're coming down. Surely sire. Take up thy staff and chase me sky boy. Next time we'll go together. You and I both fly. But not all flight is airbourne. Some flight is terrestial, a descent into dirt, on hands and knees, sucking up indignity and transcendence in equal measure. Look how I am pretty, look how I am fine. A soulmate for the soon to be souless. Chase me roof man. Come chase me.

There it was. Suddenly, cigarette in hand, strong coffee with more than a tot of agua ardiente, came brief lucidity. Where was she? I needed her to take me to Adeje, in the mountains. Some of us had to work. She'd be back soon. But first the roof...

My house mate wanted a coffee and a fag too. She was weighing out the gear and, as had gradually become customary, offered me a chase. I partook and went back up to retrieve my tools. It was then up on the roof the second time that it hit me. I felt so much better. The aches, the sniffs, the shakes flew off in the direction of the South Downs. The sun warmed my closed eyes and when I opened them again, dawn spread through my body like junk. But this was not like junk. This was junk. This wasn't Sparta. This was narcosis.

The door swung against its hinges and in she breezed.

- Sorry for being late. Won't be a mo. Hey Jonathan. You been out today sweetheart? Stay off the roof. See you later honey.

We set off in her Seat Ibiza van up the foothills of Mount Teide towards Adeje to sell advertising space to a chicken restaurant, leaving Jonathan to chase his demons, drink himself back from oblivion and stay off the roof.

Never did find out about the Spartacists.