Written on 27 February 2019
I was called out to a routine domestic disturbance in Fulham.
Usually, this would just be some old lady complaining about the “ethnic music” coming from the one of the towers. So I was pretty surprised when I pulled onto Francisco Road to see a young shirtless man on top of number 57, despite the glitter of frost sparkling the rooftops, throwing roof slates at a man below.
I shouted at the man, who was hiding behind a truck, what the hell was this about.
“Gone mad in the cold.”
Strange response considering it was 2 degrees, hardly the arctic. The man on the roof threw another tile, smashing it on the pavement.
“Right, well, okay, so, I haven't paid him and I just fired him and he's obviously not happy.”
Yeah, that makes more sense. Anyway, I decided to climb the ladder in the garden, away from where the debris was being thrown, and engage the man in conversation.
He calmed down after a while, instead sitting down still shirtless and bursting into tears. He told me he had no visa, his family were living from paycheck to paycheck, and this job worked because, until recently, his boss hadn't asked any questions.
But the home office had been in touch, threatening him for employing illegals, which meant he couldn't pay his workers and had to get rid of them.
I felt bad for the guy, but I'm a cop, and the man had broken the law. I think he appealed, but him and his family were gone before the end of the year.
I didn't think much about the man over the next few years, until I saw a picture of a war zone in the papers. There he was, shirtless again, lying dead among the rubble.