3 a.m.

My writers' group set summer homework, and one of the challenges was to start a piece of writing with 'When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news'. The first draft was written on the clifftop above Alum Chine near Bournemouth. Tell me what you think by posting a Comment. Is this worth doing more with or shall I just leave it as a one-piece wonder?


“When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news” says the policeman, beaming all over his face. “Not for you anyway.”

“Oh, it’s you again”. I yawn as I hold the chain that protects me from the outside world.

“Asleep again?”

“Yes, of course I was. Apparently it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s this all about?”

“It’s a dawn raid, that’s what it is. But we’re early.”

I peer over his shoulder to see who he means by ‘we’ but there’s no-one there.

“Are you on your own?”

“Yes – and no” says the policeman, with a supercilious smile.

“It’s too early for mind games – where’s the rest of you?”

“Never you mind. Just let me in. We need to talk.”

“Not tonight thanks. When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, don’t let them in unless you know who they are. That’s my rule.”

I slam the door, double check the door chain, and turn on the tap to fill the kettle.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup?”

The policeman sits, cross legged, at the kitchen table, “Go on then.”

The noise of water hitting the kettle makes me want to pee, so I unzip my fly and take aim at the waterfall next to the fridge.

“That’s done it” I think. “When a policeman rings the doorbell at three, it’s not a good idea to take a pee.”

I suppress a giggle because I’m determined to take him seriously. I cannot afford to let anything slip.

“What have I done wrong then?”

The policeman has replaced his uniform with a suit and aged a couple of decades. “And you’re not a policeman are you? You’re a magistrate.”

“So what if I am. It’s still bad news for you. You should expect policemen at your door at three in the morning because they work 24/7. A magistrate who works the night shift – that spells real trouble. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

”What’s the charge?”

“What do you want to be charged with? What do you deserve to be charged with? To what charge would you plead Guilty?”

“So you’re giving me the rope and expecting me to hang myself. That’s tonight’s gambit is it?”

“If that’s the way you choose to see it, who am I to argue?”

Every night, that’s the conundrum I face. What can I admit to that will not count against me? To claim to be completely free of guilt would not be credible – I’m only human after all. But I cannot admit to the crimes that brought me to this time and this place because the shame would kill me. And I do not know what the penalties are, so it would be reckless. But what does this man know? Which misdemeanours, which indiscretions, which secrets does he want from me?

I start to cry and the man in my kitchen who was a magistrate turns back into a policeman, then he’s a priest, and then a bishop.

The kitchen timer rings out and at the third strike I feel sleepy, close my eyes and hear a soft voice slowly getting louder.

“I don’t believe it. He’s coming round again. Every time we try to turn these damned machines off he comes back.”

The doctor in my dream asks me the same questions again. Who is the Prime Minister? What is the name of your eldest daughter? What colour is a post box? I pause so I can add strength to my voice, and confidently assert the answers. The doctor turns aside with an almost apologetic smile.

“There, you see. He’s still with us. I’ve known cases like this go for years. It’s probably worse for you than it is for him.”

I try to focus on the people he’s talking to but the picture fades, and I wake to the sound of a kitchen timer by the side of the bed. I watch the clock until it says 02.59, then I get up to answer the door.

I know who it will be, and I know what he wants, but I am determined he will get nothing out of me except a cup of tea, not at three in the morning.