Beginning's end (part 1)

I suppose I should start at the beginning, and logically, follow
with a healthy middle, and finish it all with a resolute ending.
Something cool, and short, which doesn't reek pungently of Disney-fied
sugar coating.
Well here goes.

I live in a small apartment, in the dingy outskirts of a city which
could be anywhere, any time, suffice to say that the sky is permanently
scarred a vaguely ill shade of blue, and outside my window is a smiling
politician crucified on a billboard, kindly explaining all the great
the things he will undoubtedly never deliver. The apartment itself is
an abomination, a hideous throwback to the seventies' worst excesses,
and a nicotine stained epitaph to the last owner, a chain smoking
Welshman, who has since passed on to greener pastures. I choose not to
redecorate. I don't have the time, the energy, or even a slight sense
of personal motivation.
However, despite all this, I was worried, if not vaguely disgusted,
when I made my way home last week, and found a trail of shit and
something disturbingly yellow leading up to my apartment. The door was
busted open, and there were handprints on the wall. Calming my roaring
nerves, and fighting back an instinctual desire to burst into tears,
and quivering weakly, curl up into the foetal position on the floor, I
stepped boldly into the apartment.
There was a man, some intruder dressed in a huge leather pervert coat,
and wrapped in winter gear head to toe, despite the vaguely warm mid
June weather. He was staring raptly at the light fitting which hung
nakedly from the ceiling. He was obviously a total idiot. Tightening my
sphincter, and taking a deep breath I tried to bring my intellect down
to his level.
"Now look here, I have nothing you might want to steal, Nothing of any
value, so you might as well sod off and,. And sign on&;#8230;. or
something..". This last remark was coupled with a look of disdain so
acidic, it could have quite reasonably burnt the skin off his
Neanderthal skull.

And he turned round

He faced me, his head bobbing and lit an odd hue under the light
.
Except there was no light.

There was no light

This man in my hall, probably some PCP crazed bum, looking for a fight,
and dosed up enough to force a door with his bare hands, had grey skin
pulled so tight over his head that it looked like a stocking. His eyes
were bloodshot to the point that they resembled mini roadmaps. He
looked me up and down, and tightened his face, his mouth drawing up
stiffly at the edges. He was smiling&;#8230;somewhat inanely.
Speaking from a mouth coloured a disturbing shade of mottled brown, and
lined with teeth like gravestones, he declared in a strangely familiar
voice
" Michael Penrith? Is that you?"

I froze.

My sphincter gave up the ghost, and spluttered into life. He knew my
name. There was a decaying vagrant in my hallway, a dangerously strong
vagrant, who thought nothing of breaking and entering, and he knew my
name.
I stood aghast, my brain dribbling slowly down my trouser leg, and
collecting in my shoes. I gathered myself together, and adopting a
stance which, to me, said "vigilant and brave", but, on consideration,
further resembled "camp, and available", replied defiantly "And what if
I am?"

He raised his eyebrows, or what was left of them, and said "Well, it's
me&;#8230;it's Roger.
Roger Payne."

And it was, it was Roger, my school friend Roger.
Dear Roger.
Dear Roger who was very much dead.