Francis said he would go last. The fire engine had arrived, and the men were bringing around the mechanical arm of the ladder. I caught up my courage and ran at the leap.

When I jumped, I felt at first that I moved very slowly through the air, accelerating only as I fell. On the opposite bank I could see my friends, their faces hidden under black wool, their eyes and mouths wide with terror and exhilaration. I looked down between my legs. I saw the world from an angle I had never expected. Far below me on the cobbles, beneath my outstretched foot, there were the upturned faces of the police and the porters, staring into the sky like children at a lost balloon. I did not have time to count them, or to see the details of the scene, but I recognized the thought that ruled their features. It was one of pure disbelief. They could not credit that anyone would be so reckless, so brave as to make the leap. They could not believe the figures passing by them in the air above. It made me feel like a god, to inspire that look in another human being. When my feet hit the lead sheeting of Caius’ roof, I fell back to the earth.

Francis followed, making easy work of the leap, and we escaped across the roofs of Caius, running along the flat sheet metal, vaulting skylights beneath which were sleeping students, lit rooms and dinner parties. The cold night air was filled with the cries of our pursuers, and with the beams of their torches probing the gutters, swinging up from the streets along the sky like arc lights in an air raid. We shinned down the drainpipe on Trinity Lane, nearly 150 yards from the point where we had made the jump. Francis, Lisa and I removed our disguises and walked casually back around to the Senate House to watch the authorities. The police had cordoned off a section of the road, and we stood at the barriers with a handful of drunken onlookers. A sergeant with a megaphone made sensible appeals to the empty sky for us to come down. After a while someone arrived with a Thermos of coffee, and Francis got chatting to one of the officers on duty. It appeared that patrols had been put out with a brief to keep an eye on the rooftops, as the university had finally gone to the police with its woes, fearful of its liabilities if anyone were injured. Now that my fear was gone, I was flattered by the resources they had devoted to our capture. As we stood there and quizzed the milling officials, I felt my usual sensation of triumph over the dangers of the climb compounded with one of victory. I felt the visceral pleasure of having got the better of another man.

I say we stopped climbing after this incident, but that is not the whole truth. Some weeks later, I was walking through the main gate of college into Tudor Great Court. The night was clear and cold, and I looked up at the sky to see the stars. It was then I caught a glimpse of a man on the roof of Tudor hall. He was crouched like a black cat on the summit of the building, edging away from the small tower of the lantern at the hall’s centre. I did not want to risk signalling his presence by calling out, so I just stood and watched. He padded along the spine between the tiled slopes with perfect steps, and rose upright just before he leapt out of sight on the other side. He stood there, silhouetted against the moon, with his arms outstretched in the darkness, and in his stillness and ecstasy he looked like the stone statue of an angel who had wandered free from his pedestal. Then he disappeared. I never mentioned to Francis, or to anyone else, that I had seen him there. I cherished the vision all to myself.