Three floors up, on a Sunday night

In the last hour of daylight before the curtains are drawn I look at the white haired man in the tenement flat opposite, slouched in his usual chair, newspaper held high surrounded in a warm golden glow. He never seems to leave, always in that room. I look down at the flat where the large breasted woman, who perches on the edge of her bed, close to her bedroom window, showing her hanging body parts and dark tuft for all to see; her Sunday ritual. I look diagonally at the corner curved flat to see an elbow sawing backwards and forward, and the swaying top of a carved instrument; silent notes streaming out.

I look into these little boxes and wonder at the close proximity of my neighbours yet the remoteness of the lives we lead. I know no- one here and that’s how I like it.                                                                            

     Closing my curtains I go to bed early. Settling my plate and mug on my bedside table, I burrow my bottom into the thick spongy mattress and reach for my book spread open at page 298. I break off chunks of the moist buttered banana loaf, and flick crumbs off my duvet before reaching for my mini egg mug, blowing to cool my tea, then sipping a hot slurp.   

      tat, rat, tat

 What the…? 

The large bedroom window to my left, unswallowed tea swirling in my mouth, book held open. The window has been rattled, not as usual by the wind, but by an unseen hand. My mug went down my legs stood up; my thighs pulsated to a beat of their own.

    WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, HOW?  

I wanted to, but did not open my bedroom curtains to see what kind of face could be there, three floors up, outside my tenement flat, on a darkening Sunday night.

     tat, tat,  tat, tat

Again my window told me its foundations were being shaken; this time persistently.  My hand reached for, and found in the folds of the duvet, my phone.

I punched, punched, and punched, digits into my slippery thin white phone.

110.. no

I walked, walked, and walked to the hall.

010.. NO!

150…Welcome to your EE account…Jesus, why couldn’t I remember this number last week?

      Rattle, tattle, tattle, my window said.

Pulse, Pulse, pound….my whole body now a heartbeat, nasals hot, skin bubbling.

999?...no surely not that urgent!

Local police station? Welcome to your local police station, please choose from one of the following options…..NO!!!

     Shuffle, huffle, clunk said the unknown thing lurking outside my window.

101….Hello police how can I help you?

At last.

Me- (whispering)…..Eerrrrr Hello, my bedroom window has just been chapped!

Nice calm police lady- Can you tell me your address?

Me- Yes, yes, it’s on the top floor, yes top right.

     CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK.

Me- THEY’VE JUST CHAPPED AGAIN!!!

Nice calm police lady- Ok, don’t worry I’m sending out a car to you straight away. How did the?-

Me- There is scaffolding right under the window. They must have climbed?

Nice calm police lady- Can you see the person?

Me- No, no my curtains are shut, but my lights on. Pound, pound, pound, my heartbeat now feels like it’s vibrating on the outside of my head.

Nice calm police lady- Can you check from another room, can you look out to give us a description?

Me- (Wha?) Yes em ok. Brain tells legs to move to living room.

Using my fingers I slowly part the curtains at the right hand edge of the bay window. One eye ball reluctantly looks through the shaking gap.

 My insides feel like dropping straight onto the floor. A shadowy figure.  An outline of a person. A man.

The curtains quiver, my hand cannot keep them still. Even though I expected to see someone, I didn’t think I actually would, three floors up, on a Sunday night.

Me-  Uuuhhhh. I drop the edge of the curtains, letting it fall back shut.  There is a guy there… I float to the hall (square, yellow walls, not mine; looks strange now) …He’s around 5’10, in his twenties, no, no he doesn’t have any distinguishing features, I can hardly see- it’s dark. I look at the front door- escape? I look round at everything in the hall as a potential weapon; table, lamp, empty coat-hanger hanging on door handle, vase that hides the burn on the carpet…

Nice calm police lady- AH...O…your…hell...

Me- Hello? … (boom boom boom)… can you hear me? I walk back through to living room, pyjama top wet under my arm pits.

Nice calm police lady- Ye…uh…o

Me- HELLO!!!! I whisper, yet shout into the phone that wants to escape from my slippery hand. Grip. Get a grip. There is a man outside my flat, can you hear me!

 Nice calm police lady- Ah, yes, I can hear you now. A squad car will be with you soon. Bye.

Flat-line.

        I slide the phone onto my desk and stand behind the living room curtains. My life here. Another life out there. What kind of life? Robber? Rapist? Druggie?  Prankster? I pinch the corner of the curtain open a crank, dung dung dung my heart warns me. I expect, this time to see the glint of a knife, held by sharp features, high cheekbones, wide eyes, furrowed brows. But no. I see the shadowy side profile of babyish features, looking calmly, at the flats across the road; my eyeball follows his gaze, to the capsules, the big breasted lady rub, rub, rubbing her sideboard, the white haired man slouching with his newspaper hiding his face.

I drop the thick cotton curtains and my eyeball pops back into head.

     Shuffle, tink, clunk.

I pull back the edge of the patterned curtains.

He’s gone. Like he was never there.

Pushing the curtains apart I look up and down the street. I see a shadowy outline way along near the Bowling Green - and a small white smudge – I sigh, as they walk under the glow from a street light – it’s just a dog walker.

I turn to the left as a police van and car come speeding up the road, eeeekkk  just along from my flat. Two officers, young looking, put on their hats, hazard lights flick flicking and look up at the flats, up at the scaffolding.

He disappeared just before you got here, I tell them at the door when they come up, one scribbling all the details on a miniature notepad. Blah, blah, blah, they say. We’ll have a look around outside, scribble, scribble. Call 999 next time, they say.

       Back inside, I make tea, I can’t sleep. I look down to the big breasted lady’s flat as she skoosh skooshes out a fine mist of green spray onto her round glass coffee table, in her white fluffy slippers, squeak, squeak, I can almost hear. I look across to the curved corner flat; a dark room lit up by the Morse code lights from a TV, transmitting some unknown message through vertical blinds, now pulled closed haphazardly. I look across at the white haired man, still slouching, sagging in his yellowy pod.

And I wonder, at the close proximity yet remoteness of my neighbours.  I know no-one here and no-one knows me.