The Couple Next Door (IP)

Mr Martin banged upon the door of flat number 111.

 

It was time, he thought, that he gave the couple in that flat a piece of his mind.

 

He had had enough of their noisiness and their lewdness. Enough of hearing their bedsprings creak and their noisy moaning; enough of hearing their loud arguments in Italian accompanied by the sound of plate smashing.

 

It was like a cycle with them. First they would have a terrible argument that would sometimes get so heated that he wondered if he ought to call the police but then he would hear the boyfriend or husband storm out and slam the door and go stamping down the stairwell; then he’d hear the woman sobbing but then only about an hour would go by and he’d hear the man come back in again and then they’d be making up, kissing and laughing and then the next thing he knew he’d have to listen to them making love just as passionately as they had been at each other’s throats.

 

“These walls must be made of paper”, he’d thought the first time it had happened, squashing his head between two pillows to try and block out the noise but having little success.

 

And he’d tried all kinds of other things too, like moving his bed to the other side of the room so that it was away from the wall and buying a stereo with loud speakers so that he could turn up the music when the bed spring creaking started. He’d even tried banging on his wall with a broom but then they would start shouting things at him in Italian which he was certain must be rude.

 

But no more. He just couldn’t tolerate any more of it. He was a fair and reasonable man but it was driving him up the wall and if they wouldn’t listen to sense, well then, he would just have to complain to the landlord.

 

But just then the landlord came up the stairs and saw him banging on the door and the exasperated expression on his face.

 

“Anything wrong, Mr Martin?”, asked the landlord.

 

“Yes. I should say there is something wrong. It’s the couple who live in that flat. The flat next to mine. They’re constantly making the most terrible racket, fighting and screaming and whatnot”, he said, “I was going to complain to you but I thought I’d try talking to them first”.

 

The landlord looked confused,

 

“Couple?”, he asked.

 

“Yes the Italian couple that live in that flat”, said Mr Martin, “I told you. I hear them constantly making the most dreadful noise. It’s almost like listening to a play on Radio 4 it’s so loud”.

 

The landlord started to look at him as if he had just said the sky was turning to treacle.

 

“But Mr Martin”, he said, “There’s no one living in that flat. It’s been empty for months”.

 

Mr Martin laughed and shook his head confidently.

 

“Oh no, no that can’t be”, he said, “I’ve been hearing them every day almost since I moved in”.

 

The landlord reached into his leather jacket pocket and pulled out a rattling bunch of keys before opening the door to the flat and then, looking inside, shocked and, in fact utterly speechless, Mr Martin saw that the flat was completely empty; not only was there no couple inside but also no furniture; not even a light bulb in the ceiling.

 

“I think perhaps you need to get out more, Mr Martin”, said the landlord, his voice becoming kindly but concerned, “Being stuck in a flat all alone it can sometimes make people a little crazy”.

 

Mr Martin started to feel embarrassed,

 

“Yes your probably right”, he said, meekly, “I’m sorry, I…I don’t know what I was thinking”.

 

The old man opened the door to his flat and went back inside, sitting down upon his bed, confused.

 

“Did I really imagine something that seemed so real”, he thought.

 

But then he heard it again, the sound of the couple making love only now it was even louder than before and through the wall, as if through a paper screen, he could see the couples silhouettes, entwined, the man on top of the woman and their bodies moving together.

 

“No”, he said, shutting his eyes and covering his ears with his palms, “They’re not real. They’re not. They’re not”.

 

But then he heard a knock at the door and opening it he saw her standing there, the young woman from next door with long, sleek, jet black hair and pale soft skin like milk, plump red lips like maraschino cherries and eyes the colour of honey and she was sobbing; big, plump tears rolling down over her rose coloured cheeks.

 

“I’ve had enough of him”, she said.

 

“Who?”, he said.

 

“Who? Giulio. That Bastard. That’s who”, she said.

 

“Oh you mean your boyfriend?”, he asked.

 

She didn’t answer, her eyes distant and pensive but then she looked at him and smiled.

 

“I don’t want him anymore, I want a nice man; a real man; a man like you”, she said, putting her soft white arms around him, pressing her heaving bosom against his chest and pushing her way inside.

 

“Am I going mad?”, he wondered.

 

But then she kissed him with those plump red lips that tasted of red Italian wine and, suddenly, he didn’t really care anymore.