Bumps In The Night.
The neighbours when I moved in were great. Because they didn’t exist. There was an abundance of peacefulness. The next lot filled me with dread when I saw them moving in. A Chinese family of at least three-thousand members. But they were silent, save for one of the daughters who used to practice her singing on a Saturday morning as I sat in the sun eating my eggs and reading the paper. She had quite a nice voice.
This lot though.
It is 4.00am on Saturday morning.
“Help! Help, someone! He’s fucking killing me!” Comes the less than soothing voice of the female half of my new neighbours from the street outside my bedroom window.
“He’s taking his time about it.” I think to myself. The racket has been ongoing since closing-time. “He’d better hurry up. I could do with the peace and quiet.”
A few minutes later there is a sturdy knock on the neighbours’ door, and another voice says “Police.” The voice doesn’t say “Police, it’s gone four in the morning and unless you want to know what a proper kicking feels like you’d better not fuck us around.” But you can tell from the general tone that that was the implication.
Everything goes silent. I go to sleep, pausing only to turn my mobile off so I’m not woken by anyone the next day. A mistake as it turns out.
And, after a solid month of banging, crashing and shouting, it’s been silent ever since. Maybe he did kill her. Maybe they’re both in the slammer. I genuinely don’t care. At least it’s quiet.
And perhaps I should feel bad about having imagined the following late night conversation as I knock on their door to complain about the noise:
Male Neighbour: What do you want?
Me: To sleep. There’s a lot of noise. What’s going on?
MN: I am beating the shit out of my girlfriend.
Me: It’s been going on some time. You’re obviously not doing a good job. Would you like some help? Then we can all get some kip.
That’s wrong isn’t it? It is.
This lot though.
It is 4.00am on Saturday morning.
“Help! Help, someone! He’s fucking killing me!” Comes the less than soothing voice of the female half of my new neighbours from the street outside my bedroom window.
“He’s taking his time about it.” I think to myself. The racket has been ongoing since closing-time. “He’d better hurry up. I could do with the peace and quiet.”
A few minutes later there is a sturdy knock on the neighbours’ door, and another voice says “Police.” The voice doesn’t say “Police, it’s gone four in the morning and unless you want to know what a proper kicking feels like you’d better not fuck us around.” But you can tell from the general tone that that was the implication.
Everything goes silent. I go to sleep, pausing only to turn my mobile off so I’m not woken by anyone the next day. A mistake as it turns out.
And, after a solid month of banging, crashing and shouting, it’s been silent ever since. Maybe he did kill her. Maybe they’re both in the slammer. I genuinely don’t care. At least it’s quiet.
And perhaps I should feel bad about having imagined the following late night conversation as I knock on their door to complain about the noise:
Male Neighbour: What do you want?
Me: To sleep. There’s a lot of noise. What’s going on?
MN: I am beating the shit out of my girlfriend.
Me: It’s been going on some time. You’re obviously not doing a good job. Would you like some help? Then we can all get some kip.
That’s wrong isn’t it? It is.
posted by Tired Dad at
8:37 pm
18 Comments:
Oh god, I know I shouldn't be laughing at this, spousal abuse being no joke, and me being a card-carrying feminist and all. But I am. Laughing, I mean.
Hello Tessa and thanks. Glad you 'got it'
When I was a young teenager, I used to hear my brother's girlfriend's head getting banged against the metal pole that held up our basketball net. It disturbed me and my sleep. But I never offered to help. You are a model citizen.
Don't feel bad about it.
A more realsitic imagined conversation might go something like this:
Male Neighbour: What the fuck do you want?
You: To sleep. There's a lot of noise. What's going on?
MN: Nosey fucking bastard. Cop a load of this.
You: Final impression of tattooed knucles (L O V E) approaching your startled fizog at 800kph
Police (next morning): Bastards, someone's dumped a corpse on my beat.
Sometimes it may be cowardly, but a hell of a lot safer to let the Police handle it.
You're still breathing. Keep it that way. Think of your Dad, someone's got to look after him.
what happened next?
It is wrong. Mind, it's also funny. Funny can't be wrong, can it?
I was always the one to phone up the police when my next-door neighbors would decide to blast their stereo all night long.
I wouldn't knock, because they had this Great Dane that made Kujo look like a geriatric Dachshund.
Ellie: Not really. It wasn't me who called the police.
TSB: See above. I've done more than my share of late-night door-knocking but I'm fucked if I'm getting out of bed for it.
But thanks.
C: Like I say, nothing at all. Not a peep since and that's all I really need to know.
J: Thanks. And I don't know.
Sew: I think that's fair enough. Dogs are fucking mental.
No, but you offered to help with the beating. That's selfless.
Ermmm.
When my (expat) parents lived in Hong Kong, they once got some new upstairs neighbours -- a young married couple, new to Hong Kong. One night the guy apparently proceeded to beat the crap out of his wife. My parents knew this from all the screaming, clattering and banging. My mum begged my dad to go upstairs and put a stop to it. But he insisted, "Oh, for goodness sake -- she's just seen her first cockroach." Turned out to be true, actually. (You can get some pretty big cockroaches in Hong Kong.)
Hello Wendy. Imagine.
Now that is a line I may well adapt when I attend my next domestic.
It will certainly shortcut the pointless bullsh1t that I have to endure prior to the inevitable arrest.
Tang0
Hello Anon. I take it you're in law enforcement?
I didn't mean .. what happened with the neighbours, i meant .. what happened that your phone was necessary but not turned on (but now i sound nosey, so never mind)
Oh. Ok.
I never yelled when my ex beat the crap outta me , I just learned to play dead until I learned to throw a punch back. I bet it was funny as hell the time we got in a fist fight in my office.. My life is much better now. But your story, made me laugh.
Ah. Was expecting more of this sort of thing to be honest. Glad you learnt to punch back. And glad you laughed - that was the only idea.
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