Bumps In The Night.
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.