Dial M for Monkey (7 page)

He’s drilling. DIY?

I can’t take it.

I call the police and shove some cotton wool in my ears.

It doesn’t work.

At work my boss warns me that if I fall asleep once more I’ll face serious disciplinary action or most likely the sack. As I close the door of my house behind me I contemplate leaving and finding a hotel but I know I can’t afford it. And besides, as I drag myself up the stairs I notice that there’s no noise from next door. Perhaps they’re out. Perhaps calling the police worked.

I smile and get into bed fully clothed, pulling the covers tight up around my head and slipping effortlessly into a deep sleep.

I dream of riches, pillows and cotton wool, floating in a land far away, selective deafness and an ability to walk without moving my legs. I seem to float upwards for an infinite amount of time before a
tap-tap-tap
starts to pull me back towards the duvet-earth. Like warm marshmallow I start to sink into it and
tap-tap-tap
I start to panic, can’t breathe and then just as quickly as the tapping started it stops.

I wake up feeling refreshed and go about my morning ritual with a sense of relief. It would have been nice to have neighbours I could have invited over for coffee or asked to feed the cat if I had one but it wasn’t to be. I feel a sense of sadness it took the police to shut them up but as I pull on my coat and walk out of the kitchen I don’t regret it.

Until I step into the utility room to go out the back door. In front of me is one of the strangest, most intimidating sights I’ve ever seen. The door is still there but someone has hammered hundreds of nine inch nails from the outside so it looks like a bed of nails. Whoever it was has been especially careful around the handle to ensure I’ve no hope of opening it. I panic slightly and stare blankly at the door before walking to the front door where exactly the same thing has happened.

At first I don’t know what to do, so I go and sit on the stairs, the pattern on the carpet swirling sickening underneath me. It's him, I know it is. That is exactly why he was so quiet. To lull me into a false sense of security and then hit me with this. I walk to the back door again, this time trying to turn the handle with a pair of tongs from the kitchen drawer. It doesn’t work so I run through to the lounge to phone the police. He’ll pay for what he’s done, I’ll make sure of that. I lift the receiver, the plastic cold in my palm and place the phone next to my ear.

Nothing.

No dial tone. Nothing.

I tap the receiver hopefully but there’s no contact with the outside world. I’m trapped in here.

It’s all too much so I just go and get into bed.

When I eventually get out of bed and climb through an upstairs window to phone the police from a telephone box they said they have already had complaints. From No. 49.

I tell them the truth but they don’t care.

It’s morning again and I don’t go out. There’s no point because my boss was less than understanding about yesterday’s little fracas and told me I could have as much leave as I wanted. Unpaid and don’t come back. There’s been a feeling rising inside of me and I can’t resist it anymore so I go out of the new front door and knock on No. 49.

At first there’s no reply but after a moment I see the curtain upstairs twitch. I knock again politely, I must resolve this, I can’t be beaten.

The door opens and they both stand in their dressing gowns, waiting expectantly.

‘About the other night,’ I begin.

They both nod.

‘I just wondered if we could sort this out. Like adults.’

They stare blankly at me.

‘Listen, you beat me fair and square. You proved that you’re better than me so can we please call a truce?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ a smirk blinks into existence on his face.

‘Yes you do,’ I’m beginning to lose my temper. These people can’t be reasoned with. ‘Listen, I know you hammered those nails through my door.’

‘What nails?’ she asks, grinning openly.

‘The nails… in the night,’ I can feel the anger turning to tears but I choke them back. ‘I… Can’t you let me sleep?’

They just grin back at me.

‘I lost my job because of it.’

They both explode in fits of laughter. We both know they did it and I will not let it end this way.

‘Listen,’ he manages to say through the guffaws. ‘It’s nothing to do with us. We sleep during the day. Not our problem if you can’t sleep.’

‘Oh fuck off,’ I say, their laughing echoing through the street as I turn tail and run back to my house, locking the door behind me.

I’m averaging three hours sleep a day. I think they take it in shifts to keep me awake. Why can’t they see what they’re doing to me? She goes out sometimes but he doesn’t. Ever. Sometimes people come to him and make more noise. I go walking now. To try to get some respite from it.

Tonight I’m on the hard shoulder of the motorway. I can feel the rush of wind each time a car blasts past. Its dark and their red taillights sparkle like stars as they zoom into the distance.

WHOOSH

I’m walking down the white line that separates the fast lane from the middle lane.

WHOOSH

It’s windier here but as long as they stay in lane I’m safe.

WHOOSH

Unless someone is overtaking in which case they’ll hit me and

WHOOSH

I’ll get some sleep but I

WHOOSH

Really want to beat them

WHOOSHWHOOSH

The bastards in No. 49

WHOOSHWHOOSH

And then I realise what I have to do.

I tried to buy a gun yesterday. They wouldn’t let me so I bought a deactivated pistol from an old bloke in a junk shop. It’s heavy and looks the part. I don’t think I want to kill them, just teach them a lesson.

I’ve just seen her go out so I know that this is my moment. There’s a dull pounding of bass through the wall, music thumping from somewhere in their house. It’s the perfect cover so I slip out of my back door and carefully make my way round to his.

It’s louder here as I try the handle and to my surprise it turns; the door is unlocked. There’s music seeping down from upstairs, just beginning to fade out as I gently squeeze the door shut behind me.

Suddenly, I’m having doubts. I shouldn’t be doing this. Should I? I’m about to turn around and leave when I hear it, the insistent pitter-patter of the high-hat. He’s playing it again.

I know it by heart, I can’t walk out, I can feel myself falling over the edge.

Tip tipitip tipitipitipitip.

My hand tightens around the pistol.

Tip tipitip tipitipitipitip.

I know this is the right thing to do and my blood seethes through my veins as he starts to sing…

We’re caught by a tramp…

Little does he know that this will be the final rendition of a song that has plagued me for weeks.

Thank-ya… thank-ya very much…

It’s time. I take my first tentative step out of the utility room and into the kitchen. It’s a mess in here, I can hardly believe that people could live like this.

It’s nice to see…

The melamine on the units is peeling, the bin is overflowing with take-away cartons and empty lager cans. I choke back a gagging reflex as the smell hits me and bolt into the hallway.

So many of you out tonight.

His voice is becoming clearer as I make my way down the threadbare carpet in the hall.

I gotta thank you for coming to the show.

And why should I believe him? All I’ve ever had is lies, threats and broken promises. Well, no more. I cross the landing toward the source of the din and stand for a split second outside the door.

Uh-huh huh.

We just cannot go on like this now can we baby?

And I begin. I can’t face another line and for once I agree with Mr No. 49. We can’t go on together.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say as I swing open the door and level the pistol at him. He stops singing but the music is so loud I can feel the bass pounding with my heart in my chest as it continues unperturbed.

He gazes for a moment, first at the gun, then gradually towards me and as he does so the frown that had splintered into life on his forehead begins to dissipate.

He begins to grin and starts advancing on me.

‘So,’ he says with a sneer. ‘Decided to teach me a lesson then?’

I cock the hammer on the pistol and, to my amazement, he stops. His expression remains the same but a hollowness has entered behind his eyes and I know he’s not quite sure whether or not I’m serious.

‘I’ve asked you so many times,’ I begin, my voice trembling. ‘Just to consider my feelings.’

He stares at me in disbelief and my hand begins to shake, my palms cold with sweat making the gun feel like it could fall at any point. I know I must act fast.

‘But every time all you do is play this fucking song. Louder.’

This time I begin advancing, my legs shaking I drag them across the room, waving the gun in front of me.

‘You see,’ I was shouting now, tiny droplets of spit shooting from my mouth as I spat the words at him. ‘It’s very simple.’

I laugh and as I do the tears that have been running down my face trickle salty into my mouth.

‘You must stop.’

I press the barrel of the pistol to his temple, a surge of adrenaline making me confident and euphoric.

 ‘Any comments, apologies?’

He just gawks at me, a glazed look coming over his idiotic face. It’s at that moment the music drops for the bridge and Mr No. 49 lunges towards me knocking the gun clean out of my hands, behind me onto the landing. I dive after it but he’s just as quick off the mark and we crumple to the floor in a flailing scrum.

The gun is knocked through the banister and begins bouncing down the stairs. Mr No. 49 is off me like a shot, galloping down the stairs after it, but I’m not going to let him win. Not now, not after all he’s put me through. I vault over the banister and tackle him just as he’s about to grab the gun.

This time I’m quickest off the mark and spring onto the pistol, momentum carrying me back towards the kitchen. But Mr No. 49 is not to be beaten so easily and careers after me, knocking me and the gun into the pile of rubbish.

We both scrabble in the trash for the gun.

We both come out at the same time but to my dismay it’s Mr No. 49 that has the gun, I’ve somehow grabbed a carrot.

I don’t hesitate and swing the carrot straight for his head making contact with a satisfying slapping noise. The carrot has obviously been in the bin for so long that it’s no longer the traditional texture and instead has the consistency of a rubber truncheon.

He comes back quickly so I sprint back upstairs towards the thumping bass of
Suspicious Minds
. He’s in hot pursuit and as he bowls into the room he knocks us both off our feet.

I react quickly, rolling to straddle him and slapping him with the carrot. He thinks he has the upper hand as he cocks the pistol and points it at my chest.

But I know what will happen and just keeping beating away with my orange, foot long weapon of mass destruction. He pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

I hit him again and he’s bleeding, the carrot doing more damage than I thought possible.

He pulls the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Again. Again.

I don’t quite know what to do next. I stop hitting him. He seems as deflated as me and I get up, backing away, my back is pressed against the window.

Then, as if electrocuted into action he lunges up at me, hurling his whole weight through the air. But he misjudges, and hits the window, shattering it before dropping out of sight. I spin around and look down just in time to catch the look on his face as he falls through his conservatory, demolishing it into the darkness beneath.

The Cock Ain't Gonna Like That

I
t was only when the removals van arrived we realised we had sold our house to a truckload of chickens. Note – not a shedload. There were far more than that. There was no indication of where they had come from, there was no lower chain involved in the sale of our house and the driver of their van was not forthcoming with the info.

It wasn’t so much the conversation that was odd, their diction was perfect, the enunciation without an equal, it was more that there were over two hundred of them and they all spoke simultaneously.

‘Are you leaving the curtains?’ they chorused.

I wasn’t so I skirted around the subject which wasn’t easy when looking straight down the beak of that many of them.

‘And the kitchen appliances,’ they squalked as one. ‘The solicitor said that you would be leaving the white goods.’

Some of the chickens on the left hand side of the van had started to become restless, flapping their useless wings causing one or two of them to rise into the air slightly. They didn’t miss a beat though, carefully keeping exactly in time with their sisters.

I nodded confirmation as my chest tightened, the feathers in the air drifting carelessly into my lungs clogging my scillia and causing a high pitched whining sound every time I inhaled.

‘Can we come in?’

They weren’t the sorts of chickens who needed an answer and hit me like a poultry tidal wave. I staggered backwards, desperately fighting the urge to slap them back, instead keeping my hands occupied by scratching every last inch of my feather-tormented body.

‘Yes,’ I wheezed and dragged myself inside after them.

Inside a caught a glimpse of the last few of them heading down the hall towards the dining room and the kitchen. Against the advise of my ever-tightening lungs I followed them.

‘Bok-BWARK! This fridge,’ they boomed. ‘How many eggs does it hold?’

I knew deep down inside that I should tell them the truth but I was relying on the fact that none of the little blighters had opposable thumbs.

‘I dunno,’ I panted. ‘I never really counted. A lot, I know that.’

Their little heads bobbed up and down in happy agreement.