The Good Neighbour
The doorbell rang at nine, pulling me out of a dream about her. The dream was familiar. I knew how it ended, badly, like all my dreams. As sleep faded, anger rose incoherently in me, anger at being drawn away from her, even the imperfect memory of her.
The caller leaned on the doorbell again, playing a staccato pattern with the single drilling bell. Cursing them I pulled on my discarded clothes, the least repugnant I could lay hand to and stalked downstairs. The old house was cold and draughty, unseen currents pulled at my bare legs and feet as I descended, passing the silent doorways of my neighbours.
‘Package for Number 19,’ said the delivery man, thrusting a large cardboard box into my hands.
‘No, I’m 16,’ I said, with a sigh, pointing at the mass of mislabelled doorbells to my left, ‘See, I’m sixteen, you want nineteen, that’s this one here,’ I said, indicating a doorbell labelled Flat 09.
The deliveryman regarded me, wearily unconvinced.
‘This happens all the time, I don’t know how many times I’ve asked the landlord to sort it out,’ I threw up my hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘Nah, ain’t got time mate, I’d be here all day. Be a good neighbour and stick it under the door for them,’ he said shoving a clipboard at me, ‘just sign here.’
I sighed and gave up, allowing myself to become steward of someone else’s property, now matter how brief, might go some way towards taking my mind of my worries. A good deed, a good neighbour. That’s what they’ll say about me. ‘He was a good neighbour, that bloke in Number 16, he fed my cat once.’ ‘Oh yes, Number 16, quiet man, very mannerly. He collected the post for me that one time.’
I amused myself with these brief plaudits from my unknown neighbours as I mounted the stairs towards the top of the house. Number 19 occupied the top floor of the crumbling Georgian house I currently called home. My own flat, 16, lay wedged between two of the bigger apartments 15 and 18. Curiously, as far as I could ascertain from casual observance, there was no Flat 17. The doorbell existed, it lay at a right angle to my own, but the physical manifestation of Flat 17, was not. I found this neither surprising nor particularly unnerving, having met the landlord only briefly, the impression he made was of a man slowly passing through the latter stages of senile dementia. I gathered, from my brief interview before becoming a tenant, that the house once belonged to his mother and had been his childhood home. Once the mother was safely ensconced in a home for the bewildered or a lonely grave, I assumed junior, along with some very cheap builders, had divided the house into bijou apartments.
Hence the mass of doorbells clinging to the doorframe like barnacles and the mystery of missing Flat No.17. I sighed and trudged upwards into the the draughty upper floors in search of No.19 and my good deed for the day.
No.19 was the attic, or what appeared to be the entrance to what could only be an attic space. The door was tiny, barely five feet high. I searched up and down the long narrow hallway for another door, another possible entrance, but there was none.
‘This can’t be right,’ I thought, ‘the package has been mislabelled too.’
I knocked tentatively on the door, silence. I knocked again, a little harder, still silence or perhaps a noise somewhere within. I banged on the door and shouted, ‘hallooo, halloo, anyone in there? I’ve got a parcel for you! Hallooo.’
Silence.
Cursing my good Samaritan instincts I stumped off down the hall. Clearly Flat 19 was unoccupied, or not even a flat at all. In all probability I had spent the last ten minutes banging on the door of a dusty old attic filled with mouldering furniture and moth eaten rugs.
I stopped, perhaps there’s no one in. I’ll leave the package by the door and they can collect it later. It’ll be safe enough, who but the occupier would happen along. I laid it by the door and started back down the hallway again.
I stopped. No, I should leave a note instead. The package might be mislabelled too, like the colony of untrustworthy doorbells below. I’ll take the package in for safekeeping and leave a note. Pleased with myself, I thrust the package under one arm and returned to No.16.
Laying the package carefully on the table, I went in search of a pen and paper with which to compose my neighbourly note. Several minutes later I marshalled my resources; a sheet of wastepaper, torn from an old yellow pages and a rather forlorn looking biro, it’s top, a chewed plastic stump.
‘Right. Let’s get to it.’
My pen paused over the yellow paper, I had no idea who the note was addressed to. Returning to the package for a clue, I found, to my distress, the label had been torn away. Either through accident or design the universe had left me in possession of a package, addressed to an unknown person, occupying a possibly non-existent flat.
‘Dear Sir or Madam,’ I began, ‘I have your package.’ No, that wouldn’t do. It sounded too formal and the second sentence practically screamed ransom note. It needed a more whimsical style, something light and neighbourly, lacking in sinister undertones.
‘Dear Neighbour,’ I began. No, too formal. ‘Hi Neighbour!’ Christ, now I sound like an American. No, dispense with all attempts at friendliness, stick to the facts.
‘Package arrived. Delivered to No.16. Please call to collect.’
I reviewed my handiwork. Not bad. A tad functional perhaps, but it would suffice. Another search turned up a fuzzy ball of blue tac and a roll of yellowed sellotape, down to it’s last few inches. Armed with these adhesive tools and my masterpiece I mounted the stairs to No.19 again and affixed my notice to the tiny door. I stood back and admired my creation.
‘Perfect,’ I thought. My eye fell on the advertisements crowding the yellow scrap paper torn from the phone book. The page had been selected for it’s expanse of unused space in the upper right hand corner where my birowork had been placed in a neat, spidery script.
The advertisements to the left read:
‘Naughty Boys, Call Ms.Teek, Discretion Assured.’
‘DIAL NOW, FOR INSTANT RELIEF!’
I ripped the page from the door and stuffed it into the pocket of my dressing gown. The hell with the note, I would simply try again later. Sweating with relief I turned away when I perceived a sound coming from beyond the small door. A kind of rustling sound, perhaps of cloth or material.
‘Ah, a late riser like myself,’ I thought. Probably opening the curtains. What a relief. I knocked confidently on the door again. The sounds within ceased abruptly.
I knocked again, a little louder. ‘Hello, anyone there?’ I said, ‘it’s your neighbour from No.16. I have your package.’
There was a definite rustling sound. Anger and impatience swelled up in me. ‘Look here,’ I shouted at the door, ‘Some idiot of a deliveryman rang the wrong doorbell and now I have your package. If you want it, I’m in No.16. NUMBER SIXTEEN OK!’ I shouted the last bit through the keyhole.
Silence from within.
I stumped back to my flat in a huff.
Opening the window of my living room I could just make out the window of Flat No.19, several floors above. A long black, cast iron drainpipe ran up the length of the building. I toyed with the idea of shinning up and hurling the package through the window, but came to my senses when I perceived it was a haven for spiders and vermin.
No, I would be the magnanimous ‘Good Neighbour’. I would await the timid knock of No.19’s occupant upon my door. I would arise and greet them as if nothing untoward had occurred.
‘Ah, Mr. or Mrs. No.19,’ I would say, ’so good of you to drop by, I have your package right here. No, it was no trouble at all. Please, don’t even mention it. What’s that? Why yes I’d be delighted to join you for a drink this evening. Mr. No.19 won’t be around by any chance, will he? Oh, there is no Mr. No.19, I see. In that case I’d be doubly delighted, enchante mademoiselle, ’til tonight then.’
This got me through ten minutes, then I returned, package in hand.
‘Hello. HELLO!’ I bellowed, hammering on the door. Silence from within. Right, that tears it. I grabbed the handle and shoved. To my utter shock and surprise the door burst open causing me to fall headlong into a small flat where a terrified cat shot up off the sofa into my face, clawing frantically at my eyes. Whereupon clutching at the furry ball of rage attached to my face, I promptly screamed, dropped the precious package and tripped over the sofa, knocking myself senseless on the coffee table.
The occupant of Flat No.19, an elderly gent, retired from the police service, knew at once what had occurred, burglars. It was the only answer that could be remotely acceptable upon finding your next door neighbour, semi-naked and unconscious, face down in a bowl of pot-pourri, having been face molested by your cat. I was happy to oblige the old man and gave a full report to the young policeman who took my statement, paying special attention to the odd sounds and ‘bumping about’ I had heard from my flat below.
‘I was just being neighbourly officer,’ I said, grinning wildly. ‘Trying to be a good neighbour and look out for Mr. No.19.’
‘Mr. who, sir?’ said the officer, in that stern way police officers are trained to have.
‘Mr. who, no, ah Mr. upstairs, I mean, Mr. Johns upstairs.’
‘Mr. Jones, from Flat 19.’
‘Yes, that’s right, sorry, this bump on the head you know. Knocked things about up there,’ I said, tapping my bandaged head furiously. Hopefully he would think I was a mental and leave it a that.
Clearly my mental act worked and after taking my statement down in his notebook and issuing me with a stern warning regarding calling the proper authorities should anything similar happen in the future, he left me to my thoughts.
I fell into the couch with a massive sigh, vowing not to rise for a week, but not before taking a lump hammer to my doorbell.
There was a sharp rap at the door.
‘Coming,’ I said springing up from the couch and racing to the door.
‘Officer, what a surprise. Back already, any new suspects, hmm?’ I stifled a giggle and promised myself another few of the special pills the doctor had given me for my injured headbones.
‘No sir,’ the young officer said stiffly, ‘I spotted this by the door sir and thought you would want to take it inside, what with the recent criminal activity.’ He handed me the package with a note attached.
‘Dear neighbour,’ it read, ‘thank you for your brave actions this past Monday morning. If more people comported themselves in this manner the world would be a safer and nicer place to be. Here is your package, left behind during the recent fracas. I hope this note finds you in good health and recovering from your injuries. Your neighbour, Mr. Jones.’
I had a lump in my throat. That man could write a note. I was a mere amateur.
‘Thank you officer,’ I said grabbing the package from him and slamming the door. The sooner I burned this thing the better.
But I could not. It sat there on the kitchen table, mute witness to my crimes. ‘All you have to do is take a midnight stroll down by the canal and drop the bugger in,’ a little voice said to me.
There was no way I could do that, not after Mr. No.19’s lovely note. No, I would simply readdress it to him, now I knew he existed and send it through the post again.
This, of course, meant I would have to open the package to see what it contained. This act of criminal enterprise horrified me less than I had expected, now the package was wholly in my possession, having been returned to me by the very gentleman I had attempted to deliver it to. Also in my current, drug addled state coupled with severe concussion, who could blame me if I accidently opened someone else’s post.
‘Alright, I’ll do it,’ I screamed and tore open the package to reveal a sheaf of papers and a note, from her.
‘Dear Steadman,’ it read, ‘Please find enclosed our final divorce papers. I hope this note finds you well. I was unable to ascertain nor discover your exact flat number, your mother thought it might be Flat No.19. I’m sure this package will find you nonetheless. One can always rely on one’s neighbours to look after your post for you. I will send a courier around to collect them on Friday. Yours sincerely, Kate.’
‘God, there’s a woman who could write a lovely note,’ I thought, before downing the rest of the headpills.
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This weeks Flickr Fiction is brought to you from sunny France, using this picture from Flickr user Ed Ed.
September 4th, 2007 at 9:13 pm
Brilliant. Loved every line of it.