Through the Wall

By Sean Watkin

Through the Wall was originally written in 2015 as part of Sean’s final year on his BA in Creative Writing at Liverpool John Moores University.

The curtains are never opened next door. I don’t know how anyone could live like that, in the dark, dust gliding through narrow shafts of light like pond life.

            It’s his voice I always hear pealing like thunder through the walls. I saw him this morning when I took in the milk bottles from the doorstep. He was there, with his big red cheeks and nostrils flaring, pointing in the milkman’s face. He stopped when he saw me. I pulled my dressing gown closer to my chest. ‘Morning,’ I called.

            He smiled, off-white teeth protruding from thick, cracked lips. ‘Good morning, Mrs Pryor!’ He never could keep his voice down.

            I was about to close the door when he walked over, rested his meaty hands on the wall between our gardens. His knuckles turned white. ‘How are you this morning?’

            The milkman picked up the empty bottles from his doorstep, mouthed ‘thank you’ at me and made off down the garden path. 

            ‘Oh just fine, thank you,’ I made to close the door.

            ‘Didn’t keep you awake last night did I?’

            I shook my head. I wanted to call to Frank, but he’d already left for his golf class.

            ‘I can’t sleep sometimes, so I watch the telly in bed,’ he clasped his hands over his stomach, his fingers fidgeting. ‘I should’ve thought of the volume.’

            ‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ I said. ‘See you.’

Mary from 53 came down for mid-morning coffee and cake. She brought Battenberg today. I poured from the cafetière into sturdy mugs. I couldn’t trust Mary with my best china. Fingers like a packet of Richmond’s sausages.

            ‘Well I heard it again last night,’ I said.

            Mary dipped her slice of cake into her coffee. The crumbs bobbed on the surface. ‘Heard what?’ she cut at another piece of cake.

            ‘The big one next door, I think his name’s Robert,’ I took a sip of coffee, ‘he said it was the television I’d have heard.’

            ‘Well there you are then.’

            ‘Why would he say that to me? I’d not complained.’  I bit into my cake. ‘And he was having a right old go at the milkman this morning. Anyway, it was last night I heard it again.’

            Mary sighed, put down her second slice and looked across the table at me.

            ‘I was in bed watching Diagnosis Murder with a cup of Lady Grey when the shouting started. Frank was putting the last strip of wallpaper up in the guest bedroom. I’d do the finishing touches myself tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Robert bawled so loud I could hear it over the television. It startled me, and I spilled tea all over my floral duvet set from John Lewis. It wasn’t his television I heard, Mary.’  She wasn’t listening, I could tell. ‘But I don’t like to gossip.’

            Mary arched her eyebrow, slurped her coffee. ‘So go on, what was he shouting?’

            ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say.’

            ‘No, perhaps not.’

            I went to the bathroom and emptied my toothbrush from the glass on the sink. I made sure it was dry before pressing it onto my Laura Ashley wallpaper. I’d hate to have a ring.

            ‘Are you really that bleeping stupid?’ he roared.

            I didn’t even know anyone else lived there. I’d not seen any comings or goings except for Robert’s. I heard heaving, ragged sobs then through the wall. Something smashed, maybe a glass or a cup.

            ‘There was silence then, Mary,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what to make of it. What do you think?’

            ‘I think the man smashed a glass,’ she said, ‘and we’re holding a meeting about it.’

            ‘But who was he shouting at?’

            ‘I don’t know.’  She shrugged. ‘Does he have a cat? I scream blue murder when Miss Cathy tinkles under the radiator.’

            ‘He doesn’t look like a cat person,’ I said. ‘He never has hairs on his clothes, and he doesn’t smell.’

            Mary looked down at her own clothes. Something OAP from Bon Marché, I believe.

I’d been working on the guest room all day yesterday, positioning the lamps that finally came from Debenhams online, ‘til they were just right. The wallpaper was hung beautifully. Despite the fuss he makes, Frank always does a good job. The gold flecks amongst the beige caught the light and glinted. I love that new wallpaper smell, don’t you? I made the bed, and sprayed it with cotton-fresh fabric spray. Frank had done such a good job on it, I considered allowing him to do the bathroom next.

            I was so pleased I decided I’d make a special dinner that evening. I got the good steak from Marks & Sparks out of the fridge and chopped some vegetables to boil.

            I ran a bath after dinner last night, lit the white jasmine candles Frank bought me for Valentine’s Day. While the water was running, I looked out onto the street through the blinds of the spare room. You know, I must keep a look out now I’m a member of the Neighbourhood Watch. I saw Robert’s silver car roll off his driveway and accelerate down the street. That’s how I know it wasn’t him, because he wasn’t in, you see.

            I climbed into the hot water and relaxed. I closed my eyes and heard the sobs through the wall. Well that was it. I couldn’t unwind then. I sat up, the water swished around me, and I tapped on the tiles three times.

            The whining stopped, and after a few seconds, three dull thuds through the wall. I cupped my hands against it, ‘Hello?’

            I couldn’t make out what the voice said on the other side, but it was deep, like a man’s. I couldn’t lie there covered in lavender-scented bubbles knowing some poor soul was snivelling next door. I decided I’d do what any good neighbour would do.

            The blue paint on the front door flaked and it had one of those awful knockers on it in the shape of a lion’s head. Looked like it’d never seen a bottle of Brasso. It clacked under my hand. No movement. I knocked again. Nothing.

            The letterbox flipped open and a piece of folded paper emerged. I took it, and the flap clapped shut.

            I wanted to call Mary straight away but I knew she’d be at the bingo. My hands were shaking; I didn’t know what to think. I mean, someone hands you a piece of paper through a letterbox that says I’m not allowed to open the door, and what are you supposed to think? Or do, for that matter?

            I waited ‘til after nine the next day to call. ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘can you come down for coffee? I have so much to tell you.’  She couldn’t. She’d hurt her ankle on the stairs at the Mecca. ‘Well I need to speak to someone, Mary, how could you be so thoughtless?’

            ‘Can’t you say over the phone?’

            I paced the floor of the hall, heard Frank still snoring upstairs. ‘Oh I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?’

            ‘Now that is strange,’ Mary said when I recounted the story. ‘Who do you think it was?’

            ‘I have no idea, Mary,’ I stopped pacing, put my hand on my hip. ‘Perhaps he’s got a son or daughter or something, and he’s got them frightened,’ I said, ‘and I’m standing here talking to you and not the authorities. What would they think of me?’

            Neither of us spoke, but I could hear her chewing.

            ‘Oh Mary,’ I said finally. ‘Perhaps I should have called the police rather than you.’

            ‘Call the police then.’

            ‘And have them think I’m prying into other peoples’ business? Oh Mary, how little you know me!’

            Frank heaved himself out of bed, and I heard him pad across the bedroom floor.

            ‘I’ll have to get breakfast on, Mary,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

Two days later, Mary hobbled down for coffee and cherry bakewell. She was full of stories about her son getting married.

            ‘She wants to get married in Thailand with her family,’ she said. ‘But David told her.’

            ‘That’s nice, Mary. Look,’ I said, ‘I found out who’s living next door with that Robert. It happened like this.’

            Yesterday, Frank left for work later than usual and when I saw him to the door, I noticed Robert’s car was still there. He marched out of his house, slammed the door behind him. He was red, and sweating.

            ‘See you this evening,’ I kissed Frank and went back inside. I went straight into the living room and watched from the bay window. Frank was talking to him over the wall, god knows about what, and they went their separate ways.

            It was midmorning, and I was sitting down to tea and a biscuit, just the one, when I heard an awful racket from next door. The howling cries, doors slamming, yelling that filtered to whispers through the walls.

            ‘Oh this again,’ Mary said, sipping coffee. ‘Still going on?’

            ‘Well not any more, no,’ I told her, sternly. ‘If you’d listen, you’d understand.’

            It all went quiet on that front for an hour or so, and I was making a sandwich when I realised I’d not put seed out for the birds. I went out into the cold, my breath rolled out, wispy and white. That’s when I saw the suitcase, black and tattered, sat alone next to my fence.

            A duffle bag, scuffed and torn, with the letters M.K. written on it in white, flew over the fence and landed next to the case. I dropped the seed onto the floor.

            He lifted himself over the fence, landed in a squat in my garden, and looked up at me.  His face was purple and green and welted; his right eye was bloodshot, his lip cut and scabbed.

            I held my breath, felt myself blinking rapidly. ‘Cold day, isn’t it?’ I managed, finally. I thought maybe he was cold when I saw his chin wobble, then I remembered the case and the duffle, and I understood.

            ‘Please don’t tell him,’ he said.

            ‘Oh, Mary,’ I welled up at the thought. ‘How could I have turned him away, or told anyone?’

            I took him inside, his suitcase and bag, and sat him down at the kitchen table. ‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked.

            He didn’t answer. He was trembling, staring at the table. I decided some tea would be best, and put two slices of dark wholemeal in the toaster. Placed it all in front of him, but he didn’t notice. I looked out of the patio doors, saw sparrows pecking at the dropped seed, and wondered whether this fragile lad had been next door all this time, and nobody on the street had ever noticed. I had never noticed.

            ‘My name’s Sadie,’ I told him. ‘Sadie Pryor.’  I reached out to hold his shaking hand.

            He flinched, drew back, and looked up at me.

            ‘It’s okay. I’m the president of the neighbourhood watch, my love.’

            He covered his mouth. He looked at me, eyes shining and slick with tears that wouldn’t fall. ‘It’s okay?’

            ‘You’re alright, love,’ I told him, nodding. ‘Why don’t we have a think about what you want to do now, hey?’

            ‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said.

            Well he couldn’t stay here.

            ‘I want to go home,’ he said. ‘To my Mum’s.’

            I felt relieved he didn’t expect to stay in my spare room; I’d only just finished decorating it. I told him I’d call his mum for him, she could collect him from here before Robert got home. He’d be none the wiser. ‘But first, shall we get you cleaned up? Can’t let your Mum see you like this, now can we?’

            ‘Thank you.’

            ‘I’ll run you a bath while you get that tea down you. It’s Lady Grey.’  I stood and walked toward the door.

            ‘My name,’ he said, ‘it’s Michael.’

            ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Michael,’ I smiled. ‘Finally.’

            Mary’s mouth was ajar, bakewell sat on her tongue half-chewed. ‘So you were right? Robert had a child all this time?’

            ‘No, no, no!’ I reached over and closed her mouth. ‘You’ve got it all arse backwards as usual, Mary. For a start, the lad was in his 20s at least.’

            I’d left a clean towel for him over the bathroom sink. Not one of my white Christy’s ones, but a brown one I kept for guests. He spent an hour in there, soaking, and finally I heard him climbing out of the bath.

            I was putting a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table when I heard him treading lightly on the stairs and pushed open the door into the kitchen.

            He sat down at the table, I was glad to notice he lifted the chair rather than scraped it, careful about scratching the floor tiles. I didn’t ask him, honestly I didn’t, I wouldn’t dream of it. I only told him I’d called his mother on his behalf, and he just let it all out.

            ‘I met him when I was nineteen,’ he said. ‘At a bar in Manchester.’  That was a year ago, and he’d been living next door for three months with Robert. ‘Looking back, all the signs were there,’ he said.

            ‘What happened in that house?’ I asked.

            He looked down at his hands, they wobbled and his knuckles were scratched. He rolled up the sleeve of his jumper and I saw the ink-spot shapes of blue and green bruises. Those marks, coupled with that his marred face, well he didn’t have to say anything else.

            The doorbell rang, and he almost laid an egg. The colour drained from his face.

            I patted his hand. ‘It’s okay, love.’

            His mother’s name was Sarah, and she stood at my doorstep with red eyes set in a flawlessly made up face. ‘Are you Mrs Pryor?’

            I invited her into the kitchen, and put the kettle on to boil.

            She looked at the duffle bag with the white initials and the battered suitcase. A stray tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away as she looked to Michael.

            He stood up and they scarcely breathed. The dried blood was gone, but his face was still waxen.

            She went to make a move to hug him, but held herself back. ‘Oh, Mikey,’ she said, resting herself on a chairback. Her hands gripped the wood so tightly they squeaked against the varnish. ‘I’m so sorry.’

            ‘That’s quite alright,’ I said, ‘it’s good varnish.’  I put the teapot down between them both.

            She looked right through me, her eyes glazed, to Michael across the table. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

            He looked down at his feet, his face flushed, and he held his arms across his body. ‘I wanted to ring you, I did,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t allowed to use the phone.’

            ‘Sugar in your tea?’

            ‘You should have called or something,’ her voice was shrill. ‘Written a letter, oh I don’t know!’

            ‘What about the lad’s father?’ Mary asked. ‘Where was he?’

            ‘Who knows, Mary?’ I said, pouring more coffee. ‘You know what families are like these days. Probably shacked up with some tart twenty years younger, starting on a new family.’

            ‘Didn’t you ask?’

            Of course I didn’t ask about the father.

            Frank was due home in half an hour, and he hated it when I interfered with other peoples’ business. So I told them: ‘My husband’s due home soon, and he hates it when I interfere with others’ business.’

            He hugged me and said he didn’t know how to begin to thank me. Sarah put her arm around his shoulders, he was shorter than her, and led him out to the car. Neither of them looked back.

            ‘Then later on, Mary,’ I said, ‘when Frank was home, I was upstairs watching Jessica Fletcher. I heard the doorbell ring.’  The traditional bing-bong, naturally.

            He didn’t even say hello or good evening, just jumped straight in with that organ-for-a-mouth: ‘Your wife in?’

            I sprang out of bed and ran to the bedroom door, listened hard. But for the life of me I couldn’t hear Frank’s mumbled response. I think I caught something about housework and being tired. Why does he never speak up at appropriate times?

            ‘Oh I bet she bloody well is.’

            Mumble, mumble.

            ‘Did you see anyone coming or going from my house this afternoon?’

            Frank explained he doesn’t spend his hours looking out of the windows at his own driveway, never mind anybody else’s. He grumbled something else and closed the door quietly.

            I got up the next morning at about half six to make Franks’ breakfast; before the sun rose up over the houses across the street, before the first birds tweeted, I heard Robert weep through the wall.

            Mary finished the last slice of tart.

            ‘So,’ I said, ‘have you heard about Lily from 69?’