By
Stuart Gibbs
Noise from the other rooms doesn't reach me, like the all night television or the thud thud music. Every now and then I'll get next door's yap, but she's asleep now, a state I'm struggling to achieve. No its only the far off chimes I hear, to tell me how much of the night is left before I have to get up and drag myself into a shimmering office of harsh light. To sit and listen to fucking old bastards shout their account numbers down the phone lines so damn fast that you can�t register any of the figures and then they shout at you again when you ask them to repeat the number. The worst bit of it of course is trying not to laugh when a stupid name comes up on screen, but god you can't help it half the time. Last week it was Mrs Bustard the week before was Mrs Beaver.
For the moment though it's just the chimes, then silence. Strange, I'd have though old 'Buggerlugs' would have been chapping my door. That's what he does, spends all day getting tanked till late on when he lumbers about the hallway shouting 'hello, hello,' then mutters away like there's someone with him; which of course there isn't. On the nights he isn't drinking we get an alternative routine. The guy at the end of the hall, the landlord's mate, will burst out swearing at his neighbour, the guy with the thud thud music. He'll kick at the woodwork that separates him from "the sounds dude," great crashes they are too. It's surreal. I can't hear this music but I can hear this guy shout and scream about it must be the way sound works, acoustics I suppose I�m not an expert on the subject so I can�t really say. Anyway when he's finished and back in his barn, he'll go all out at his girlfriend and they'll bawl and screech at each other for about half an hour at a time, its quite funny.
One time when this was going on the front door gets battered, great shuddering thumps, which vibrate along the walls. I�m thinking that this might be the police and decide that it would it be really funny to let them in. Maybe they�ll arrest that bastard; maybe they�ll arrest everyone, except me of course. I�m just an honest working John trying to get some sleep, I�ll tell them and a couple of backhanders from the Labour bitch will probably be enough to keep her out of the cells. When I open up however it isn't the police oh no it�s that guy, the one that plays the ward supervisor in the crap TV sitcom. 'What the bloody hell are you playing at.' He shouts, theatrical even when he's not acting. I should have asked him for his autograph, the fucker.
I hear my own neighbour early in the morning, slamming everything behind her on her way out, or in the evening when she talks to her pal. An endless drone about so and so's report at the night before�s committee meeting, then its on to her class. 'Those little buggers I have to face tomorrow,' she'll say and goes on about her favourite pupil, 'the little shit MacDonald.' Imagine being still at school and in her class, your life fucked forever in the first term by this embittered "New Labour" bitch. I lay face up for a while in the heat, and then turn over. After some more time I get out of bed altogether. I've got this idea that if I walk about for a while I might tier so I get myself dressed. Outside my room I've got to stand in the glare for a minute while my eyes adjust and the hallway becomes focused again. Littered it is with abandoned cookers, tables, well-worn fridge's, vacuum cleaners and plain crap. Conflicting sounds come from woodworm edifices, faint radio from one end of the hall and a television from the other. Out in the landing the apartment opposite has a smooth clean entrance. Once they left the door open and I could see inside, immaculate decoration it had. Porcelain busts and large paintings, nineteenth century girls by the
pond with ducks and geese, flaming heck. I wonder if they're "new labour" as well, wouldn't be surprised. The street's not much cooler than inside but I walk anyway. Along White Street, darkened tenement windows show no sign of occupation. Trees form patterns cast from street light, distorted shapes stretch across stonework. Just beyond the path to one of these buildings, lies a set of keys. Funny things they are too. Very small more like some kind of ornament when I pick them up and run them over in my hand, they don't seem like they are any bloody use at all. I suppose it�s the sort of thing you would find on search, or a quest even. I�ve been finding objects dotted about a lot recently. A couple of weeks back down by Carlton Place I came across a small box perched on top a pedestrian crossing button. When I opened it I found a single large earring with a topaz stone, part of someone�s life, which had now been left behind as they crossed the road. Maybe these keys are the same kind of residue, part of a world now redundant. I put the keys on one of the stone pillars that form an entrance, a non-discovery on a non-adventure and if the owner does find them, and who knows they have a use.
Along the main street, bleak and desolate shutters as far as I can see, the only life, a bunch of kids smoking at an entrance. They gaze at me and I get a bit of their conversation as I pass. Then I get off the main road into a maze of winding streets. Pavement becomes path through neat grass and under the dual carriageway. Written in various types of ink on the white ceramic the names "Monty," "Robert K" and "Julie No1 Hare," among others, the self styled sub-culture leaving their mark. In the emptiness of the tunnel these scrawls are obscured, offering few clues to the people that made them. Not that anyone bothers, its only when the town's empty with nothing to do but walk would you notice these things. At the end of the underpass I
can see the park through the rot iron fence. I can just see some of the details in the haze. Gardens where strange petalled flowers are created in the unnatural light, the shape of the war memorial its reflection more detailed than the solid object above. As I watch I can imagine being a child running along the edge of the pond as still as it is now, only its daylight of course. Run I would, annoying the ducks as I go and worrying my mother or father, for if I was here as a child I would be with at least one or the other. They would be shouting on me too as I was attracting the attention of the swans. I've heard it said they can turn nasty when they're annoyed.
Then I would be taken to see the fossil remains, discovered when the ground for the park was first cleared. Covered again by rusting rot-iron. From the observation balcony the remains of the old forest laid out below, grey stumps, false, unnatural looking. Funny something like this, buried, not known that it ever existed, suddenly being revealed. The pavilion close by the pond where ice cream was bought for me, or would have, if I'd ever been here in younger life, lies derelict. Its boarded up and covered with writing, large spray paint letters. Its the way it goes, expectations even the small ones ware down, become tattered even grotesque after a while. And your reaction to this becomes tattered too. I can see the first hint of daylight so I make my way back to the freak show. The hallway seems unchanged the faint music from one end the TV from the other both shut out when I get into my room. I wonder if Buggerlugs was out on another prowl, it would have been a shame to have missed him. With my shoes off I creep back out again moving as quiet as can be managed to his corner of the hall banging the woodwork as hard as I can before shooting across into my room. I get the door shut quick putting my ear to it to listen for the response. There's the twist of a handle and the pad of bare feet then shouts. 'What is it, what is it?' Christ he's out. After a few muttered swear words it goes
quiet for minutes it seems until a crack of floorboard, just outside it is. A wizened fist pounds away while he shouts. 'Hullo, whut is it,' he goes on, then silence except for wheezing breath. Up at my face he is, separated by inches of panelling. White patterns flood my vision, vibrating shapes, and my chest becomes heavy. Oh god I'm going to laugh. I puff my cheeks and try not to breath but as time goes on my gut mussels hurt with the strain. 'What's the cunt doing,' I think and as I do so there's a slam and I can breath. I let outside settle down a bit then open up, there's a slight creek, but I make it out and along the hallway without making to much noice. This time I'm over at sound dude's only I give his a bigger thump than I gave the old boy, then do the same with the landlord's buddy before tanking it back down the hall to crash into "Buggerlug's" place. I just get my own door closed when he comes out, 'Aw whut,' he cries.
'What is it you.' Another voice, sound dude I think it is, bursting from the open door with that fucking radio of his filling out the hall. 'Every other night you're out here with all this damn racket,' he goes on.
'Uh,' mutters Buggerlugs.
'Are you fuckin mad, is that it,' Sound dude goes on. 'Jesus Christ, I'll rip your fuckin hands off for you, how about that, yea bastard, how about that.'
'I'll fuckin take you,' says Buggerlugs as another door opens then another, the landlord's mate its sounds like then a female voice, aw Christ the fucking Labour party is out there as well.
'Right, give over,' she says her shrill female voice fills out the space, but the other two ignore her.
'I'll take you,' Buggerlugs goes on.
'Right you will, ya fucker.' The landlord's mate shouts, then the Labour party pipes up again and voices mingle.
I retreat from my door, undress and slip into bed while outside descends into rabble. I try to pick some of it out but I can't follow it all. Then louder than any of them large thumps on the front door, oh god it�s that fucking actor again and there's no trouble picking out the words this time. Then I'm nodding off, hell it�s amazing with all that's going on I'm going to sleep; awaking just in time for the next days work. Maybe I won't go in. Maybe I'll chuck it altogether. Or maybe wait a couple of weeks or so, till I've got some money then blow this place. That would be a laugh listening to one of their nocturnal riots knowing that I'd be moving out the next day. Yea that would be funny right enough.