Dial M for Monkey by Adam Maxwell Page A

particular feature. The largest piece of the conservatory is slicing Mr No. 49’s head neatly in two. The postman looks up from his letters, is jolted to full consciousness and finally vomits violently into the conifers. I can’t help but smile.

    I haven’t been sleeping. It’s starting to affect my work. When I’m in the office I can’t keep my eyes open, coffee keeps me awake but I can’t concentrate. It’s been a month now, in the house and I keep telling myself that they’ll be quiet.
    Tonight I’m sitting in the corner of the kitchen because it’s the furthest point away from them. I’ve got a blanket over me, the radiator is at the far side of the room and it’s less than efficient. I’ve been sat on this wooden chair for two hours and I’ve been treated to Karaoke renditions of ‘Suspicious Minds’, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ and ‘Hey Jude’ amongst others.
    Mr No. 49 doesn’t have a good singing voice. Neither does Mrs No. 49 but they still belt it out. I sometimes feel that I’m caught in a trap, I can’t walk out because they keep me up nightly. It seems they have boundless enthusiasm for making noise.  After a week of no sleep I now hate Elvis almost as much as I hate my neighbours. My ears are on the verge of the audio equivalent of repetitive strain injury from ‘Suspicious Minds’. I think it’s got to the stage where I know the lyrics better than they do. In an attempt to salvage my sanity I did go around and ask them if they would mind keeping the noise down. They replied that they did mind and would I mind fucking off if it was all the same to me.
    I keep thinking they might be testing me, seeing how far they can push me before I crack. I feel close.
    The tap is dripping in the sink and there’s a faint creak upstairs as they stop. I know it’ll just be to change the CD but I try to take the opportunity and close my eyes. Colours throb and sleep takes me almost instantly for a few minutes before I bolt out of my chair to the over familiar Uh huh huh of Elvis once more.
    I can’t take it anymore so I wrap my blanket around me and run to the front door, bursting out of the house and down the path before doubling back and heading towards their door through their gate. I hammer on the front door until it snaps open and Mrs No. 49 stands in front of me with a dark look in her eyes.
    ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Can you keep the noise down? It’s half three in the morning.’
    She leans outside of the house, inspecting the world.
    ‘You’re right.’ She snaps. ‘And if you ever come banging on my door at this time again I’ll call the police.’
    She slams the door in my face.
    Later I’m sitting in my armchair dozing lightly in the temporary silence when, with a growl I’m thrown back into consciousness.
    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