Dial M for Monkey by Adam Maxwell Page B

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