The Neighbour by Chris Barraclough

The Neighbour - by Chris Barraclough

He’s doing it again, the bastard. Playing Cliff Richard at two in the fucking morning. If the lack of sleep doesn't drive me mad, then Summer Holiday for the hundredth time sure as shit will. But, of course, it’s too late for that – I’m already nuts. Not that it would be politically correct to use a word such as ‘nuts’ any more. It’s a mental disability, that’s what it is. Head trauma. Fucking brain fairies sprinkling pixie dust about my cranium.

I grip my pillow and slide it out from beneath my head, before pressing it as hard as I can into my face. Death would be a welcome relief. I’ve never met my neighbour, but already I despise them more than anyone else I’ve ever despised. I honestly thought my mum was the only person in the world who still listened to this junk, but even she's outdone in her love for Cliff by whatever thing has moved in next door. Those grating tones seep through my paint-streaked walls at all hours of the day and night, and there’s no escape. Trapped in a shit-hole flat with Cliff Richard and all manner of pop wank blasting continuously; if I was dead, this would be my own personal version of hell.

If you’re wondering why I don’t just walk out the door, the answer is acute agoraphobia. I haven’t stuck a foot outside the flat since a run-in I had with a mugger last month, just down the street. I’d had a couple with the regulars in the local, a much-needed catch-up laced with whiskey, before leaving at 10pm to grab an early night. The cold was fierce, I remember. My cheeks stung beneath my hood and my fingers were numb, even buried deep inside my pockets.

I did that drunken shuffle down a narrow alleyway, the smell of piss burning my nostrils. Maybe because I was wankered, maybe because I was in a hurry – whatever the reason, I never heard the bastard creeping up behind me. I didn’t know he was there until he called out, “here.” I staggered and swung around and caught a flash, then my jaw was agony and I was crumpled up on the floor, the freezing concrete burning my cheek.

Short circuit

My face no longer hurt, but the wanker must’ve jarred something good in my skull. I realised something was wrong around two months ago. I was gazing out of my window at the constant haze that constitutes a view, when my vision darkened and tiny black bubbles swarmed over me. I only just made it to my bed before the bubbles exploded.

Who knows how long I was out. When I collapsed, the neighbour had been playing Tom Jones at full pelt; on my return, it was Lionel Ritchie. I lifted my head and saw I was spread over my duvet, empty water bottles poking into my back. Despite a horrible nausea in my gut, my lips twitched and I found myself smiling. Dad would’ve been dancing in circles and waving his arms wildly at this song – ‘all night long’ it was called. Personally, I prefer unconsciousness.

But the music took me back to a wedding reception when I was five, sat in a corner of a bustling pub playing He Man with my cousin Hayley. Skeletor had been thrown into a pint glass of acid and vanquished, and He Man and Teela were celebrating in the beer mat fort. He Man tried to kiss Teela, but she pushed him away. She said boys had tiny monsters in their mouths that would eat you from the inside out. He Man said don’t be so stupid, and the resulting fight destroyed the fort and sent Skeletor’s glass prison crashing to the ground. Hayley stormed off, and I slumped on a stool and watched the grown-ups twirling around the centre of the room. Lionel was belting out this song, and dad was bumping his bottom against mum’s and pumping his fists in the air. They looked happy as hell.

Twenty nine years of marriage, and I’ve never seen them argue. Me, I’ve never made it two weeks into a relationship without my date storming out after a blazing row. Come to think of it, Hayley was just the first of many.

The hidden thief

Those blackouts came more frequently, but I was too afraid to leave the apartment to get myself checked out. My phone had been disconnected so I couldn’t even call anyone for help. Just a passing thing, I figured. Brains heal, same as bones and bruises. Just give it some time and the attacks will stop, and I'll grow the set of balls I needed to step out the door.

But then I woke up last Tuesday, face-down amongst a pile of crisp packets, with the Eagles (‘Take It Easy’) echoing around the darkened flat. I grunted and rolled onto my back and let my eyes adjust to the room. Shadows came into focus, the sharp edges of my furniture. My gaze drifted over the walls and that was when I realised something was wrong. I struggled to a sitting position. My head was pounding in time with my heart, but I knew then what was different about the place. Some of the photographs I had pinned to the walls were gone, torn straight off.

Someone else had been here.

I checked the locks on the door. All five deadbolts were in place. No way could anyone get in through there. Windows next, starting with the bedroom. Closed tight. Now the bathroom. This one was wedged open a couple of inches. I pulled it up as far as it would go, the splintered wood of the frame biting into my fingers, but all I could manage was a gap of six and a half inches (which I measured with an old tape measure I got last Christmas, in a victorious cracker-pull with mum). If the culprit had got into my flat through there, they had to be either a squirrel or a baby. Squirrel was the most likely, as a baby couldn’t scale the walls to reach the photographs.

Just to be sure there were no more visitations, I nailed the window shut and kept the bathroom door closed. Even if the little furry bastard was the Einstein of squirrels, there was no way he could sneak in through there again.

Depression

I was quite chirpy after that, even with the constant barrage of motown ‘hits’ from next door, and I whiled away my time by writing whatever came to mind on a large blank pad. My mind was an engine, churning out an endless stream of thoughts and ideas, and I liked to get as many of them down on paper as possible.

It took two days for another blackout to strike, right when I was jotting down my opinions on carrots (how do they make them so goddamn orange?). This time when I woke, I found that I’d slumped forward out of my chair and sprawled across the tattered carpet. A puddle of dribble had oozed across my pad, currently wedged between my face and the floor, turning my words into a bubbling lake of black ink.

I pushed myself up to my knees and felt my stomach drop away into nothing. More of the photographs had disappeared. Bare, yellowing stretches of dry wood gaped at me where I’d once hung cheesy shots of me and the parents on holiday. At least I think we’d been on holiday. In the end they’re just faces, beaming at the camera when ordered.

Barging into the bathroom, my eyes fell on the nails - still embedded in the window frame. The glass was intact. Back in the bedroom, both the window and the door were locked up tight. I clenched my eyes shut and concentrated on every breath that entered my body, easing the air from my lungs as slowly and quietly as possible. My heart was kicking like a startled horse, and right then - at that very moment - it started. Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’ at full volume.

My hand slammed back four of the five deadbolts before I faltered, collapsing against the door. I wept, drawing my fingernails down the wooden surface and peeling away thin shards of dark red paint, which stuck under the tips of my nails like specks of congealed blood. Then, when the tears had formed into a sticky second skin across my cheeks, I turned and walked back to my bed, slinking under the duvet.
 

The truth

I couldn’t sleep any more. The attacks became more frequent, until they were once or twice a day. Each time, items and photographs would vanish from my flat, and the grim truth could no longer be ignored. No one was breaking in every time I passed out, it was impossible. Which left only one person who could possibly steal the photos and random junk from my tiny little world. It had to be me.

So what, I was schizophrenic? The blackouts weren’t blackouts at all - I was actually taking these items and stashing them somewhere? Somewhere out in the real world, so presumably my other self wasn’t agoraphobic. Why would I do that to myself? Maybe my other personality was a joker. Maybe he was just a total dick, and enjoyed seeing me suffer. Although he never could of course...unless he was somehow secretly videotaping me.

I tore the flat apart looking for surveillance equipment. I ripped into my mattress, tore the stuffing from my pillows. The long, narrow vase in the corner of the room was shattered with a single kick, leaving a maze of serrated pieces piled up on the floor. No cameras or tape recorders. Nothing in the whole fucking flat.

I clasped my hands to my head and screamed. My wails barely drowned out the Bee Gees, who were screeching along in the neighbouring flat. They say crazy people don’t realise they’re crazy, but that’s bullshit. I felt my brain throb and fart inside my skull, diseased and bloated and dying. Failing like an ancient computer, coughing up dust before the electrodes stutter and spark and the whole lot crashes into oblivion.
 

Awakening

Now it’s evening again. Almost everything has gone, even the shattered remains of the vase. My bed is the last thing remaining. I lay spread across my ruined mattress and pull the pillow over my face and try to block out the endless tirade of Cliff.

Too much. My brain bursts, an excruciating heat filling my skull and almost popping my eyeballs clean out of the sockets. I throw back the deadbolts and my naked form stumbles out into the hallway, expelling sprays of sweat and a vicious stream of curses. I crush my palms against the wall, side-stepping away from my room and towards my neighbour’s door. My eyes are squeezed shut. My forehead scrapes along the rough wallpaper, leaving a dripping smear like a snail trail. I think I’m whimpering, but I’m not certain. I’m too busy counting each and every step, shouting and screaming the numbers in my head to block out Cliff.

After just a few paces, my stomach is convulsing so bad that I’m sure it’ll lurch up my throat and squeeze out between my lips. My eyes snap open and those familiar black bubbles dance across my vision, bursting and melting right there on my corneas. I want to scream but my lungs are deflated. Already my limbs are turning numb, jerking me along until my outstretched fingers nudge something solid. Creeping closer, my hand grips the doorframe and then slides across the door itself, searching for the handle. There, cold and slippery in my grasp! Somehow I twist it and the door caves in and I plunge after it, collapsing to the floor of my neighbour’s flat.

My head rises so I can see into the room, resting my eyes upon the domain of my torturer. A startled cry is all I manage. There is no room - only a bright white light, and the sound of my mother's voice, breaking apart with sorrow. An invisible hand wraps around mine, squeezing gently. The music is still playing as the light consumes me, and my head drops to the velvet touch of the floor and an exhausted smile crosses my lips.

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